Page 24 of Bewitched By the Djinn (The Bewitching Hour #8)
I hang up right as we reach the address the swamp witches showed us.
The house is exactly what you’d expect in this neighborhood, stately and pristine with history baked into its bones and leaking into the surrounding area.
It’s a three-story Greek Revival, complete with towering white columns and an iron-railed balcony on the second floor.
The paint is a soft white with dark green shutters, and the wraparound porch is lined with neatly trimmed ferns.
Bennet steps up to the heavy oak door and knocks. The sound is deep and solid, echoing through whatever space lies beyond.
The door creaks open almost immediately.
A man stands in the doorway, holding a giant, colorfully wrapped present complete with a bright red bow. He barely glances at us before his gaze darts over his shoulder, distracted by the sound of a child screeching somewhere deep inside the house. “Oh good, will you take this to the back?”
Bennet and I exchange a glance.
The man frowns, shifting the oversized package in his arms. He’s middle aged, fit, with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His shirt is slightly wrinkled like he’s been running around all day. “You are here for the party, right?”
We both gape for a second. Then I snap to attention.
“Yes,” I blurt out. “The party.”
He nods in satisfaction and gestures behind us. “Follow the signs. Everyone’s in the backyard. Here.” He shoves the present at Bennet, who catches it instinctively, his arms tightening around the box.
I glance behind us and spot a single glossy pennant flag fluttering in the breeze, set between the porch railing and a tree: Birthday Party This Way! A collection of balloons tied to the fence confirms it, but they would have been hidden by a tree near the front of the yard when we approached.
I turn back to the man, forcing a sheepish smile. “Must’ve missed the signs.”
But he’s already shutting the door.
Bennet and I stare at each other, then shrug almost simultaneously.
“Well. I guess we’re crashing a party.”
He adjusts the weight of the gift. “At least we brought a present.”
We step off the porch and follow the signs, slipping around the side of the house and into the backyard.
It’s a scene straight out of a lifestyle magazine.
The yard is sprawling and meticulously manicured, with towering oaks draped in Spanish moss casting cool shade over an opulent patio.
A turquoise-blue pool glistens in the center, kids splashing wildly while adults lounge in chairs sipping drinks.
A long table set with trays of food—sandwiches, fruit, pasta salads, an entire roasted pig—stretches along the patio.
Another table, covered in a bright pink tablecloth, is piled high with presents.
Bennet deposits the one in his arms there, his movements stiff, like he’s walking in a dream.
I scan the crowd, searching for someone who resembles the image he shared with me the other night when we tried to track her.
“Helen.” His voice is low, hoarse with disbelief.
I follow his gaze to the woman sitting at a table near the pool. She laughs, her expression open and warm, a baby nestled in her lap. The woman beside her leans in, their conversation intimate, easy.
Bennet’s frame grows impossibly tighter, the tension rolling off him. His sister left without a word. She ran from everything. Trapped him in the cursed lamp. And now, she’s just here? Laughing, smiling, carefree?
I reach for his hand without thinking. His fingers clasp around mine.
Across the yard, Helen’s laughing eyes land on us.
The smile dies, her face draining of color. Her arms tighten around the baby for a split second before she carefully hands the child off and stands.
She crosses the space between us. When she reaches us, she doesn’t greet Bennet. Doesn’t hug him. Doesn’t try to explain.
She glances behind her at the party, and then returns her gaze to Bennet. “Not here,” she says instead. “Come.”
She leads us away from the party, deeper into the property, weaving past the trees until we reach a secluded sitting area, partially hidden from the backyard by heavy, draping branches. A stone bench sits beneath a weeping willow, and the air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here?”
Bennet’s mouth pops open. “What am I—? What are you doing here? You cursed me. You trapped me in a damn lamp.”
Her brows knit together. “What? I did not. I merely sent you back to Aetheria.”
His hand grips mine tighter. “Then why am I still here?”
Helen’s eyes close, her jaw tightening. “He lied,” she whispers. “Of course, he did.” Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Delores tried to warn me?—”
“Helen,” Bennet cuts in. “What are you talking about? Who lied?”
She lifts her chin. “Uncle Hugh. Who else?”
Bennet flinches. “What?—?”
“Despite what he may have told you, I didn’t come here on a lark. Or to escape my marriage. Well, not only to escape my marriage.” She swallows hard. “I came here to find my father.”
His head jerks back in shock. “What do you mean, your father? Helen, our parents are dead.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Our mother is dead. But we had different fathers, Bennet. My father was human.”