Page 27 of Bewitched By the Djinn (The Bewitching Hour #8)

Chapter

Twenty

The sky is painted in deep shades of violet and umber three hours later as we step into the garden, the last golden slivers of sunlight sinking below the horizon. A crisp autumn breeze stirs the air, carrying the scents of damp earth and charred firewood.

Helen kneels on the cool grass and spreads out her tools on a flat stone nestled between the roots of an oak. She moves with quiet precision, drawing symbols into the dirt with the tip of her finger. A small brass dish rests at the center of her setup, filled with the herbs we helped gather.

She places three crystals around it while Bennet and I settle in the grass in front of her. Delores is at her side.

The air hums with energy as she strikes a match, dropping it into the brass dish. The herbs catch instantly, the smoke rising in slow, curling tendrils, the scent thick and intoxicating.

She presses her hands to the earth. “We’ll start in the great hall. Try not to speak. I’ll have to concentrate to scry where we wish.”

A glow pulses beneath her fingertips, like embers smoldering under the soil. The smoke thickens, coiling toward the stone as if drawn by some invisible tether.

At first, the surface remains dark. Then it ripples and a picture forms, like a projection.

A grand hall comes into view, opulent and glowing. Chandeliers glint overhead, casting warm golden light over long tables dressed for a feast. Laughter echoes from the image. Servers glide past noble guests carrying silver trays.

It’s some kind of party, I guess, a scene straight out of Game of Thrones , or Robin Hood: Men in Tights .

At the far end of the hall, a raised dais dominates the room with four people seated around the head table. One of the occupants—middle aged, dark hair threaded with silver—lifts a goblet in toast. “Thank you all for being here to celebrate the marriage of my beloved niece to Lord Wallace.”

Helen’s breath catches.

Bennet stiffens beside me.

Two figures step up beside their uncle. A man with Bennet’s sharp jaw and calm poise. A woman with Helen’s same long dark hair and graceful smile. The crowd erupts in cheers.

Then another man steps into view with broad shoulders, his bearing regal and confident. He takes the false Helen’s hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles.

What is going on?

I glance up from the vision to the real Helen. Her face is flushed, her jaw clenched, her eyes flashing with anger.

The image ripples. The view shifts, weaving over the crowd, moving to the fringes of the room and coming to a halt over a servant, red-faced and hauling trays of empty dishes.

The servant hurries out of the great hall and through a maze of narrow passageways and into a giant, bustling kitchen.

Dozens of servants weave around one another in a choreographed frenzy, carrying baskets of herbs, trays of raw meat, and gleaming platters.

Steam hisses from an enormous oven. Is it magic? The burners flare hotter at a snap from a cook and a pot of soup stirs itself lazily near the back, the ladle rotating in slow, deliberate circles under a soft magical glow.

In the opposite corner, scullery maids scrub dishes with rags that dance and wring themselves out.

A harried steward passes into view, holding a list longer than his arm, muttering too low to make out. He’s reed thin, balding, and dressed fully in black.

Bennet’s head snaps up to stare at Helen.

Without removing her gaze from the vision, she nods.

Bennet looks back down at the image.

The steward grabs a rolling cart ladened with food trays from one of the maids and exits the chaos of the kitchen through another side hall.

We follow, the vision hovering over the bald spot on his head as he moves down the hall, unloading trays as he goes by sliding them into slots in the wall, ringing a bell, and waiting as they lift somewhere out of sight.

Medieval room service?

Finally, there is just one tray left on the bottom of the cart with a small cup of water, a hunk of cheese and bread.

He picks the tray up, leaves the cart behind and carries it through a door, then along more winding corridors, and finally down a narrow flight of stone stairs. Damp stone walls flicker into view.

A heavy iron door creaks open. Inside, chained to the far wall, is a man in a rumpled white tunic. His dark hair is disheveled. His face bruised, but he looks vaguely familiar.

Bennet sucks in breath through his teeth.

The prisoner’s voice is hoarse but furious. “Tell your master I’ll see him burn for this.”

The steward shoves the tray through a slot in the bars and leaves without a word.

The vision pulses again, and we’re back in the great hall.

Lord Wallace leans toward the fake Helen, smiling as they prepare for the toast.

Recognition slaps me in the face. The man in the dungeon is Lord Wallace. Who is this guy then? What the hell?

The projection shatters.

A violent burst of wind slams through the garden, sending the crystals skittering across the stone. The smoking herbs snuff out in an instant.

The garden is dead silent. Smoke curls from the remains of the rock.

Helen’s fingers dig into Delores’s arm as she straightens, her face pale. “Sorry about the dramatics, my magic dried up.”

Bennet curses, pushing himself up. “Tell me that wasn’t what it looked like.”

“It was exactly what it looked like.”

“So what does that mean? You two have twins you didn’t tell me about?” I guess I make terrible jokes when I’m confused and terrified.

“That was him,” she whispers. “That was the real Lord Wallace. In chains.”

Bennet braces his hands on his knees. “They imprisoned him. But why? What is the point? And how does Uncle have the power to create three lookalikes that could maintain our likeness so well and for so long?”

Helen lifts a hand. “Assuming that was our uncle at all. What if he was a doppelganger as well? We didn’t have time to search the whole castle. Maybe he’s in the dungeon too, or gone.”

A heavy silence falls. It’s like the vision has dropped a boulder on top of all of us.

I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans. “How will we find out?”

Helen looks at Delores, then Bennet, then me. “We have to go to Aetheria. As soon as possible.”

Bennet’s eyes fall shut a moment. Then he turns to me. “I am sorry I brought you into this.”

I put my hand on his arm. “It’s okay.” He didn’t ask for this bond either. “We all have family drama,” I tease, but the joke falls flat.

His jaw tightens. “Cassie, your family?—”

“They’ll be fine.” I wave a hand in the air. “I’ll call Mimi, make sure the wards are secure and they don’t leave unless necessary. They can survive without me while we deal with this. Besides, with us no longer in the mortal world, the threat of ifrits here should be nil.”

Delores folds her arms over her chest. “And I’ll stay here. I can help your family, watch the house. Keep the kids safe. As Helen’s mate, I can be a link back to this world.”

Mate? What does that mean?

Helen stares at her. “I want you with me but I don’t want you in danger.”

Delores steps over to her, takes her hand. “I know. That’s why this is the best choice. You can focus on what needs to be done, and I’ll be here waiting when you come back to me. We will be able to feel each other, even through the veil.”

Helen hesitates, pain flashing across her face, then nods. “Then we leave at first light. When the veil is thinnest.”

“And once we’re through?” I ask.

Bennet crosses his arms. “We figure out what is truly happening in our kingdom.”

“And,” Helen adds, “we can find a way to fix your curse so you may return to your family.”

Right. That’s what all this is about. Splitting the bond. I know this.

Then why does my chest ache like something precious is slipping through my fingers?

I stare at the ceiling.

The guest bedroom is luxurious. Too luxurious. Silk sheets, an absurd number of pillows, and a mattress so soft I sink into it like a cloud. It should be comfortable, but it isn’t. I can’t sleep.

Maybe it’s knowing we’re leaving in the morning, stepping straight into danger. Maybe it’s the fact that my life has changed so completely in such a short time, and I haven’t had a second to catch up. Maybe it’s just this stupid, fancy bed.

Anxiety twists low in my gut. We’re not planning to walk into a fight.

We’re just supposed to gather intel, figure out what their uncle is up to, and get out before anyone realizes who we are.

But if he’s orchestrating a coup, or using dark magic, or been replaced by a pod person, then what happens if we’re caught?

I huff out a breath and turn onto my side, punching a pillow in frustration.

A glance at the clock tells me it’s close to midnight. Fantastic.

Shoving off the covers, I slip out of bed. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that is almost unnatural after a day filled with so many people. I don’t even know where I’m going at first until I find myself standing in front of Bennet’s door.

This is stupid. I’m stupid. I should go back to bed.

But then my fingers are curling around the doorknob, and before I can talk myself out of it, I push the door open.

The room is dimly lit by the glow of the moon shining in through the window. Bennet is lying on his back, one arm resting over his forehead, his jaw tense even in sleep. His brows pull together, lips parting slightly like he’s on the edge of speaking.

I shift, about to turn and leave?—

“Cassie?”

I freeze. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He pushes himself up onto one elbow, blinking at me. “You didn’t. I can’t sleep either. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. I just couldn’t fall sleep.”

He studies me for a moment before scooting back, making space. “Come here then.”

I should say no. I should go back to my dumb luxurious bed. Except last night was the best rest I’ve had in forever, and the man in front of me is most likely the reason I could close my eyes and relax without worry.

I step forward and slide under the covers beside him.