Page 44 of Dark Flame

“How do you know you can’t? You’re an expert on witches losing their magick?” he shoots back with a perfectly shaped brow arching into his hairline.

“No, but I’m becoming an expert on asshole vampires.”

He smiles once, not taking the bait. “Have a nice night, Miss Sinclair. Don’t attempt the door, because it’ll be a waste of your energy.”

He’s gone a blink later, the door’s lock engaging filling the bedroom with a loudclick.

I stare at it much too long before reaching towards the bedside table and taking another granola bar while I plot—unsuccessfully—how to get out of here.

Seventeen

ALEC

The Sinclair houseis exactly as I left it: desolate, unoccupied, and a grave for two deceased witches.

The door is still unlocked from the night I stole Harlow, but a quick sniff suggests no one’s been in here. The neighbourhood, I suppose, seems safe enough. Boring, with a lot of homes that are built identical to one another. For a witch family living away from their coven, they’re easy to blend in.

Sinclair mentioned her grandmother’s grimoires. Maybe having access to the spells the once-powerful Lorraine wrote down might trigger something. It’s a longshot, but a start.

The grimoires are the main purpose for my trip, but I’m also here for Harlow. To unpack more of her strange background and upbringing, which she feels is normal, but I don’t. The entire thing is perplexing, most notably the marks on her wrists.

It’s unsettling, and I’m sick of the feeling, needing answers so I can return to not caring about every little thing in that woman’s past.

I tread through the downstairs, scanning over the family’s items while searching for anything suggesting it’d be hiding a grimoire. Right away, I notice the lack of natural objects within the space. There are a few candles and bundles of spices I watched Harlow place around, but nothing else. No pentagrams, no plants. This place looks too…normal. Too human. Like her parents were caught up in the very lie they likely fed to their neighbours.

I pace through the living room, scanning over the many photos the Sinclairs display above the fireplace. Some of her parents, one of their wedding, but I skip over any involving Emily Sinclair to study the ones of my little captive.

In one, she’s a child. Five or so, if my recollection about human lifespans is correct. Her red hair is fuzzy in twin braids that rest over her shoulders. She’s grinning up at the camera amongst her throne of leaves.

In another, she’s older, sitting on a swing, her gaze directed at something far away.

The third picture is her as a teenager, posed in front of a tree, her smile joyful and natural.

The last photo is one taken more recently, based on her features being nearly identical to the woman I have in my castle. Once again, she’s seated in a pile of leaves but she’s staring down at the leaf in her palm.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I slide the photo from the frame and into my pocket.

Finishing with the mantle, I continue searching the rest of the downstairs, finding nothing useful, so I head upstairs, following the scent of my witch, now slightly faded.

In her bedroom, an empty tote bag on the floor strikes another idea. One that’ll get her out of those dirt-crusted pyjamas. I pick it up before heading to her dresser and stuffing clothes into it—a few pants and shirts, another set of pyjamas—before opening the bottom drawer, pausing at the sight of her undergarments.

Fucking Christ.

The initial sight of black lace fills my head with a vision ofherwearing it—and myself peeling it slowly from her. Swallowing the disastrous image, I grab a handful from the drawer and stuff them into the bag while simultaneously trying tonotwonder how many human male ilk have seen her in these. Have undressed her of them.

Suddenly, I have a whole slew of new questions for the witch.

Focus.Shaking my head of useless curiosity, I continue searching for a grimoire, peeking under her bed, scanning her small bookshelf in the corner, before opening her closet and revealing complete chaos, junk and clothing strewn in a waist-high pile.

I rifle through it, moving a few bags aside, peeking into a box that seems to be holding nothing but random items, a hoodie tossed to the side—which I add to the bag, realizing she’ll benefit from the warmth.

There it is.Beneath the hoodie is a black, leather-bound book, Lorraine’s power radiating from the pages like a hot wave.

The book grows warmer when I pick it up and open it. There’s all sorts of witchy bullshit spewed within the pages—poetic incantations, jotted notes about potions, lists of herbs and their uses—so I add it to the bag and leave after a final sweep of the room, heading down the hallway to the other bedroom.

The door is shut, and I wonder if Harlow has been in here since their deaths. Inside, the scent is vastly stale and void of her sweetness. Two other faint scents linger, both smelling like the earth. Dirt, trees, and leaves.

The bedroom is basic and as human-like as one would expect. A bed in the centre of the room, the light-green comforter pulled up over the pillows. A nightstand on either side with lamps much too large. Across from the bed is a large bay window overlooking the front lawn. To the left of the window, there’s a shut door—presumably a closet—and a woman’s vanity and floor-length mirror to the right.