Page 32 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

Sure, we’re both riding high on adrenaline when we finally pull out onto the highway after racing down Witchingdom’s bumpiest dirt road, but that doesn’t explain why I’m still holding Erik’s hand.

Sure, he’s got great hands. Strong and slightly calloused, they aren’t the hands you’d expect from someone whose last name is Svensen and who gets by in life by doing the least amount of honest work—or anything else—ever.

I’m not saying my extra hand-holding means I’m wrong about him.

That crap he pulled about the dimitto spell after the race pretty much proves that society and I are right about him—but maybe we’re not all the way right.

And the fact that I’m even considering that possibility means I’m in so much trouble.

Also? I’m still holding his hand.

Erik breaks the silence after an hour on the road with no sign of the Council’s goons. “We’re not going to be able to get to the secured facility on schedule.”

That tingling rushing through my body at his announcement? It’s not excitement or happiness or va-va-voom anticipation. It’s disappointment—major disappointment.

“But you said we would,” I say, while not staring at our joined hands.

“That was before we took a detour through the woods and ended up off course.” He checks the rearview mirror for the billionth time. “We have to find a room for the night.”

I pull my hand out of his and straighten my spine, pulling up my best ice princess attitude from wherever it hides when I’m around Erik. “Two rooms for the night.”

“Whatever you say, wife,” Erik says with a grin as he leaves his hand right where it was next to me, palm up, just waiting for me to reach out.

I clasp my hands together on my lap and focus all my attention on Bessie’s side mirror, watching for sights of the Council. I don’t even notice how close his fingers are to my thigh.

It’s nearly dark when we pull into the parking lot of The Nysa Inn on the edge of a small town that’s so quiet it’s like they’ve already rolled up the sidewalks for the night.

The inn is a four-story neoclassical limestone mansion with a red tile roof that looks like it’s from the early 1900s.

There is a massive two-story front porch and balconies that wrap around the third floor.

In front of the steps leading to the porch is a Greek statue of a man holding a bunch of grapes and a wood sign that says “Vacancy” in fancy script.

Erik puts Bessie in park but doesn’t cut the engine. “What do you think?”

“It’s gorgeous.” Just looking at the place makes my shoulders a little lighter and my mood a little mellower.

He rests his head against the leather seat and lets out a tired sigh. “So that’s a yes, we stay the night here?”

Guilt gets me right in the chest for not stopping earlier when he had to have gotten exhausted hours ago. Long-haul driving is about as tired as you can get just sitting on your butt.

“Yeah.” I give his hand a quick squeeze and then open my door and get out before I’m tempted to hang on. “Let’s go check in.”

He turns off the engine and does a quick protection spell to reenergize the car’s protective wards.

Then we get our “Mr.” and “Mrs.” suitcases out of the trunk—once again Erik ignores my logical point that I can carry my own bag—and we climb the stairs and walk through the massive wood doors decorated with intricate carvings of flutes and wine goblets.

We make it two steps inside before we both stop to take it all in.

In the center of the inn’s huge foyer is a large round fountain, big enough to host a small pool party.

Surrounding it is an oasis filled with broad-leafed plants next to detailed statues of people embracing.

Wide chaises upholstered in velvets of deep plum and gold are scattered about, and the walls are decorated with oversized oil paintings showing off revelers celebrating on lush green hillsides.

Dotted around the circular foyer are small but sturdy tables of various shapes that all stand about hip-high, topped with bowls of figs, plates of oysters, towers made up entirely of chocolate squares, and baskets of scones accompanied by little jars of strawberry jam.

The ceiling is open all the way up to the fourth floor, and while the air isn’t perfumed, there is a hint of the woody, sweet, earthy scent of musk and ambergris teasing my senses.

“Wow,” Erik says.

I’ve never agreed with him more.

I’m still gawking at it all when the bearded innkeeper walks through an arched doorway holding a tray bearing two glasses and an unopened bottle of red wine.

The innkeeper is wearing a loose hooded kaftan of a gauzy, flowy material that looks light enough to feel like nothing at all.

It’s sexy and comfortable and easy all at once.

What I wouldn’t give to swap outfits. Well, maybe not trade. After spending the past twenty-four hours in the same clothes, the material is a wrinkly mess and starting to smell a little ripe. No one should have to put my outfit on, and honestly, I cannot wait to take it off.

However, the idea of slipping on the kaftan—and only the kaftan—after a long, hot shower and then lounging on a chaise eating strawberry jam–covered scones and drinking wine floats into my thoughts like a feather on the wind.

I’m about to ask if they sell the kaftan here in town or if the inn carries extras for guests when the innkeeper smiles at us and gives us a devilish wink.

“Welcome to The Nysa Inn. I’m Silenus, but everyone calls me Sil, and I go by they/them pronouns,” they say as they set down the tray with a flourish. “You must be tired; please enjoy refreshments on the house while we get you checked in.”

They wave their hand and the bottle goes up into the air, the cork pops out, and then it tips over, letting the wine flow into the two glasses, which rise up from the table and drift over to us without spilling a single drop.

“You weren’t expecting us, were you?” Erik asks as he sets our suitcases down.

“No, but I can pretend to if that works better for you two,” they say as they press a button hidden under the table.

The sound of a jaunty melody played on a flute comes out of speakers that must be hidden among all the greenery.

“Or are you expecting another or more who should have alerted me to your arrival?”

“It’s just us,” I say as two burly, bare-chested assistants in voluminous pants made out of the same material as the kaftan come through another doorway.

They strut over to our suitcases, each step easy and confident, and each take one bag and look back over at us.

Muscular in the thick way of a lumberjack or one of those men who participate in the strong witch competitions, they watch me with unabated interest. It’s the same look they give Erik and the innkeeper and maybe even the statue of a group of frolicking water nymphs in the middle of the fountain.

Erik lays his palm on the small of my back, sending a hot sizzle of desire across my skin, as we follow the innkeeper to a square table near a marble statue of a man in a low-dropped toga holding a wine goblet.

That reminds me I’m holding a glass of wine, and I take a sip.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t hold back my groan of appreciation at the taste of ripe strawberries, raspberries, and black cherries. It’s absolutely delicious.

Sil gives me a smile of approval.

“Once this tantalizing couple is all checked in, please take them to the Barberini suite,” they say as they take Erik’s credit card and input the information into a computer that had been hidden behind a voluptuously-leafed lemon balm plant.

“We need two bedrooms,” Erik says, putting in the request before I can remember I’d insisted on it.

“Not a problem,” the innkeeper says. “The suite has two bedrooms, a large bathing area, and a lounge area where you can recuperate as needed. I believe you’ll both enjoy your stay immensely.

” The innkeeper snaps his fingers and a leather-bound guestbook appears.

He opens it and holds out a fountain pen that looks like it was carved into a grapevine.

“If you’ll just sign here, you’ll be all checked in.

Cissus and Orestes will show you to your two-room suite. ”

I sign my name in gold ink and hand the pen to Erik, who does the same.

“Thank you so much,” I say, noticing for the first time the hint of curled horns underneath the innkeeper’s hood.

“Of course. At The Nysa Inn, our only goal is to ensure you have a wonderful time. If there is anything you want during your stay, all you need to do is ring this bell and whatever you desire will be yours.”

Erik offers up a thanks and takes my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine as we walk through the foyer to the winding staircase that I swear wasn’t here moments ago.

All the stress of being chased by the Council and the exhaustion of driving hundreds of miles must be getting to me, because as we go up the stairs, I swear the gold figures of witches, gnomes, pixies, trolls, and more on the dark purple wallpaper turn their heads and watch us.

If that was actually happening, you can bet I would be freaked out.

However, I’m as relaxed as I’ve ever been as we climb upward.

By the time we’re on the last set of stairs to the fourth floor, the figures no longer seem to be watching but have gone back to doing other things, which I realize as I look closer all involve sexual activities.

I’m gonna be truthful here. I’m not sure the staring or the fucking is more disturbing or fascinating or inspiring. Yeah, I don’t know how to respond to that either.

We follow the bellhops to the double doors at the end of the hall. They open the doors and place our suitcases just inside before stepping back out.

“Is there a key?” I ask because I didn’t notice a keypad outside or any kind of lock on the door.