Page 15

And it’s with this one event that I can no longer pretend Kiara’s fate is not my problem.

Because as the teenage driver of the pickup flirts out the open window with the pretty girl setting up the caramel apple stall at the festival, oblivious to the road ahead riddled with potholes, Kiara and Inky are about to get, well, squashed. No pun intended.

When it comes to Kiara, I seem to do things without thinking, and tackling her to safety is no different.

My body crashes into hers, sending us both sprawling on the sidewalk.

I don’t know why I expected it to be like the movies, where the love interest heroically rescues the main character, and then they both right themselves, still looking fresh as daisies, not a hair out of place. Real life is nothing like that.

There’s a low groan and then a quiet “Fuck.”

It takes me a beat to realize I’m not the one who cursed out loud.

Kiara props herself up on one elbow, still cupping Inky snug in her hands.

He lets out a plaintive meow and bats at her fingers.

She’s absolutely disheveled, side braid loose and the black silk hair scarf dusty with sidewalk grit.

The apricot locks of hair framing her face are more frizz than curl, a far cry from the spirals they were a second ago.

“You saved me,” she says with awe and a morsel of confusion. “From…an onslaught of squash?”

“Looks that way.” I hiss, gingerly pressing my fingertips against my shoulder. I knocked my knee on my bike when I hopped off in a panicked frenzy, hit the sidewalk when I bowled her over, and now I feel like I’m going to vomit.

The wheels of my fallen bike are still spinning, and a few people in the midst of setting up their booths for the festival are looking over in concern.

Honestly, I’m surprised I was able to blur across the street so fast. If I hadn’t been on my way to Austin’s grandmother for a second opinion on Aurora’s diagnosis of certain doom, if I hadn’t been looking at Kiara right when it happened, she might not have been as lucky.

Perched cozily on a street sign next to us, two magpies look at us inquisitively. The rhyme comes back to me: one for sorrow, two for joy. In more superstitious times, the number of magpies spotted together was used to forecast the future. As I watch, one of the magpies flutters off.

Great. More bad luck.

“What are you doing with Inky?” I ask, heart still lodged in my throat.

Kiara switches to a one-hand hold on Inky to rotate her other elbow ninety degrees. “You mean Loki?”

I still think Inky is a pretty milquetoast name for a black cat, but I dig my heels in. Or I would anyway, if I was upright. “No, I mean Inky.”

Her smile is impish. “I spotted Loki in the road and had to get to him before something bad happened.”

“Technically, something bad did happen.”

“Technically,” says Kiara, “you stopped something bad from happening. My heroine.”

The laugh bursts out of me, shrill and jarring. Heroine? More like her wicked witch. No, I don’t want to be her anything. I tell myself that until I believe it.

“Nova?” She reaches out to touch my wrist, her eyes soft. “I promise I’m okay. You saved me.”

I swallow, tamping down the fluttering in my belly.

Sure, disaster was averted this time…I pull away from her, rubbing my shoulders, but tingles from her touch continue shooting up to my elbow.

I shove all dire and distracting thoughts aside and focus.

“What? Are you serious? He was just wandering?”

She smirks. “See why I called our little escape artist Loki now?” My tummy does a funny flip when she says our . “I called the shelter,” she continues, “and Otto said one of the new volunteers had taken him out to play and got distracted. I was just about to bring him back.”

Probably another newbie who thought volunteering was just about the fun stuff and would ghost us out of embarrassment instead of learning from their mistake.

Inky makes the kitten equivalent of a grumble. Kiara gives in to the demand and scratches the top of his head. “Anyway,” she says, “I came here early to meet someone before the festival went full swing.”

I shouldn’t care, but a part of me wants to know if it’s Devon she’s meeting.

I’m completely over him, but it’s the principle of the thing.

And really, Devon ? After his unaffected behavior at the Cauldron when Kiara was literally choking?

Snippily, I say, “I can do that. You don’t want to be late for your date. ”

Kiara’s brow furrows. “I never said it was a—”

“Are you two okay?” The teenage driver hurries over, phone out.

“Do I need to call for an ambulance? Shit. I literally just got my license. My dad’s going to kill me.

” He pauses for breath just long enough to take stock of the spillage, blinking rapidly.

“I just took my eye off the road for a second, I swear.”

There’s an indignant squawk behind me, and then bony fingers are digging into my armpits, hauling me up without so much as a hello. “It was long enough for you to get the name of the apple seller!”

I twist my neck around—ugh, mistake —but the glance is worth it because it reveals a seething Petra Lyons at my back. Austin’s grandmother is a bit north of sixty, with a proud mane of short golden curls and homemade peacock-feather earrings that graze her petite shoulders.

She rakes her gaze over both me and Kiara, verifying we’re unharmed. I’m used to seeing her fun-loving and casual, so the blue fire in her eyes is a bit terrifying. In that moment, I see why some people rudely call her the witch behind the apothe-cary counter.

“Do you drive your grandmother to her hospital appoint-ments like this?” she demands.

The boy blushes. “No, ma’am.”

“If I ever hear you driving so irresponsibly again,” she starts to warn.

“You won’t!” he yelps. “I promise!”

She glares, wholly unimpressed.

“She’s never going to give me her number now,” he says miserably as the apple seller flirts with one of the photog-rapher’s assistants arranging pumpkins on hay bales for photoshoots.

I scoff. “Gotta say, dude, you’re getting no sympathy from me.”

“Hot girls don’t like bad drivers,” Kiara chimes in. She gets up and flips her braid over her shoulder.

Faced with three angry women, he babbles something that’s a cross between “I’m so sorry” and “Please don’t tell my dad” and flees back to his truck, abandoning the pumpkins and acorn squashes on the road.

Kiara rolls her eyes after him then tentatively approaches me with an outstretched arm, like I’m a snarling hellhound and she’s flinging me a piece of kibble.

She’s not offering me the kitten but her free hand.

There’s something tender in her gaze that so far I’ve only seen aimed at her friends and small, helpless animals and me that one time. “Thanks, Nova. I owe you one.”

I stick mine out, too, in a way I’m about to immediately regret.

“You don’t,” I say, giving her a brisk shake just as she gives me a gentle squeeze.

We’re so blatantly out of sync that she laughs, and I yank the offending body part back.

Her skin was cool while I was hot all over.

Even after we’re no longer in contact, the tingles don’t stop racing up my arm, making my scalp tickle and tighten.

Oh. My cheeks burn. It’s possible I misread her intentions, and she doesn’t see me as the hellhound in this scenario. Did I really just shake her hand like she’s a stranger at a meeting? God, I’m so embarrassed.

“Here.” She transfers Inky to my arms. “I should go.” She gives Petra a brief smile and Inky a wave.

When Kiara takes off, she doesn’t meet up with Devon. She’s heading in the direction of Aurora’s tent, where, if I squint, I can make out Tayla, Evan, Keiffer, and Radhika waiting for her. Seriously, do they just travel everywhere in a pack?

My belly cramps as I imagine how this latest accident is going to convince the others that Kiara’s life is in serious jeopardy. And if Aurora drops the word survival around them, all four of their pretty little heads will explode, brain goo going splat everywhere inside her tent.

I sigh. My way forward is clear now.

It is my problem. I don’t want to say I trust Aurora, exactly, but I get the distinct impression she’d rather I help Kiara on my own instead of forcing me into it, so my secret is safe for now.

“I know your secret,” says Petra, bringing me close for a hug.

A swift bolt of panic lances through me before melting away, the swirling scents of lavender, peppermint, and rosemary immediately taking its place.

Petra, like me, is a headache sufferer, and while injections and medication can help, she relies mostly on folk remedies like daubs of aromatherapy oil on her temples. “You like her,” she imparts.

“Just because I saved her life doesn’t mean I like her.”

She laughs and taps my chin. “Don’t look so mutinous.”

“Misunderstood, not mutinous.”

“You never looked at my grandson like that,” she points out.

“Austin has the good sense not to stand in the middle of the street,” I counter.

“Mm-hmm.” Petra’s blue eyes sparkle down at me. “What if I told you how she was looking at you?”

I avert my gaze and mutter, “I’d be entirely uninterested.”

She makes a doubtful sound at the back of her throat but doesn’t contradict me. “Now, why don’t you come in for a nice cup of tea and tell me what’s so mysterious that you had to meet me after close.”

The wooden sign flapping above the door reads Mortar & Thistle in gold Gothic lettering.

It’s an unassuming sort of place, a narrow storefront with dark tinted windows to limit sun exposure to the potions inside.

There’s floor-to-ceiling cabinetry and creaky floors in ancient and weathered teak.

The shelves are well stocked with colorful glass vials and vintage perfume bottles, all filled with natural, clean, ethically sourced ingredients.