Page 43 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
“Saga Trygg.” She’d always liked her name, yet speaking it now to this person made her feel like she’d tracked mud onto the pristine marble floor.
The receptionist leaned forward over the desk toward Saga, those dark eyes taking her in. It made her feel all at once at ease, and yet at the same time, incredibly vulnerable and naked.
Saga self-consciously raised a hand to cross over her chest as if to cover herself, but she dared not look away from those mesmerizing eyes.
Not just dark, but the color of chicory and umber.
And the deeper she stared, the more she felt she might fall into those eyes.
Her heart fluttered, and despite never faltering in her gaze, she became more aware of those perfect pomegranate lips.
She wanted to kiss them. The thought was so strong, so abrupt, it was intrusive.
The more she tried to push it away, the more insistent it was.
How sweet and intoxicating this woman’s lips might be. How if she could only—
The receptionist broke her stare to look to Avery questioningly.
“I’m with her,” Saga heard Avery’s voice as the world came back into sharp and unpleasant focus. “Emotional support.”
Satisfied with this answer, the woman sat back in her chair and began typing away at her keyboard. “You may have a seat. I’ll escort you to Mistress Iona’s office when she’s ready for you.”
Saga took a few unsteady steps backward, looking at Avery with a disoriented blink. Somehow the warm lighting felt paler and brighter as if she were fighting off the last vestiges of a hangover.
Avery took her by the arm and led her to sit on a rich burgundy chaise. She knelt before her and guided Saga’s hand with her own. “Here, touch the fabric, it will help ground you.”
Saga idly let her fingers slide over the tufted velvet. “It was like she was staring directly into my soul,” she murmured.
Avery winced noticeably. “About that… I should probably warn you. The women who work here—Iona… They’re sometimes known as ieles.”42
Saga wasn’t familiar with the word, but it sounded important, and so she forced herself to focus on Avery. “What’s an iele?”
“Well, you might also know them as the Furies or the Eumenides… They’re a kind of fey that feeds on revenge, setting the scales of justice right again. As such, they have the ability to see…your place on those scales. It can leave you a bit addled.”
Saga’s mind lazily circled around comprehending what she was being told, but didn’t land just yet. “My place on the scales…”
“Which is why it was imperative you come with me.”
Realization dawned and the fog cleared from Saga’s mind. “You said I wouldn’t have to say anything!” she hissed.
“And you don’t,” said Avery.
“Because they can see it on their own?!”
“Thus keeping my promise.”
Saga stared. There was no smugness to Avery’s tone, no trace of impish trickery, yet there was something so perfectly fey about that moment.
Fooled by keeping to the letter of a promise, but not the spirit.
Countless fairy tales hinged on this very principle, and yet she had fallen for it without a second thought.
She clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth, and the words that seethed out of her were somewhere between impressed and furious.
“Ooooh, you are in such shit when we get out of here, Sleeping Beauty.”
Irritation toward the nickname flashed across Avery’s features, her tongue running along the points of her fangs, before it melted into a lazy smile. She leaned forward, her voice low. “You think I’m beautiful?”
There was no real proper prevention for emotional whiplash, and so Saga felt the world drop from under her.
No longer able to hold to the foundation of frustration, she felt her mind flail outward.
No. No, do not admit to that. Do not admit to anything, least of all attraction to the dangerously handsome changeling.
Horror set in as she remembered only a day before she had already admitted to it.
Blatantly. At a loss for words, she scoffed and sat back.
Every moment she tried to produce any sort of proper retort, it sputtered into an impotent puff of air until at last managing, “Don’t change the subject. ”
The receptionist raised a hand to her earpiece and stood.
She cleared her throat to get the attention of the two women.
“Mistress Iona will see you now. Follow me please.” Her heels made precise percussive sounds against the floor, leading them up a small set of stairs and around the marble partition toward the offices.
On either side of the corridor was a series of more sleek black doors, decorated with rose-gold lines. They continued past these smaller offices to double doors at the end of the hall.
The receptionist placed her hands on either door and pushed them open in a grand gesture. She winked at Saga before gracefully sweeping to the side to allow her and Avery to enter.
A plush burgundy rug was centered on the marble floor of the large office.
Light poured in from the large windows that lined three walls of the room.
In the right corner, the space had been curated into a typical setup with chairs around a desk, whereas the left had been organized into a more intimate sitting arrangement.
Lush greenery flourished from brushed copper planters, crystal dangled from chandeliers, and paintings hung from the wall with such grand framing and attention to their careful lighting, Saga had to wonder if they might all be originals rather than prints or replicas.
Leaning against the white marble desk, half sitting on the corner, was a woman draped in a white pantsuit.
The oversized blazer remained open, matching the tailored wide-legged pants and stiletto heels.
Beneath the blazer she wore a bandeau that left her collarbone as well as two inches of her toned stomach exposed.
Her black hair was arranged into a French twist that allowed strands to fall attractively around her angular face.
Her features were striking, her skin flawless, and her body language fell into a strangely natural S curve that emanated sexuality and confidence.
If the receptionist’s presence had made Saga self-conscious, Iona was a beacon of all the qualities she knew she’d never have. This woman was incomparable; she had no equal and she knew it.
Iona quirked a strong eyebrow as they entered, but Saga got the feeling she wasn’t being seen at that moment. “Avery Hemlock,” she purred; her Romanian accent rolling the r off her tongue. She stroked her fingers along her lapel flirtatiously. “Don’t tell me it’s been five hundred years already.”
Saga felt Avery tense beside her, and then the door closed behind both of them.
“Reduced sentence.” Avery’s voice sounded different. Monotone. It lacked the quiet power she’d heard so many times before and was completely devoid of its usual warmth. “Good behavior.”
Iona laughed. It was music. It pulled at Saga’s being, beckoning her closer.
“I’d forgotten what a wretched liar you are.
” With a smooth undulation, she slipped off the desk, slowly closing the distance between them.
It reminded Saga of a cat stalking its prey.
“But really, Hemlock…” There was something about the way she spoke the name that felt simultaneously intimate and demeaning.
“Tricking your way into my office?” She tsked, the action causing her full lips to purse.
Saga couldn’t help but wonder how soft those lips were.
“All you had to do was call. Fates know I’ve missed our…” Iona’s tongue lightly slid along the edge of her teeth as she debated her choice of words. “Tête-à-têtes.”
Saga swallowed. She took a step away from Avery, uncomfortable with the thoughts stirring in her mind, as well as witnessing an interaction that felt far too intimate for her to see.
Something felt wrong. Not her attraction to these women—Saga had felt attraction to women many times before—but rather the intensity of it.
It didn’t feel natural. It was as if she was being fed the response by some unseen stage manager.
What had Avery said? They left you addled.
Addled. She had called Iona “the Addler.”
“It’s not a trick,” said Avery, clipped. The dismissive, unemotional tone helped ground Saga back in the moment. It made her more aware of how disconnected she was from those thoughts. “We’re here on official business.”
That’s right. They were.
“There have been two murders.”
Saga felt cold. These were not her thoughts. This was magic. She needed to stay present and not allow herself to be swept up in it.
“Saga’s guardian was one of those killed. I have reason to believe the murderer also violated the law of hospitality in order to achieve their goal. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I was wondering how you got past reception.” Only then did Iona’s eyes slide to Saga, and the energy of her presence somehow intensified. “Your scales are rather tilted.” The words sounded salacious.
“As I said, her guardian was one of the victims—”
“Your guardian?” Iona beckoned Saga to look at her, now ignoring Avery and taking slow steps toward her.
Every fiber of Saga’s being warned her not to meet this woman’s gaze.
But the idea of not looking at her felt like the sort of impertinence fey would punish humans for in stories.
Perhaps she could look above Iona’s eyes.
Focus somewhere on her forehead. Reluctantly, she attempted to raise her gaze to somewhere safe.
She failed.
Saga’s sight was caught and pulled in like a magnet. She found herself staring back at the mesmerizing woman.
“Your mother? No.” Iona cut herself off as if she somehow found evidence against this assumption. “Your grandmother.”
Saga felt her eyes widen, but she couldn’t look away. She vaguely wondered if this was how shrimp felt before being devoured by a cuttlefish. Hypnotized and helpless.