Page 27 of The Witch's Pet

Abruptly, she stops, staring at a headstone. The train continues rumbling in the distance, the noise piercing the night.

I use my phone to illuminate the marble, which has gone gray with age and is streaked with dark veins. The inscription shifts and dances in the light.

Florence Kwan

1847-1952

Beloved Mother, Sister, Friend

“Her wisdom guides us still”

“Someone you know?” I ask gently.

She crouches to run her fingers over the marble, tracing the name. Her hair falls forward so I can’t see her face. When she finally answers, her voice is quiet. “My coven’s high priestess. An elemental witch. This is what the tracking spell was guiding us to.”

A chill runs down my spine, and not just because we’re in a graveyard. If this witch is dead, then… “What does this mean?”

Julia stands and clears her throat, gesturing to the headstone. “If Florence became a mother, then she has descendants. We can find them.”

I nod, grateful we have options. “Should we look up ancestry records or something?”

She hesitates. “There is a spell I can do.”

“Okay.” I sweep my arm, eager to get out of the graveyard. “Go for it.”

Her fingers stroke the air, and then she balls them into fists, unmistakable frustration on her face. “I need more power.”

I bite my lip. “So, you need…”

The hungry gleam in her eyes makes my stomach flip. “If you can handle it.”

I ignore her taunt and straighten my posture. I won’t let her be right about me. Better me than an innocent bystander.

Drawing a steadying breath, I step closer, my legs like noodles. I’m not afraid of what she’ll do to me as much as I’m afraid of how it makes me feel.

The rumbling train fades, and then we’re standing in the dead quiet again, just the two of us and the creaking tree branches under the moonlight.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

“Don’t ‘good girl’me. I’m not your pet.”

She casts me that wicked smile of hers. “Mm, you’re something far more interesting.”

Before I can interpret what this means, she steps in to meet me, moving with such grace that she brings to mind a predator ready to pounce, right down to the way she controls her hips and shoulders.

My breath hitches. I catch her warm, apple-cinnamon scent, and my body melts under her despite every rational thought warning me to be cautious.

There’s a tiny curve in her lips as she looks down at me, like she knows exactly what effect she has on me. “You’re trembling.”

“It’s cold out.”

“Of course,” she says like she doesn’t believe me. “Now, don’t move until I’m done.”

I dip my chin, my heart hammering.

God, she’s standing close.

Her hands lift to my hair, and my scalp tingles as she gathers it and pushes it back behind my shoulders. The gesture is so surprisingly intimate that I almost lean into her touch.