Page 32 of The Witch's Pet

My heart leaps.

Florence.

Or rather, Florence’s descendant.

She has the same piercing eyes, the same sleek black hair and light skin, even carries herself with the same elegance. She’s in her forties, perhaps, and wearing simple black garments.

I lean closer to Hannah and point. “There.”

Our shoulders brush, and maybe it’s the atmosphere setting me on edge, but the contact sends a swell of heat through my middle.

As we stride up to the bar, I can make out the gold tag reading “Maya” pinned to the woman’s shirt.

When she looks up from pouring a drink, those familiar eyes meet mine.

Her gaze flicks over my face, my hair, my cloak.

She freezes. Her jaw goes slack. The color drains from her face.

The glass slips from her fingers, shattering on the floor. While several people turn toward the commotion, she just backs away with her hands raised as if I might strike her down where she stands.

“Interesting,” I say.

“Um,” Hannah says.

Maya bolts.

Hannah and I take off after her, weaving between startled patrons who clutch their drinks.

She disappears through a door marked “Staff Only,” and we follow her into a narrow hallway. Another door at the far end leads outside, already swinging shut on its hinges.

We thunder after her.

The alley is a maze of junk and pools of darkness deep enough to hide in. It reeks of rotting food and alcohol, and broken glass crunches under our feet. I can hear her rapid footsteps and panicked breaths heading toward the street, where she thinks she can disappear into the crowd.

The hunt awakens something primal in me. What little magic I have responds eagerly, practically purring as I track her movements through the shadows. This is what I was made for—the pursuit, the cornering, the moment when prey realizes there’s nowhere left to run.

I lift my hand and hesitate, debating whether to use my small reserve of power this way. But I need to stop her. So I blast a bin in her path sideways, and it slams into her.

She cries out. The sound of her body striking the rough ground echoes off the alley walls.

“Please,” she gasps, scrambling away until her back hits a brick wall. “I don’t know anything. I’m not—I’m not one of you.”

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Hannah says.

I laugh. “Well,she’snot.”

Hannah swats my shoulder. “Be nice!”

Maya looks between us, wide-eyed and breathing hard. Blood oozes from her scraped palms.

“Why did you run from me?” I ask.

She says nothing, her jaw tight.

I grab her arm and haul her to her feet. “You’re descended from Florence Kwan, are you not?”

“I don’t know who that is.” The denial comes too quickly. Her gaze darts past me, as if calculating an escape route.