“Lorcan, it’s the only way. You and I know that.”

  He shook his head. “Gun to our heads, we’ll try this again, but then and only then.”

  “Isn’t the gun at our heads now?”

  “No, perhaps the knife is at our throats.”

  I frowned at him. “And that’s not life or death?”

  “It’s not.”

  Irritation prickled over my skin, a knee-jerk reaction to his slightly patronizing tone. Still, I couldn’t shake the keen sense of desperation that came from Rupert’s threat toward my loved ones. This was why witches were loathe to make attachments. If I’d been like Mother, Rupert never would have found a foothold in my life. Mother, and other witches like her, would fight to the bitter end before they’d surrender to a vampire. A respectable High Witch would sacrifice her coven and the surrounding Hollow to maintain her dignity.

  I was not a respectable High Witch.

  And to prove it, I slid a hand into Lorcan’s waistband, grasping his length, returning the favor he was already giving me. He let out a sound that was half-hiss, half-groan. He didn’t fight me when I pushed him to the floor and climbed astride him. He let out a breathless laugh when I gestured impatiently at the front window, pulling the drapes most of the way closed with a muttered spell.

  Then I muffled the sound of his chuckle, kissing him with an eagerness that took even me by surprise. Lorcan’s tongue flicked along the seam of my mouth. He tasted like blood. My blood. It was a surprisingly spicy taste that seared across the tongue. A swallow of it would probably burn like whiskey. There was more blood as I tried to navigate the urgent lip lock, both his and mine. I had no idea how to navigate around my... ugh... baby fangs.

  So, in the end, I didn’t.

  I was too impatient to strip out of the dress, but Lorcan didn’t seem to mind. It took a few infuriatingly long moments to undo his belt and still more to shimmy his pants and boxers down to get what I wanted. Then there was no barrier between us. His eyes went a little wide when he realized what I planned to do. In all our encounters, he tended to have his way with me, not the other way around.

  I eased myself down onto him, my back arching as I took every inch of him.

  With our bond open, it was hard to tell where he ended and where I began. His hands came to rest on my hips, guiding me into a rhythm that caused us both to start moaning. My head fell back, my toes curling, my entire body clenching tight.

  This is where I want to be for the rest of my life, I decided. Here. With him. Dead or alive. Magic or not. I want him. Forever.

  Lorcan was wrong, at least in one aspect.

  There would come a time when I was ready. When I could shake the fear and decide to join him on the other side.

  I needed to find a way to survive until that day came.

  Chapter Twelve

  I knew, on some level, that my coven was different than others.

  What I’d told William and Amos at our reunion was true: the Scapegrace Coven checked its dignity at the door. We were a handful of rejects, which often made people underestimate just how effective we could be when faced with a problem.

  But the fact was, we were all still witches. And that meant you didn’t throw a loaded word like ‘love’ around in a room full of us without repercussions. It was like plastering a target on your back, begging someone to take a shot. Witches believed attachments made you weak and opened you to lines of attack you’d never considered before. Case in point, my coven, and my newfound friends in the Hollow. The only reason Mother hadn’t struck at me through my friends was Haven Hollow’s charter which stated interspecies conflict had to be settled between members, but a full-on assault on the residents would be considered a declaration of war. Mother wasn’t arrogant enough to go head-to-head with an entire Hollow.

  Apparently, Rupert was.

  I expected to find everyone right where I’d left them, huddled in wordless shock around the fire. Instead, I found the den mostly empty, with the exception of Astrid, Sybil, and Darla. My darling cousin and magically induced child were huddled on an Italian leather sofa, shiny knitting needles in their hands. Astrid was patiently trying to show Sybil how to perform a Garter Stitch pattern. Sybil was struggling to follow but didn’t seem frustrated. Her face had smoothed into a curious and vaguely pleased expression as her... aunt? Cousin? Walked her through the process.

  Something in my chest clenched at the sight of them. Everything had been moving too quickly, so the implications of Sybil’s stay hadn’t quite sunk in. If Astrid was my quasi-daughter, it made Sybil her sister in a sense. They even favored each other, when you looked closely. The resemblance would have been even more striking if Astrid had dark hair.

  I rapped lightly on the door frame before stepping inside. Sybil was easily spooked, and I didn’t want to cause her more stress. The sound drew every eye in the room. Sybil brightened when she spied me hovering in the doorway, and she greeted me with a chipper, “Mother!”

  I grimaced and crossed to an armchair facing her, all the while self-consciously smoothing my skirt. Which was needed, unfortunately. I tended to lose all concern for my clothing when Lorcan was involved in their removal. This dress had remained intact but was rumpled. It was like screaming the truth to anyone who was keen enough to notice—I was sleeping with Lorcan Rowe, and the sex was so damn good, it made me take leave of my senses.

  “Why don’t you call me by my name, Sybil?” I asked and gave her as kind a smile as I could manage.

  “Wandellmellia?” she asked, her full lips tugging into a slight frown.

  “No. Wanda,” I corrected her.

  “Wanda,” Sybil repeated, testing the word on her lips. She smiled a moment later. “I like it. I like you.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” I said after a moment.

  What else was there to say? How could I look into her beaming face and tell her how badly this entire thing had shaken me? How could I sit her down and explain, in terms she’d understand, that this was the worst possible time she could have burst onto the scene? That she was just one more life I’d have to protect by throwing myself neck-first at the vampires?

  Darla let out a soft snort, but by the time I turned in her direction, she’d averted her face. I couldn’t read her expression, but I did note the line of quivering tension in the set of her jaw and the pincer-like grip she had on a Marlboro cigarette. The pack on the end table was half-empty, and a steady pile of butts had gathered in the crystal ashtray. We typically only brought the ashtray out when my brothers visited. William had a nasty cigar habit. I didn’t like them smoking in the house, for fear of Astrid taking up the habit too. That was just what my coven needed, right? A witch with emphysema.

  I opened my mouth to ask what the spell Darla was upset about, but Astrid interrupted my line of thought.

  “Poppy took Finn home, but everyone else is in the kitchen. Well, everyone besides Maverick. We still don’t know where he is.”

  “You tried calling him?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He turned his phone off, so no one can get in touch with him.”

  “Typical,” I sighed. “I suppose I should have expected as much.” Then I turned to face the kitchen. “What are they doing in there?”

  Astrid shrugged, adjusting the positioning of Sybil’s hands with the needles. The latter didn’t look put out. Actually, my creation looked incredibly pleased, as if every new thing she learned was the height of revelation.

  “I think they’re talking about how to deal with this,” Astrid answered on a shrug. “Sybil is kind of a big deal.”

  I looked at her. “You don’t say.”

  Astrid shrugged. “Everyone is worried that if other witches find out, it could start the warlock panic all over again. Someone could track Janeth down and put her on a plane to Haven Hollow to make sure she finishes what she started with Maverick. None of William’s clan want that.”

  Goddess, I hadn’t even thought of that. I’d known there’d be an uproar if word about Sybil got out. How could there not be? Maverick’s condition was already under tight wraps, due to the sheer improbability of it. If other covens knew he was capable of something like this, even with my help... I could see how a reactionary coven might consider it a capital offense. It explained why Astrid was knitting at a time like this. Her hobby really kicked into overdrive when she was upset or nervous about something.

  “What are their suggestions?” I asked, motioning to the kitchen again, in case Astrid wasn’t sure who I was talking about.

  Astrid frowned. “They’re trying to figure out if what happened can be reversed.”

  I looked at Sybil who looked back up at me, unblinking, with a smile on her face. “Reversed?”

  That didn’t seem like the right thing to do—Sybil was here and I didn’t think trying to uncreate her was the answer.

  “They’re talking magical theory, and they kicked me out when I didn’t agree with them,” Astrid continued. “So, I’m teaching Sybil to knit instead. I figured it was the best way to keep myself from screaming at them. I also invited Darla over to talk with her. I thought… hey, where are you going?”

  Before Astrid had time to finish her sentence, Darla was on her feet and striding away. She’d mashed her cigarette into something resembling a pretzel, and had trailed ash along the rug as she made her egress.

  “Outside,” Darla replied. “I need some air.”

  Astrid turned wide gray eyes to me after Darla disappeared. “What was that about?”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “But I guess I’m going to go find out.” I glanced at Sybil who was still staring at me with those deer-in-headlights eyes. “Do you mind waiting here with Sybil for a little while longer?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m making a triangle,” Sybil said, presenting her piece for inspection. “It’s fun.”

  “Oh, no,” Astrid groaned. “Here, give me that. I’ll fix it.”

  I turned toward the door with a smile. Sybil was in good hands. Now, to see what the spell was wrong with Darla.

  ***

  I found Darla on the back porch, leaning her weight against one of the twisting metal handrails that flanked the stairs.

  The stars were dim tonight, blotted out by the light pollution from the Hollow. If I walked a mile or two into the woods, the stars would flood back, a sea of twinkling lights in the velvety night sky. Darla was squinting up at them, puffing on yet another Marlboro. She’d left a crisp red lip print on the end.

  “Those things will kill you,” I said offhandedly. “More slowly than last time, I might add. I hear lung cancer is a nasty way to go.”

  “Maybe but it would be less frightening than the way I went,” she said, eyes still on the sky. “You ain’t never felt fear like that, I promise you. Lorcan will never put a gun between your eyes and pull the trigger.”

  “No, I suppose I haven’t and he wouldn’t.”

  Though he might have to tear into my throat and drain the life from me. The jury was still out on my continued existence on this side of the divide, but that was another conversation. As to this one, I wasn’t sure where it was going. We’d been talking about Sybil, the accident, and Maverick, hadn’t we? How did that equate to a solemn contemplation of Darla’s newfound mortality, or the end of her last stint in the land of the living?

  She blew out a stream of smoke. It curled in the air for a moment before being whipped away by the wind. It tossed Darla’s carefully styled hair and threatened to knock her hat clean off. That just went to show how upset she was. She was almost as fashion conscious as I was. Perhaps more so since she’d spontaneously started aging, before Poppy had developed a potion to stop it. Regardless, Darla had something to compensate for. Or she thought she did.

  “Why’d you run off like that?” I asked, when no answer seemed forthcoming. “Did I say something to upset you?”

  Darla thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “Not exactly. It’s those lame-brains in the kitchen. They’re really doing the Lindy Hop on my last nerve.”

  “William and Amos?” Her lips mashed into a thin line. It was all the answer I needed. “What about them?”

  She finally deigned to look at me, and if she’d been more magical, the frost in her gaze could have frozen me solid. “Don’t you get what they’re talking about, Wanda? What Sybil is too much of a Dumb Dora to realize?”

  “They’re talking about how to…” I trailed off as the implication hit home. No wonder she was upset. “Oh.”

  “They’re talking about killing her! Knocking her off!”

  “Well, not exactly,” I started, cocking my head to the side as I wondered if uncreating Sybil was the same thing as knocking her off.

  Darla nodded. “Removing her soul is pretty much the same thing as puttin’ a gun between her eyes, in my opinion.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” I hedged. But even I didn’t sound convinced.

  “I got forcibly ejected from my body,” Darla said, dropping her finished cigarette to the ground before grinding it under one heel. “She got shoved into hers. I know it ain’t the same process, but we’re both unnatural, Wanda. If anything, I’m even more unnatural. You had to make a body for me. At least the doll existed before Sybil woke up in it.”

  “Mannequin.”

  Darla waved away the word with a sigh. “She was plastic, and you dress her up in pretty clothes. It’s the same thing—she’s the same thing as a doll.”

  I wasn’t going to belabor the point. Darla’s anger finally made sense to me. This whole thing was prodding at a sore spot for her. To have my brothers casually talking about revoking Sybil’s essential spark just to spare Maverick trouble must have sounded callous at best, and evil at worst. After all, if they could do it to Sybil, they could apply the same logic to her. And to Libby too, for that matter. Not that I would let them.

  “They’re scared. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  Darla’s laugh was bleak. “Nothing like me has ever happened before either. But we dealt with it. As far as Crescent Circle is concerned, I’m a stiff, just like Libby.”

  “So, we’ll figure out a story for Sybil,” I answered. “Just like we figured out one for you.”

  “You’re all damn lucky she can’t understand you. She’s frightened enough as it is.” Then she looked at me with the angriest expression I’d ever seen Darla wear. “You owe her an apology.”

  “An apology?” I echoed.

  “You ran outta here just like that and she didn’t know what she did to deserve your reaction. As far as she knows, you’re her ma, but you ain’t actin’ like you even like her.”

  And now I felt like shit. I’d been too concerned with my own panic, my own embarrassment, my own problems that I hadn’t even considered what Sybil was going through or how she felt. Darla was right. I was acting like a heartless bitch. Oh, I’d come back, sure, but in the end, I hadn’t acted much better than Maverick had. And, what was more, I still didn’t think of Sybil as a real person with real feelings.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

  I leaned my weight against the railing. The air around Darla smelled of smoke. It was a little nostalgic. I’d been a smoker once. It had been the fashionable thing to do at the time.

  “You’re wrong. I owe you an apology too.”

  Darla smiled faintly. “Wanda Depraysie, apologizing? I never thought I’d see the day.”

  I gave her a look. “Don’t push it. I only issue apologies once or twice a year, if that. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry everyone is treating you both the way they are. I’m sorry I’ve been callous towards you.”

  “Go on.”

  I gave her a smile. “For a long time, you and Libby were just reminders of how far I’d fallen. I hated that I’d made you, resented having you around. But mostly, I hated myself.”

  “And why’s that?”

  I shrugged. “I was scared of what I was and what I could do. I didn’t really stop to think about how you felt. Or how Libby felt. And I’m sorry for that.”

  She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I was afraid I’d offended her. But when she opened her mouth to speak again, her voice was soft. Almost childlike.

  “Do you really mean that? You aren’t just pulling my tailfeathers?”

  “I mean it. No tailfeathers.”

  “So… we’re friends?”

  I grimaced. “Witches don’t really have friends.”

  “Liar,” Darla said with a laugh. “Poppy is your best friend. You just don’t want to admit you care.”

  “Fine,” I snapped. “You’re my friend. My very shrill and annoying friend, but still a friend.”

  Darla threw her arms around me, tugging me so close, it hurt to breathe. I could smell her heavy perfume and the stale remnants of cigarette smoke on her breath.

  “I love you too, softie!”

  “Get the spell off me,” I grumbled. “Witches don’t do hugs and I’ve had more than I can stomach of emotional outbursts for the night.”

  Darla released me with a laugh. “Fine. Let’s go inside. You have a kid to console.”

  Ugh. That was going to sound wrong for a long, long time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sybil ended up snuggled against me, her head propped on a pillow, resting in my lap while she watched Astrid knit.

  I’d been forced to sit across from my brothers, rather than next to them on the sofa. Sybil seemed to have an instinctive aversion to them. Whether that was biological or a reaction to their knee-jerk hostility, I couldn’t be sure.

  William and Amos were twins, identical down to the parts in their dark, shoulder-length hair. The only way to tell them apart was the way they carried themselves. William was the mischievous and outgoing one, while Amos tended to remain reserved and laconic. But when they were both unsmiling, it was impossible to tell who was whom. They sat on either side of Astrid, stoic, undead bookends to her nervous energy. We’d been forced to send the rest of the clan home. The presence of two vampires was already stretching Sybil’s tolerance.