“Did you tell her you were a Blood Witch?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then she would not have put the two and two together.”

  “Well… blast her anyway!”

  Hellcat smiled at me which, of all the things he did, was the most unnerving. “This, is entirely your fault for not having done your research before you agreed to move into this… cabin!”

  “It was the cheapest rent I could find!”

  “For good reason!” the little beast responded. “Look what’s outside the window!”

  “You are not helping!”

  “Because you are…”

  I took off my shoe and launched it at him, but missed by about five feet. He got the point though and took off like a shot, rocketing up the stairs like he’d been fueled by magic itself. He’d witnessed my moods over the years and knew when discretion was the better part of valor. I’d once turned him pink in a fit of irritation.

  I clutched the ledge of one casement window, breathing hard. If I were honest with myself, I knew the anger came from the cold knot of fear that had lodged in my gut since waking in the hospital to the sickening knowledge of what had happened to me.

  When I woke to find the vampire by my bedside.

  When the world as I’d known it ended.

  When I realized I was now a… Blood Witch.

  The vampire claimed he’d been trying to help me after I’d lost control of my car and it had gone careening off the road and crashed into his place of business. At the time, he’d thought I was human, and that a dose of his blood would keep me alive long enough to allow the paramedics to arrive, or so he’d said. Once his blood collided with my magic, I’d been healed almost completely in a matter of minutes.

  And then he’d sworn up and down that he hadn’t realized what he’d done—that he’d created a Blood Witch.

  As if I believed the load of troll toss. Vampires hated witches. Always had and always would. He’d probably turned me into a monster out of spite. Allowing me to die wasn’t punishment enough. He’d had to stick it to the High Witch, my mother, on behalf of his people.

  In an earlier century, I’d have been killed.

  Blood Witches tampered with forces beyond the ken of normal magical folk. They raised the dead, brought down vicious storms, and could allegedly fiddle with time. Witches weren’t meant to mix with other species and vampires were at the absolute bottom of the list.

  Vampire blood made witches unpredictable, and often irredeemably dark. It was one thing to lay the evil eye on someone, entirely another to wipe out scads of villagers because your powers were so unpredictable, you couldn’t control when and how they emerged.

  And Blood Witches weren’t welcome in my coven, or any other, for that matter. They were the outliers, the unpredictables, the bearers of dark magic.

  I’d become a walking, talking abomination.

  I’d wanted to believe it was all a bad dream—that I’d simply had too much to eat before bed, and the result was the worst nightmare to ever plague me. Or that it was some sort of misunderstanding that could be rectified with a spell.

  But staring out at the graveyard now, I knew.

  I could feel the magic potential just under the soil, reaching out to me. And I wanted to respond, wanted to caress the bleached bones, the brittle husks that had once contained souls. I knew I could drag those souls back from the ether and re-animate them. I could feel the petrifying flesh, the squirm of every maggot, almost hear the scrabble of insects in the soil around each casket.

  I was a Blood Witch and the neighboring dead spoke to me. Even now, I could hear them—their voices sounding like whispers in the wind.

  Come to us…

  Let us feed your magic, the magic of the dead…

  Bond with your necromantic power…

  I’d been planning to dance under the moon’s silvery glow—to become one with the dirt beneath my feet, the wind in my hair, to bond with the natural world and revel in its power. And in doing so, the power of nature would sink into me, refuel my own magical abilities. It was like I was a rechargeable battery and nature was the charger. It had been so long since I danced, felt the wind on my face, the grass beneath my bare feet, picking the magic from the air and absorbing it into myself.

  But with the graveyard nearby, it was a bad idea. Because who knew what could happen or what I might conjure?

  What if I brought the dead to life?

  Then Hellcat would have a grand ol’ time explaining as much to Mother.

  Who gives a toss what that dumb cat tells her? You’re living your life for yourself from here on out. You don’t have to listen to anyone anymore.

  True.

  This was my home, my life, my decisions.

  And tonight, I’d dance.

  Chapter Three

  Later That Night

  A quick peek around the house revealed everything was neat and tidy, if not a little bare. Whatever the cleaning company had used to disinfect the place, it had a vaguely spicy scent. Capcium or cardamom, maybe. Regardless, every surface was shining and perfect. I’d have to get their number from the landlord. Maybe I’d hire ‘Nooks and Crannies Cleaning Service’ again—when I eventually purchased my own home.

  And a new home would be a necessity at some point. The only way to establish a territory was to perform a Sanctum Spell, and to do that, I’d need to have my name on a deed. Now that the coven had abandoned me, I had to find ways to protect myself. If my clothing shop ended up paying dividends, I could potentially own my side of the duplex within a year, and then sell it and buy something grander in two to three years.

  Years. Sad to think that depressing thought was all I had to cling to.

  Clicking echoed down the stairs, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Hellcat was feverishly typing something into the ‘toy’ computer Mother stuffed into his bag before I’d set off. She’d probably enchanted it to allow for communication. The toy was only one of several ways Mother had to spy on me. I’d throw the plastic thing into the nearest dumpster when I had the chance, and then I’d ferret out the rest of her espial spells later.

  Hellcat was perfectly capable of operating a laptop computer if he had access, though Hecuba knew how many years it had taken Mother to train him. Currently, my laptop was sitting at the bottom of a tote in the absent moving van.

  I smoothed the black satin slip down over my body as I spied the moonlight flooding the bedroom. I was excited to dance, to feel nature surrounding me. Glancing down at my figure, I realized I’d lost weight since the incident. Dropping thirty or so pounds, I was no longer representative of the fulsome figure that was so popular among witches. Covens flipped the current beauty ideal on its head. Curves were praised, the rounded belly of a pregnant woman a desirable sight, the stretch marks that came from that labor of creation badges of honor.

  I was the only woman in our line who had lived over a century and not had a child, something I’d been hearing a lot about lately. I only had about a decade left to decide whether I wanted a child. When I hit a hundred and fifty, that was it. The latter half of my life my magic would grow, but I’d no longer be able to create life inside me.

  And now, according to Mother, I’d waited too long. Blood Witches were commanded never to breed. Who knew what dark, volatile magic would do to a newly fashioned soul? Best not to find out.

  All that thought did was make me want the one thing I’d spent my life avoiding. I’d been expected to have children, so I spurned them. Now that my choices were being dictated to me yet again, I wanted to flout the rules. But even if I did, what man would I drag to my bed in order to impregnate me? I could probably find a willing one at any bar, truck stop, or grocery store. In my experience, men weren’t picky where and with whom they planted their hot dogs. All they were looking for was a willing bun. But somehow... I didn’t want to go through this alone.

  I’d wait.

  Besides, the urge would probably pass, leaving me wondering what the hell I’d been thinking.

  The nightie was a last minute addition, after I’d peeked out the window and spied toys in the neighbor’s backyard. Nerf guns, a skateboard, and other things that would be of interest to children littered the lawn. The neighbor appeared to have a kid or two, and dancing naked through the graveyard wouldn’t earn me an ally in Haven Hollow. Witches might deify the female form, but humans most decidedly didn’t. If I were dealing with a human, they’d probably call the cops.

  The nightie curved down over my rump and covered the matching black satin underwear, fluttering around mid-thigh. With the opaque black stockings, I wasn’t even revealing that much leg. No legalities breached here.

  Despite everything, I found myself grinning at my wavering reflection in the casement windows. I’d miss the security of Crescent Circle Coven, but the worst was over now. There was nothing more they could do to me while I lived here. Hollows protected magic and monsters. Mother would have to go through the city council if she wanted to do anything about me now. I didn’t give a damn how many tales Hellcat told on me. I was here in Haven Hollow and, for the most part, free.

  With a bubbling laugh, I bounded onto the window seat, threw open the casement windows, and jumped down to the ground and into the night. The wind hoisted the nightie around my hips for an instant, frigid claws raking through my hair, lifting the waist-length ebony sheet to trail like a cloak behind me. For a suspended second, I was a raven in flight, arms outstretched like I’d take to the sky. Then my stockinged feet hit the brittle grass of the lawn and I was off, pelting for the forbidden land just beyond the border of my new home.

  Magic hung thick in Hollows—so thick the air could be hard to breathe, like the humidity of a New Orleans summer. I probably didn’t need the coating of vetiver and tonka bean extract to promote luck. I could seize just a bit of that potential from the air and shape it as I pleased.

  I bounded down the small, grassy hill, toward the boundary line between my duplex and the graveyard, pausing just before the first plot. Just a trickle of doubt stirred in my gut, as a fresh gale lifted my hair and hemline. The breeze carried whispers and caressing hands, like death itself was reaching out to touch me, promising to embrace me like a lover. And I wanted to touch it back. It almost made me tuck tail and scurry back to the house. No matter how much backbiting and politicking witches did, they were, at their core, channeling life.

  Death was not our art.

  But it was part of me now, the leprous taint of the vampire running thick in my blood. And I’d adopted vampire sight—I could see the veins in every blade of grass, read the names on every stone, and I could smell the tell-tale scent of automobile oil that undoubtedly meant my neighbor’s car was leaking.

  As a witch, I shouldn’t have been able to see or smell any of those things. But, as a Blood Witch…

  Corrupted, I told myself. You are corrupted.

  I swallowed hard.

  You should turn back, not attempt this foolishness…

  But I’d never been a quitter.

  I wanted to dance. Dance and prove I could move through this power and remain untouched by it.

  So, with a grim little grin, I tucked my phone in-between my bra strap and shoulder and pushed the wireless ear buds into my ears as I queued up a song Mother loathed.

  Frank Sinatra’s sultry voice crooned Witchcraft into my ear, and I smiled, gliding into the graveyard, trailing my fingers over the mausoleums and gravestones I passed, grinning cheekily up at the weeping angels.

  The air was cooler here, rife with the smell and taste of the dead.

  I reached higher, lifting my hands toward the moon in exultation, scooping magic gently into my palms, letting it glow like a warm ember between my spread fingers.

  I laughed, laughed for the sheer joy of holding the energy. The magic. But, not just any magic. My magic, thrumming and pulsing in and around my hands, shaping that energy into something, only to release it into the universe to do my will. And even as the truly delighted sound of my laughter filtered through the graveyard, over the melody of Sinatra in my ears, tears dewed in my eyes.

  Maybe I didn’t have to be the monster my coven feared I’d become.

  Maybe the witch power within me was enough to fend off the vampire.

  Maybe I was powerful enough to defeat the foreign blood that plagued me.

  The magic twitched, shifting and folding as I twiddled my fingers this way and that. Every witch had a gesture, some habit for casting. I liked crooked fingers and a come hither beckoning. Mother plucked at the air like she was playing a complex piece on a harp. Tabitha, Mother’s sister and Astrid’s mother, looked like she was wrestling an invisible cat. Her entire body got involved. Astrid, in a fit of irony, twitched her nose, not unlike Samantha Stevens. It was actually cute.

  Though I’d never have admitted it to Mother, I was as frightened about this new version of myself as the rest of the coven—afraid any display of power would push me into a destructive spiral. Or worse, push me into the final act of transitioning fully into a vampire, becoming one of them.

  A blood-sucking fiend.

  No. Never. I refused. I’d die first.

  I released my curved fingers, tossing the shape of my energy lightly into the air, waiting for a gust of wind to zap it with even more power so I could pull it back into me, refueling my magic batteries. Nothing happened. The energy quivered in the air for a few seconds before imploding, spitting sparks into my face. I let out a shrill cry, backing away before it could singe holes into my nightie or stockings.

  It hadn’t worked!

  “Blast!” I spluttered, staring nonplussed at the puff of smoke.

  I’d done everything the way I was supposed to. I’d had the magic in hand. I’d performed the recharging spell perfectly. Intent, incantation, issue forth. It had been well over a century since I’d had a spell backfire so spectacularly. I’d been new then, just a fumbling apprentice trying to garner even a speck of attention from Mother.

  Maybe it’s a fluke, I thought desperately, as the cold and the doubt began to creep in. The worse the panic grew, the more acutely I felt the cold dead in their graves.

  The desiccated husk of the nearest, Elizabeth Blackburn, stirred beneath the soil, raising her head from the satin pillow. I could see her in my mind’s eye, as clearly as if she were right in front of me.

  In a blind panic, I brought my hands up again, re-trying the spell. The magic coalesced once more, burning like a tiny star between my palms. It folded obediently to my will and then erupted into another shower of sparks once I released it. This time, the tiny conflagration was accompanied by a choking plume of sulfur.

  What the hell?!

  Had I done something wrong? The incantation was clear as day, the wish behind the spell ardent. Could it have been the brew I’d slathered on my hands? Had I somehow mixed up a lucky potion with a devil’s curse or evil eye oil?

  I tried the spell one last time, with similarly disastrous results, and was forced to admit defeat when the sparks actually set fire to the plastic flowers in a nearby stone vase. I hurriedly overturned the thing and beat the flames out with the vase, striking the ground long after the flames had died away.

  What was wrong with me? What was wrong with my magic?

  Was the coven responsible? Had they somehow tarnished my magic, made sure I wouldn’t be able to cast any spells?

  Or was it worse than that? Was it the vampire blood in my veins that was disallowing my witch magic?

  Traitorous tears beaded at the corners of my eyes and began to pour down my cheeks as I watched the pinkish burns on my hands, from the fizzled magic flames, fade to nothing in a matter of seconds. Evidence of the vampire’s blood inside me, tainting me, diminishing me. Making me something lesser than I used to be.

  I sheltered behind a mausoleum until I could get a handle on myself and didn’t return to the house until I was certain the tears had stopped and the redness had disappeared from around my eyes. Hellcat had no doubt observed and already reported my miserable failure to Mother. I didn’t need to add whining to my list of alleged crimes. I was a witch, not a weakling. I’d weather this trial as well.

  With some help from my dear friends, Kahlúa, and Ben and Jerry’s.

  There had to be a convenience store somewhere in Haven Hollow, and if I left now, I might be able to get there before it closed. I’d just throw a coat and a pair of slippers over the slip and…

  I crested the hill and stopped dead in my tracks, my feet crunching audibly in the brittle grass.

  There was a man lounging indolently on the bottom step of my staircase, blocking the front door. He was maybe twenty feet from me and in the darkness it was hard to make out his facial features, although the rest of him was easy enough to see.

  He was tall and dressed in men’s business casual. A pair of charcoal slacks had been tailored to show off the muscle beneath and, though I couldn’t see it from this angle, I was betting his rump was spectacular. A forest green crew-neck sweater shirt offered the same scrumptious preview of muscle just beneath the fabric. He was lean, but strong. Strong enough to entice the traitorous little part of me that liked that sort of thing.

  A witch’s place was on top in all things, as Mother would say. Never let a man roll you beneath him in any part of life. Not even in the bedroom.

  His shoulder-length hair had washed from golden to a pale silvery color in the moonlight. He seemed to glow under the light of the moon, like a statue carved out of alabaster. His face was classically handsome, broad planes, big eyes, Roman nose. When I came close enough to make out the rest of his facial features, my heart started pounding and I staggered to one side like he’d hit me with the black Escalade he’d parked next to my Vega.

  It was those eyes.

  I’d never forget those eyes.

  Flecks of malachite in his pale face, undeniably beautiful. But their warmth was false, and they were deep enough to draw you down, where you’d be devoured.