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Chapter One
The last time I sat in this booth, I’d been a scared sixteen-year-old with nowhere to run. The cheap vinyl seat had stuck to the back of my thighs that day as well. Of course, sliding back into a life I’d outgrown should be uncomfortable.
A decade later, the same farmers sat at the center table, huddled over steaming white coffee cups while they complained about the price of a bushel of corn. A middle-aged waitress with tired eyes and a strained smile still made the rounds for refills. Even the décor was the same, the pheasant-themed photographs a tribute to big city hunters who tipped far better than the locals.
The only thing that seemed to have changed in the time I’d been away was me. Back then, I’d been another small-town South Dakota girl planning prom dresses and college visits. Now, I was a killer with a score to settle—even if I didn’t look like it.
I was the kind of woman others thought of as the girl next door. When people met me, they rarely saw past the rosy cheeks, petite build, and strawberry blond hair. In my line of work, that served me well. No one expected a Pomeranian on a junkyard chain. They never guessed I was a Shadow, trained to observe, infiltrate, and eliminate supernatural targets on the Enclave’s command.
I didn’t choose the job, but I was damned good at it.
To ensure I passed for a fresh-faced college girl this morning, I’d donned frayed denim shorts and a South Dakota State t-shirt with a cartoon jackrabbit on it. I borrowed both from my mother’s closet. Other than peach lip gloss, I hadn’t bothered with makeup. The goal was to look as wide-eyed and naïve as the day I left. I took another bite of my scrambled eggs and got into character.
“Olivia Monroe?” A woman with short, permed hair and an embroidered shirt paused at my booth. “As I live and breathe, it is you.”
I shouldn’t have lingered over the eggs. “Mrs. Larson, it’s good to see you,” I lied.
Betty Larson lived a quarter mile down the road from my parents. My mother had forced me into three hellish years of piano lessons with the woman before I was old enough for after-school activities to crowd them out. The only thing that gave Betty Larson a bigger boner than her piano was a good comeuppance.
“Your mom said you were coming, but I didn’t believe her.” She huffed. “How long has it been since you’ve visited your poor mother?”
“Ten years.” My voice was flat, but I forced a polite smile.
If Mrs. Larson noticed my lack of enthusiasm, she didn’t let on. “It’s a real shame.” She shook her head and sighed. “You had so much potential.” She said it as if I were a personal disappointment to her.
Maybe I was. There was a time when I’d been the coven darling. Yankton was home to a small but tight-knit community of witches, including Betty Larson and my mother. I’d been a rapt student from the age of thirteen when I’d begun my training. From memorizing incantations to meticulously crafting potions, I’d soaked up every bit of magical knowledge the elders shared with me. Back then, the coven took as much pride in my accomplishments as I had.
Then came my fall.
If the coven had guessed I was a fire elemental, they would’ve been even more disappointed to lose me. But at sixteen, my power had just started manifesting. Most witches could only harness small amounts of magic from the four elements—earth for potions, air for incantations and wards, water for divination, and fire for focus. Elemental witches were as rare as they were powerful because they could tap into a single element at a much deeper level. Earth elementals were the most common and fire the rarest. Although none of them knew it, I was the coven’s first elemental—one of the strongest fire elementals alive, in fact.
Betty Larson’s lips turned down as she studied me. “Such a shame,” she repeated.
I took a drink of my scalding hot coffee, letting the burn numb my tongue before I said something I’d regret. I’d be gone in a week, but my mother would have to listen to all my shortcomings long after I left. I changed the subject. “How are you? Still teaching piano lessons?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Larson looked insulted. She tilted her head. “So, what finally brought you home?”
Home. That illusion was shattered along with my freedom the night I was taken away in magic-canceling handcuffs, my coven not meeting my eyes. They hadn’t known where I was taken that night. They still didn’t. As far as my coven and parents knew, I’d served a year in a cushy group home for troubled young witches before landing a job singing on a cruise ship. The notion was ridiculous. But thanks to a passable singing voice and a community eager to wash their hands of me, no one had questioned the cover.
Mrs. Larson frowned, scanning me from head to toe. “I suppose you’re here for the reunion."
“Reunion?”
She let out an exaggerated sigh. “Your ten-year high school reunion this weekend.”
I cringed before I could catch myself. “God, no.”
At her pinched expression, I remembered that she was the self-appointed high school reunion coordinator. Ten year, twenty year, fifty year—didn’t matter—if it involved paper streamers and crappy punch, Betty Larson was going to be in the thick of it.
I downed the last of my coffee. “I’m just here to catch up with an old friend.” It would be a reunion of sorts, just not the kind she would organize.
Mrs. Larson squinted at me, probably mentally running down the list of the friends I hung out with as a teenager. I smothered the urge to laugh. My so-called friends were all too happy to turn their backs on me. Not that it would have made a difference even if they hadn’t.
“A friend, you say. Who might that be?” she asked.
“No one you know.” I didn’t wait for her to object and play guess-the-friend. I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and slid out of the booth, forcing Mrs. Larson to take a step back. “It was good to see you. But if you’ll excuse me, I have some errands to run.”
I ordered an assortment of kolaches and an extra-large coffee to go. Then, I headed to the hardware store across the street. The old man working the cash register didn’t so much as blink at my selection—a sturdy metal gas can, a roll of duct tape, a utility knife, heavy-duty black contractor trash bags, and sixteen feet of welded steel binder chain. I hummed to myself as I packed everything in the trunk before swinging by the gas station to fill up.
