A small wrinkle knitted between Saga’s brows. At first she was confused by the question, then as her eyes unfocused, drifting to the side of Avery’s gaze, her expression shifted into one of deep thought. Analyzing. She took a steadying breath before looking back to meet Avery’s eyes. “The same as before. I’m certain of it.”
“May I go inside?” Another very deliberately asked question, though plainly asked.
Saga fumbled with this request, her eyes unfocusing again as the thought of going back inside sank in. She was back there, back in that moment. Avery could nearly see the scene play out in front of her companion as it must have mere minutes before the ambulance had arrived.
“Saga,” Avery spoke her name once more, firm and resonant, her voice filling each syllable and sound. It did not demand an answer. Avery could not command a mortal mind with her magic, but she could beckon it in a way that made the sound almost impossible to ignore. Much like the golden spiral of a great work of art drew attention to its center, her voice led the name’s owner back to the present, back to Avery.
It took a while—stepping away from a traumatic memory always did—but Saga lifted her eyes to Avery’s once more, her pupils contracting back into focus.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Avery assured. “But may I go inside? I’d like to investigate.”
Saga only nodded.
As hard as it had been to fully embrace her, Avery found it more difficult to release her. The cold that flooded in as she pulled away was biting and harsh. She paused, lingering in the proximity of Saga’s warmth. She busied herself by adjusting the blanket back around the other woman as if this were the reason for her hesitation. Then up the steps, through the door, and over the threshold.
Thresholds were tricky. The magic of the hearth and home had been so ingrained in cultures that most families worked protective spells aroundtheir abodes without even realizing it. It manifested when someone decorated, cleaned, and cared for the space. It strengthened as a house became a home and consequently beckoned benevolent spirits like the nisse28 to aid in its protection. Most people, magic or Mundane, could sense a proper threshold, even if they didn’t quite recognize it for what it was. It was the quality of warmth and comfort that enveloped you when you were invited in, or it was the uneasiness of being watched when you hadn’t been. This kind of protection didn’t typically outright stop burglars, especially those so desensitized to the buzzing of a violated threshold—though particularly protective house spirits had been known to activate previously deactivated alarms, gnaw holes in loot bags, and ruffle area rugs in a fashion that made one continuously trip over. A proper threshold did keep unwanted magic out, however. Mostly. Provided that unwanted magic wasn’t being deliberately and maliciously targeted. That was another story.
But the threshold of a witch was different. The magic of the home was deliberate. Incantations were sung while furniture was placed or walls painted. Nesting was merely an affectation of abjuration and each item attached to memory or sentiment added to the spiritual armor of the place.
Unwelcome magic did not easily violate the home of a witch.
As Avery stood in the entryway, she understood why Saga had been so reluctant to return. The air was cold and thick with a faint haze that smelled of gunpowder. It was a scent she often associated with evocation—the kind of magic that required brute force and power, but not necessarily focus. It had utterly ravaged the magic of the threshold. If a nisse had made a homein the in-between spaces, it was long gone, abandoning what felt like the remains of a dynamite explosion.
Yet there were no signs of the kind of aftermath channeling such powerful energies usually caused. No signs of scorch marks, or even a struggle. Absolutely nothing but a charming sitting room, with a deeply unsettling aura.
Whatever magic had happened here, it was more recent than the last, and it had violated one of the oldest laws of fey and humans in order to carry out its purpose: hospitality had been extended and subsequently betrayed. It was the kind of magic that would leave a haunting imprint long after the rest had dissipated.
Avery picked her way around the sitting room, looking for any physical anomalies. She considered asking Saga to join her—it would have been advantageous to have the perspective of someone who knew the space. But askinganyoneto reenter the place where a loved one passed so soon felt unkind. To ask an ill-protected witch back into a space so teeming with magical malcontent was cruel. Turning back to the front door, she was surprised to see the black cat had followed her.
Riddle was sitting on the threshold, ears attentive and eyes sharp.
Avery took a few testing steps to the left and back again.
The cat’s eyes followed without faltering.
“Are you keeping an eye on me?” came the incredulous inquiry.
Riddle made no indication he understood, simply watched. His gaze had an unnerving warning quality to it—as if one wrong move would send him on the attack.
Avery walked into the kitchen, finding the abandoned tea and kettle, seeing the cat move out of the corner of her eye. She turned around fully to see it now sitting in the living room, continuing to stare her down. “What is wrong with you? I am trying to provide assistance by investigating what happened here. You don’t need to protect anyone from…” Her voice trailed off as a thought dawned on her.
Witch’s home. Black cat.
Avery sank to a crouch to get a better look at the creature, noting theunnervingly intelligent eyes and the way his ears were just a tad proportionally larger than they should be. She ducked her head to catch sight of the white starlike mark at his throat, mostly hidden by his collar. Cat-sìth.29 She should have known. “You’re not a pet, are you?”
Riddle blinked at her, but it was not the slow affectionate blink of a feline to a trusted human, but rather akin to an eye roll.
“There’s no cause for rude behavior.”
The cat-sìth sniffed, indicating he had plenty cause to be rude, and stalked forward. He was small for his kind, but even at this size, Avery could see the powerful lean muscle beneath the fur ripple with every step. He moved past her into the kitchen, sat by a strange cabinet, and gave her another expectant look.
Hint taken, Avery moved to the cabinet to open it and look inside. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but she imagined something out of place, something strange, some kind of clue. What she found instead were dishes. Dishes neatly placed in a double-tiered rack. A few plates, teacups—most matched the plain white set on the table, two of them were painted bone china—and three small port glasses. Avery took out one of the port glasses and examined it carefully. No trace of wine inside, but the glass was smudged by fingertips. “What do you expect me to find here?”
Riddle growled and moved to paw at the cabinet beside it.
Unamused, Avery opened it as well, revealing a bin with a lid. She squinted skeptically at the cat-sìth, who gave an irritated “mhrnaow.” With a sigh, she lifted the lid and was greeted by the sight of rubbish. “You want me to dig through filth,” she concluded.
Another annoyed “mhrnaow.”
