“And you want me to take you there.”
“Yes.”I swallowed.“What if Aunt Alice was the one who stole them?The Fae treasures Titania’s talking about?”
“Don’t even think like that.”His tone sharpened.“She wasn’t a thief.”
“Well, she was a witch, and I didn’t know that,” I shot back.“What else don’t I know?What else did she hide?She had formulas for potions, ley lines under a hickory tree, a demon the size of a refrigerator, a fairy queen in my greenhouse—”
“Hey.”He stepped in closer, hands settling on my shoulders, his thumbs brushing lightly against my collarbones.The touch helped.A little.“One step at a time, remember?Let’s get to the antique store.Maybe my dad will have some answers.”
I let out a long breath.“Okay.One step at a time.”
We headed for the truck and this time Owen did not drive like a man promising to be gentle with someone’s royal nerves.He gunned it back toward town, the engine growling as though it shared his mood.By the time he jerked to a stop outside Charmed & Vintage, my stomach was somewhere up near my throat.
He was out of the car before I could yell at him about his driving.I scrambled after him, jogging to keep up as he beelined through the shop toward the back.
We didn’t make it.
Dougal McAllister intercepted us halfway to the storeroom, looming out from behind an armoire like a tall, stern haunted house prop.
“Owen, where have you been?”he demanded.
“Step aside, Dad.”Owen didn’t slow.
Dougal looked from his son to me and back again.I watched realization settle over his features in one slow, heavy sweep.When his gaze returned to me, his mouth flattened.“You told him.”
“I had to,” I said.“We found something in the woods.”
“What?”he pressed, crossing his arms like a barricade.
“It’s… complicated,” I said weakly.
“We have reason to believe the artifacts you’re holding were stolen,” Owen said, voice hardening.“Now I want to see them.”
“Stolen?”Shock cracked Dougal’s composure.“Alice never said anything about them being stolen.”
“She probably wouldn’t have,” I said.“She took secrets seriously.”
“You think she did it?”Dougal asked.
Owen shook his head.“We don’t know.Where are they, Dad?”
Dougal’s shoulders sagged a fraction.His arms dropped to his sides.“Follow me.”
He led us through the maze of furniture toward the back.I kept my gaze fixed on the line of his shoulders, ignoring the curious looks from customers as we slipped past carved headboards and dusty lamps.This town already thought I was the weird girl who’d inherited the flower shop.No need to add “artifact thief” to the list.
At the back of the shop, Dougal pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and selected a shiny gold one.He unlocked a metal door and swung it open, flicking on the light.
Fluorescent bulbs hummed to life, revealing a cramped storeroom packed with crates.Gun-metal gray shelving units lined the walls, sagging under the weight of box after unmarked box.
“I’ve stored them at the back here,” Dougal said, nodding toward the far corner.
We followed him through the narrow aisles until we reached a cluster of crates stacked against the wall.All different sizes.None labeled.
“This is it?”I asked.
“This is what she brought me,” Dougal replied.“I’ve never opened them.I didn’t think it was my place.”
I crouched by the nearest crate.The lid was nailed down.Of course it was.
