“I need to talk to Isabella. Only Isabella.” The older woman pushes up on her tiptoes and finally spots me, standing slightly inside the house in the foyer. Her almond-colored eyes widen. “Isabella! Please! I need to… I can’t find…”
Tears rush down her cheeks as tremors rock her frail body.
I carefully squeeze my way between Hale and Gerry until I’m standing directly in front of the trembling woman.
“Can you give us a second?” I ask my foster fathers, not lifting my gaze from hers.
I don’t even have to see them to know they’re exchanging a glance over my head.
“We’ll be just inside. Call if you need us,” Hale informs me.
Gerry seems reluctant but follows Hale inside, leaving the door wide open.
I can’t help but wonder if they know the truth about Mrs. Harthorne’s past. If they know that she was once a Hunter who killed shifters like them.
But if they knew, why did they let her live? Is it because her mind is so shattered that she doesn’t pose a threat anymore? Some other reason?
I would never wish to see harm befall her, though, despite her past. She’s Ansel’s mother, for fuck’s sake, and I know he still loves her fiercely, even if he hates what she did.
I fold my arms over my chest and study her intensely, trying to ignore the blistering wrath scalding my insides. I have to continually remind myself that she’s Ansel’s mom—well, adoptive mom. Though I’m not sure that term really applies to her, since she kidnapped him when he was a baby.
“You’re here about Ansel, aren’t you?” I ask, my tone glacial.
Her expression falls—that’s the only word I can think to describe it. I physically see her lips droop and her eyelids lower as she sucks in a deep, shaky breath. Her fingers curl into fists before straightening out and smoothing down the sides of her crumpled sweatpants.
“They took him, didn’t they?” Her voice, rife with pain, is practically a whisper.
I don’t need to ask her to clarify who “they” are. There’s only one group of people who would be desperate enough to get their hands on him.
The same people she stole him from in the first place.
“Yes,” I respond simply, and she releases a jagged exhale that almost sounds like a sob.
Her face drains of all color, making the purple under her eyes stand out prominently—a testament to the fact that she hasn’t been sleeping.
“He told you about what I did, didn’t he?” Again, she phrases it as a question, but I have a feeling she already knows the answer.
At my nod, Mrs. Harthorne twists away from me like she’s in physical pain.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispers. “I had to protect him.”
“From the evil witches?” My upper lip curls, though I try to stifle my anger, reminding myself repeatedly that Ansel still loves her, that she has changed.
Still, I can’t help but wonder…how many supernaturals has she killed over the years?
“From Delaney.” She takes a single step towards me, her eyes wide and earnest.
Hearing my aunt’s name causes panic to claw at my gut and icy-cold fingers of dread to creep down my spine. This isn’t the first time Mrs. Harthorne has mentioned her.
“Why would you need to protect Ansel from Delaney?” My heart begins to pound even faster in my chest, each consecutive thump threatening to batter my rib cage.
Delaney isn’t Ansel’s mother, is she? Because that would mean Ansel is my…
Nope. Not going there.
The mere thought makes bile crawl up my throat.
Oblivious to the direction my thoughts headed down, Mrs. Harthorne begins to pace. “You don’t understand! You just… You don’t get it. You don’t know what she’s capable of. She’s not a good person. She’s a wicked, wicked witch. She’s…”
