My voice dies down. “I grew up, Aunt Kerri.”
I had to, I want to add, but that’s harsh. Kerri lived through hell, too, yet she never assimilated into the mortal world. Maybe because she lived in Faerie too long, or maybe because she’s a full-blooded Fae.
“If you really want to keep your fiancé in the dark, you should stop calling me Aunt Kerri. Better smooth out that habit beforethe wedding,” she finally says. “Can I be your fun, outrageous younger sister?”
I blink at her a few times. “Pluh-ease.You still look older than me.”
“Not for much longer,” she answers with a wink.
“Fine. You can be my well-behaved,quiet,fake sibling.”
She chuckles in victory, clearly delighted by my grumpiness.
Kerri looks to be in her late twenties forever, while I’m catching up fast. Give it a few years, and I’ll be the one who has to pass as her elder. She’s Mabel’s daughter, which technically makes her my sister by adoption, but she’s a few centuries older than me, so Aunt Kerri always made more sense.
Mabel raised me and my twin, Nickolas, but always insisted that we shared no blood with her, and we never called her Mom. We already had a mother, and a wonderful one at that. Before the Reds killed her.
I motion to Kerri’s neck. “I’m counting on you to glamor away that tattoo.”
The dark shape of a snarling wolf marks her clavicle and curls up her neck, teeth bared in permanent warning.
She pouts. “Where’s the fun in that?”
A heavy sigh escapes me. “What will Lachlan’s family think of us? A bunch of redheads with an addiction to tea? His mother already hates me…”
Kerri wraps an arm around my shoulders, leaning her head against mine for a brief moment. “Sweetie, mothers-in-law were put on this earth to battle the young women who seduce away their sons—especially when they’re as beautiful as you, and a literal witch.”
I click my tongue. “I didn’t steal Lachlan away with a spell.”
“I knowyoudidn’t enchant him, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t,” she chimes.
I hike up my left sleeve, revealing the mark near the bend of my elbow—the brand of the Bloodraven coven that summoned me home. The skin is still raised and a deep burgundy color, meaning Mabel hasn’t changed her mind about our meeting, but it isn’t black, which would signal imminent danger.
“Shouldn’t Mabel be home by now?” I grumble.
“Yes, and she must have something vital to share, or she wouldn’t have summoned us both. I was on official coven duty in Culloden when the mark started to itch,” Kerri says.
The kettle whistles, and her lips purse as she opens an empty tea tin. “Bollocks, there’s no angelica left.”
I pick up the gardening scissors and a knitted shawl from the coat rack near the French patio doors. “I’ll get some from the gardens.”
Kerri bites down on her tongue. “Ew. Fresh Angelica is too bitter.”
I pat her arm before heading outside. “I don’t mind the taste. I’ve been drinking Angelica-infused tea my whole life.”
The smell of damp soil and crushed mint wafts through the air as I move along the narrow path leading to the back of the garden. Plants spill over the edges, brushing against my legs, a few twigs catching in my skirt. The garden is busy and overgrown, but familiar, every plant in its place.
TheAngelica archangelicais tall and easy to spot above the overcrowded beds. At two meters, it towers over the sprigs of meadowsweet,Filipendula ulmaria, and elderflower,Sambucus nigra. Its stems are thick and hollow under my hand, ridged and a little sticky. The broad leaves are smooth on top and slightly rough underneath, leaving a green scent on my fingers. I cut off a purplish stalk with the scissors, and the air fills with its strong, bitter tang. I know these plants by heart. The ones I can’t use, given my non-existent talent for blood magic, I can at least care for, and the garden has always been my sacred place.
The powerful late-autumn breeze plucks the last leaves of the rowan tree towering above.
Long strings of mist rise from the earth.
Fog is a familiar sight in Inverness—whether it’s the steamy kind that forms when cold air meets warm water, upslope fog along the mountains, or the winter fog that rolls in when it gets really, really cold. But this… This is new.
The silver gleam of the suspended droplets distracts me from my task, and I pause to examine the eerie, almost tangible strands that have suddenly invaded my garden. They coalesce into a cloud, erasing anything beyond the property gates from my vision, and my hand cramps around the gardening scissors.
The porch light switches on.
