“Vampires!” others called, each right on top of one another.
“Everyone remain calm.” Lazarus made a placating gesture before moving forward, putting the rest of the coven at his back like the leader he was. “Let’s see what they want.”
That’s when Rye stepped in front of Embry. That rower’s back of his was a wall blocking her, purposefully angled to hide her from view. Embry drew in a shuddering breath and placed a palm between his shoulder blades. If these were vampires, they both knew—likely everyone knew—who they were and why they were here. Oakley’s family. Grieving, looking for answers, and demanding them of the last person to see her alive. “Rye, if they want—”
“Shhhh” was all he said before the forms broke through the trees.
Embry’s view was ruined by Rye’s protection, but he had his hands propped on his hips, giving her enough room to peer through the angles made between his elbows and rib cage.
That first day she’d met Oakley, her parents had been in the shadows. Of course, Embry hadn’t known what they were then and hadn’t even suspected as much yet. So, she wasn’t prepared for what she’d see on the approach.
A dozen people, spread out in a line. All were pale as milk between the illumination of the full moon and the firelight, beautiful in a sharp, unignorable way, and very, very angry.
“Hello there,” Daddy greeted the vampires with careful, measured respect. “My name is Lazarus Woodcross, and this is my land. If you’d be so kind as to introduce yourselves and explain why you’ve trespassed on our private Sabbath—”
“Where is the witch who murdered our daughter?”
So much for pleasantries.
The vampire demanding this of the coven was very obviously Oakley’s father. They didn’t look alike, but his presence matched Daddy’s papa bear energy in every sense of the phrase. He wore an impeccably tailored suit and bowler hat, as if he’d been dropped through the wards by a portal from a time when Prohibition was fresh.
Lazarus’s expression was mild—friendly but only enough to be disarming. It was the same look he wore in courtrooms. A big man like him could often come off as aggressive simply with a crinkle of his eyes. He had lots of practice in cracking tension by appearing nonthreatening.
“You must be Oakley’s family. We’re so sorry for your loss—it’s such a tragedy.” Daddy’s voice was tender but firm. He gesturedtoward the pentagram. “Why don’t you all come, have a seat by the fire, and we can hash out—”
“Your name is Woodcross. You’re a witch. The witch who took our daughter is named Woodcross. There’s no misunderstanding. Where is she?” Oakley’s father pointed to the first young woman in his line of sight: Van, who owned the Black Cat Coffee Shop. “Is it her?”
They clearly had not seen the video, then. Van was blond like Embry, yes, but she was also about a foot too short and a decade older. Plus, she was never without her cat’s-eye glasses. Van’s wife, Allegra, stepped in front of her beloved. The dressmaker was slight, but as sharp-edged as one of her needles and defiant. “No.”
Under his breath, Rye muttered, “Shit.”
Inadvertently, Allegra had answered what they wanted to know: The witch was here. Daddy clearly read this nuance, too. He now held up both hands. “Now, let’s—”
“Is it her?” called another, stabbing a finger at Circe Crofton.
“It’s got to be this one,” replied a female vampire, gesturing toward Ames. “She looks especially mean.”
“Hey, that’s both racist and uncalled for,” Fairfax shot back, as Ames clutched desperately at his arm, dug in her heels, and tried to stop his advance. Still, he moved forward, until Ames was at his back, and he was in line with Rye. Yet another brick wall made by the Raven’s Head rowing team and a Goddess-given protective streak.
Daddy remained calm. “I empathize with your frustration, but you must understand that you’ve trespassed on my property, looking for someone who has not yet been charged with a crime or has even officially been named a suspect. I am willing to have a conversation, but if you are only interested in accusing members of my coven, I will have to ask that you leave.”
“I am not interested in having a conversation with a man protecting a murderer,” the vampire replied, his teeth flashing, long and white in the firelight. “In fact, I believe we’re done talking to you.”
“Fine, if you say so,” Lazarus replied, taking several steps forward and approaching as if he was about to herd them toward the gate down the hill, walking them out. “Now, if—”
This time, it wasn’t a sound that cut him off—it was an absence of it.
A sprint like streaking lightning.
The flash of silver steel.
A blade buried in the coven leader’s gut.
Then all sound came rushing back. A gurgling moan wheezed into the night as Lazarus Woodcross stumbled and fell onto the grass. Embry’s whole body shuddered in a gasp as she lunged forward, squeezing through the sliver of night between Rye and Fairfax, and called out for her father.
“Daddy!”
And with that single cry, all hell broke loose.
