Page 66 of Uncharmed

Annie inhaled deeply and a small, shy smile tugged up one side of her lips.

She let out a satisfied sigh. ‘That felt good.’

Romily carefully rose to her feet, a disgusted, thunderous look in her eyes as she stumbled in her broken heels and ruined, shredded dress.

‘Ew!’ Harmony shouted.

‘You lunatic!’ Vivienne screeched.

‘You could have killed me, Annie!’ Romily yelled, livid.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic, darling?’ Annie asked, smiling. ‘It’s just a little bit of a mess. You can fix this one for yourselves.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

MAGIC ALIGHT

Leaving everybody else to pick up the pieces, entirely literally, Annie gathered up her skirts and tore through the ballroom. She pushed aside Sorciety members and Heralds alike, for once with no regard for their opinion, no concern for what they thought as she ran in a blur of pink, smudged make-up and tousled hair. They would get over it. In a century or two. In fact, Annie knew all too well that the spellborn would be delighted to have more gossip about the Wildwoods to gorge on; the older matters were starting to grow stale. It was exactly what they had been waiting for, another chance to undo her seams like a ragdoll, and she was happy to oblige if it meant she never had to return to their greedy hold again.

Annie emerged from the Tempest Theatre and stumbled into torrential, bone-soaking rain. It fell in relentless sheets across the blur of Richmond Park. The Samhain Ball always brought fierce storms with it, the result of so much concentrated, high-level magic in one confined space. In previous years, she had revelled in the enchantment of it all, hypnotized by the feeling of being swept up in stardust, but tonight Annie couldn’t leave it all behind quickly enough. Billowing, glittering skirts trailed in her wake as she tore through the park and through the storm, traipsing a pathway of mud behind her until she had run far enough that she could be confident no one was following.

She took a moment to catch her breath. Despite herself, a longstanding, deeply rooted part of her had still hoped that Romily might be running right behind, ready to spin her around and tell her what a terrible mistake she’d made by abandoning her for the others, how she should have chosen Annie all along. But that would never come. And it wasn’t what she really longed for. Neither the apology, nor the sorry excuse for a friendship mattered.

Her heart had a home already. There were two people who had chosen her.

Annie fell against a stout oak tree and took shelter under its sprawling, knotted branches, a respite from the rain that was starting to flood the park. Her dress was sopping wet, her hair clinging to her face in ribbons, water droplets falling from her eyelashes and between her lips. She gasped for breath, wiping her face with the back of her hand that was equally soaking. She hadn’t considered when she’d burned all of her bridges back there in such a vehement blaze that she would need a next move. She hadn’t been thinking very much at all, until now.

She had to get to Maeve and keep her safe from what she now knew for certain was bad news. But for that she would need help.

Annie knew exactly where she wanted to go. The problem was . . . Well, there were several problems, but the most pressing was that she had no real idea of how to get there. Normally, transference required at least coordinates or a fixed location in mind, but Morena had never quite explained exactly where to find it. Annie could only hope that her magic would take the lead and complete a rather rickety transferral spell on her behalf.

A lightning bolt streaked its way across the night sky, a brilliant, definite white line. She had to be quick. It wasn’t safe to be out in the open. Annie stepped back into the rain, tilting her head to feel the cold fall onto her face.

She called out into the air. ‘Please, please. Magic, if you’re listening. I need help. I need help,’ she repeated, adjusting to the sound of the unfamiliar words. ‘Take me to Arden Place. Please.’ Annie could barely hear herself over the sound of the pouring rain slamming onto the treetops, even though she was shouting. ‘I have to go home.’

She should have known that she could always trust her own magic. A witch’s instinct was one of her greatest assets. Not only could hers fix things for others, but it could fix things for her, too. Annie felt her feet lift from the sodden ground, so wet and slippery that they slid right out of the crystal high heels that she had carefully selected for the ball. In the middle of the storm, the pink witch, alone in the park, vanished. Only the shoes remained behind, then a bright bolt of lightning struck them so precisely that they shattered.

Annie collapsed in a heap of soaked tulle, the weight of the water-logged skirts sending her balance askew. She huffed, shoving her hair out of her face and finding a streak of black mascara across the back of her hand when she pulled it away. This was all highly unglamorous and not how she would have imagined this moment occurring. Not that she had dared to let herself picture ever coming back.

There was the cottage across the meadow, just as she had left it, although distinctly more rain-soaked tonight, the wet grass clinging to her skirts and leaving filthy sketches on the tulle. A plume of determined smoke rose through the chimney despite the rain, the scent of burning firewood just about noticeable against the damp outdoors. Annie tried to decide whether that was a silhouette she could see behind those damned gingham curtains. Now that she had brought herself here, magic ablaze, the anger and passion was diluting to uncertainty. Fear that this had been the wrong idea. Because if it was, she wasn’t sure what came next. There was only one place that she wanted to find herself, that might be a safe enough place to try to put her heart back together and begin again.

Cautiously, she made her way to the porch, trudging her torn dress through the mud. Towards the golden glow that was radiating through the window panes, reflecting on each rain drop like the meadow’s own sparks of magic. A lighthouse, guiding her to safety after being lost at sea for such a long time. She felt detached from her body, could feel her bare feet sinking into the wet earth, sending splashes up her legs, and then the firm, familiar smoothness of the porch planks beneath her toes. The sound of the beating rain had grown louder, resounding against the thatched roof. She reached the front door, took a fortifying single breath and held it.

She was here. She was real.

It felt as though the world had stopped spinning as she raised a hand to knock.

Before she had the chance, the door flew open.

Her voice cracked. ‘I had to come home.’

The moment hung between them, as though the universe had glitched, like the air itself had become a solid thing that couldn’t be moved and was waiting for them to decide what came next.

‘You belong here, you know,’ he said quietly.

Annie nodded. ‘I know.’

Hal took a step towards her. Lit by the pearlescent moon behind the rain and the warm glow that tumbled out of the cottage, he moved slowly, to hold her face tenderly between his hands. She saw him swallow, his jaw visibly tense as he gently cupped her chin, lifting her face a fraction to meet his in the light, as though he had just uncovered a great treasure that he didn’t quite trust to be real. Where he touched her, a crackle of his bronze magic sparked and hissed as it made contact with the rain. Backlit in the doorway, Annie could see his pulse hammering at the base of his throat. His breathing had turned heavy, chest rising and falling underneath his soft linen shirt. Another burst of visible, physical magic surged between them, sparks leaping from his bare skin onto hers and her own reciprocating, leaving behind tiny bursts of smoke and heat, embers in the rain.