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The doors and windows crashed open. Wind blew the fire back, dampening it down in the hearth. Inside a heartbeat, the atmosphere grew smoky.
“Happy now?” he snapped at Cain.
Cain’s hands were back in his pockets, a nonchalant look on his face. People herded away from the fireplace, confusion reigning over what had happened. Tom Cadell, the landlord, was out and clearing up the charred logs from the hearth, fussing over the people who were nearby the incident, offering them a drink on the house.
“Grayson?”
It was Zoë’s voice, and his heart sank when he turned and saw the expression on her face, the accusation and confusion was there in her eyes. She’d seen the whole thing. She knew that he was a witch, too.
“Oh, didn’t she know?” Cain said mockingly, as he observed the pair of them.
Zoë looked from one of them to the other, her expression filled with wariness and betrayal.
That was the last straw.
“Get out of my way.” Grayson pushed Cain as he approached, because all he wanted to do was get rid of him and talk to Zoë, to draw her back and wipe away the shock and disappointment he saw in her eyes.
Tom, the landlord, was on his feet and in between them in a flash, urging them toward the door. “Okay, fellas, if you’re going to fight take it outside.”
Grayson forced himself to take his eyes off his target, and that’s when he saw Zoë turning away from him. Not before he registered the look on her face—a look that made him hate what he was, and what it made him do.
Zoë’s stomach balled, her head spinning. Backing away, she turned and stumbled through the dance floor, then headed for the exit beyond.
She’d seen it with her own eyes—the way Cain had moved his hands like a conjuror, and the spilled drink, Grayson’s expression when he was shoved by nothing at all. As they sparred, his eyes had changed color and shone silver, just as they had on their first night together.
Then the flames had shot high behind him. They framed him for an instant, and her heart had nigh on stopped, fearing for his life. His subsequent reaction had taken her breath away. Like a magician, he had countered Cain’s move. The very same accusation he’d used against them—a supposed warning no less—and there he was practicing magic as well.
Her hands were shaking, her legs wobbly under her, but she managed to find her way into a lobby at the back of the hall. There was a door to the outside on the right, and it stood open. Lights illuminated a stone path that meandered into the forest. On her left was the ladies’ cloakroom.
She stumbled through the door and stood at the sink—hands on the cool porcelain to ground her—and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale and her mouth was dry. Fear and betrayal shone in her eyes.
She turned on the tap and splashed her face with water, drinking from the cup of her hand. There was no denying it now, she’d been forced to believe by what had happened before her very eyes. When Grayson had said Cain and his lot were practicing witches, he meant it. And he knew that because he was one as well.
Lifting her head, she ran her damp fingers through her hair, forcing herself to breathe slower to regain her equilibrium. How could he? And yet it explained so much. As she stared at her own wild eyes, she also realized that she would never, ever forget how bloody sexy he’d looked, standing there with his arms lifted, eyes flashing silver and his hair blowing in the powerful wind he’d conjured. She couldn’t deny that she’d been impressed—aroused, too—by his display of power. Guilt had shone in his eyes when he realized she was there, that was true, but he couldn’t deny it. He should have told her, and she felt like a fool for not figuring it out earlier.
Magic exists, get used to it. She snorted at herself then grew thoughtful again. Can I really accept it? Maybe.
If she could, was it because of the invisible friend who walked alongside her or was it her involvement with Grayson? Or was it because she was good old Zoë Daniels, the reliable PA who could cope with anything you threw at her? Her boss always said she’d be the last one standing if war broke out in the office.
When she reached for a paper towel from the dispenser, the door opened and someone else entered the cloakroom. It was Elspeth. She was dressed entirely in black, her chestnut hair loose and glossy. The dress she wore was similar to her own, close-fit, but she wore it with knee-length leather boots.
Zoë dried her hands, tossed the paper towel into the wastebasket. Her thoughts untangled and then drifted back to that strange vision she’d had when she was with Cain, on her first night in Carbrey. Was Elspeth involved in this?
“Men, huh?” Elspeth said.
Zoë hadn’t even realized she was in the pub, but she had obviously witnessed the whole thing as well.
Elspeth sidled over and stood right up beside her, hip to hip, looking at her reflection alongside Zoë’s in the mirror.
“They’re always fighting over territory like gnarly old tomcats.” She chuckled to herself as if it was just a tasty piece of local gossip.
Was she one of them, a witch? Was the whole village riddled with supernatural secrets? “You knew about him when I came here, didn’t you? When you introduced us in the post office you knew that he practiced witchcraft back then, that’s why you were annoyed about him. It’s not just about research and his book, is it?”
Elspeth shrugged casually. “I wasn’t sure. I suspected it, but it’s hard to get a handle on him when he’s only around here occasionally.” She spoke as if they were chatting about some inane topic, not the fact they were all stalking each other and casting spells at will.
“His guard has been down somewhat,” Elspeth added, “since you’ve been around.”
The comment made Zoë feel emotional and unsteady. Was it meant to? And why did her chest ache? I care about him. If only he’d explained all this. He’d had her trust. “What is it you want from me? To know about Annabel?”
