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The pain in her chest grew sharper and though it hurt, she drew strength from it. It was a reminder of what she’d lost, and Rowan wouldn’t rest until Mallick paid.
The sound of a boot scuff tore her mind from the darkness, and she whirled around to face her cousin. Hannah still had the gun in her hand though it was held loosely and pointed to the ground. A couple had followed her out and stopped just shy of the steps leading to the parking lot. She waved the weapon toward them, and they didn’t hesitate. The man yelled, “crazy bitches,” as he hopped down the steps, dragging his lady behind him.
Rowan watched them slip into a faded, black, rusted Chevy and turned back to her cousin. You’re not far off, Mister.
The two women stared at each other in silence. It stretched long and thin, like a weakened spider’s weave about to snap.
Where to start? She squared her shoulders and kept her voice level. “I see you cut your hair.”
Hannah snorted. “Are we really going to do this? I told you six years ago that we were done, and I meant it. Nothing’s happened to change my mind.”
Pain, mingled with a pulse of power, surged down Rowan’s arms and settled into her hands. It was hot—white-hot—and she stretched her fingers to alleviate the stress. Or maybe it was a warning. Either way, she was done playing games.
“Cara is dead.” The words spoken were wooden, without a hint of emotion. That she kept inside. Nothing good could come of it if she unleashed her rage on Hannah.
Her cousin’s face whitened, and she took a step backward—her blue eyes wide and frozen, the pupils bleeding through with the sifting blackness of an oil spill.
“No,” she whispered. Hannah took a step toward her and faltered, her boot scraping the deck. “How?” she said hoarsely.
“Mallick, of course. Who else?”
Hannah stared at her for several long moments, tears filling the corners of her eyes, which she made no effort to wipe away. A visible shudder rolled over her body, and she clasped her arms around her chest.
“The other night I felt something but I . . .” She paused and fought for control. “I had no idea Cara was in trouble.”
Rowan leaned her hip against the railing. “Knowing my grandmother, she shielded you and the rest of the coven. She wouldn’t want you anywhere near The Black Cauldron when Mallick attacked.”
“I should have gone to her. I knew something was wrong.”
“Yes, you should have.”
Hannah’s eyes darkened with hurt, but there was something else there. Accusation.
Rowan shook her head and looked away. Hannah was right. “I should have been there, too.” The fist of pain in her chest tightened even more, and Rowan leaned both her hands on top of the railing. God, she felt like shit.
Two scuffed-up boots stopped beside her, and though Rowan wanted nothing more than to hug her cousin tight and cry for all things lost, she couldn’t. There was no time.
“How has it come to this?” she whispered instead.
A rumble in the distance signaled a turn in the weather, underscored by a sudden gust of wind that blew thick ropes of her hair into the air. The sun disappeared, and her chilled flesh gave credence to the quick drop in temperature.
“Rowan.”
Rowan stared down at the wandering vines that crept along the foundation of the Brick House. The edges were no longer green but crap brown, ruined from cold nights and the blankets of frost that accompanied them. She didn’t know what to say and needed a moment to collect her thoughts.
“Rowan, please look at me.”
I can’t.
She took a moment, gathered her strength, then carefully pushed away from the railing before turning to Hannah.
“I’m sorry,” her cousin whispered, bottom lip tremulous though she managed to keep her voice steady. “So, sorry.”
Rowan nodded. “I know.”
“Six years ago—”
“I can’t talk about that, Hannah,” Rowan interrupted. “It’s in the past and right now those ghosts need to stay there. There’s no time for stuff that doesn’t matter anymore.” How could she make her understand? “A war is coming our way, and we need to prepare.”
