Page 1 of Knot His Type

Chapter One

Claire

If it’s a good month, it happens only a few times. When it’s a bad month? It can happen every damn night.

They come to my house, a small bungalow just outside the downtown Mystic Springs area. In the dead of night, they knock on my front door, never realizing what brought them to my doorstep. If they realized why they were here, they’d use the back door.

Or they wouldn’t come at all.

They all want one thing. They want me to hurt someone. Once they cross the little sidewalk that borders the lawn of my house, they’re lost to the pull of magic. It’s a phenomenon most witches don’t even understand. And the only thing the humans who wind up on my doorstep understand is that their heart is hurting.

Or that they’re scared. Or sometimes, they’re just angry.

If they knew what it was they were asking me to do, they would run screaming into the night. And then, they would gather their pitchforks, once again cross that sidewalk and drag me to be burned at the stake, just as so many of my brothers and sisters have been throughout the ages. It only takes a few people realizing what we are and getting scared.

The flow of people to my door always gives me a good indication of how far Mystic Springs is in the shitter at any given moment. When I get through an entire week and not one human comes knocking at my door? Those are the times when the police scanner doesn’t buzz so often.

The summer months are always the worst. Perhaps it’s the heat of the day driving people to madness or just that feeling of invincibility that comes with all that sunshine.

Right now, however, it’s fall. The temperatures haven’t dropped below that range where everyone prefers to stay huddled inside, but they’re just cool enough to freeze out some of the crazy.

The people who come to my door come from all walks of life. Rich businessmen. Tired housewives. Bullied kids.

But the ones who always get to me - the ones who I can never turn away - are the women. Not just any women. It’s the ones who stand on my doorstep looking up at me wide-eyed and haunted as soon as I crack open the door.

Like the one currently standing on my front step.

She’s not much taller than me. Her hair is an explosion of strands that’s been quickly pulled up into a messy bun. This is not one of those carefully created topknots that’s supposed to look messy. This is the work of a woman who had to get out quickly.

I’ve seen this woman numerous times on my front step. Each time, she has a different name. She can be tall or short, skinny or plump. Her skin may be light or dark and her eyes have been every shade between hazel and brown.

But the look in her eyes? It’s always the same.

The logical side of my brain tells me I should turn away everyone who comes to my door in this state. Usually, I do.

But not with these women. I can never look away.

Because I know, perhaps better than most, what it feels like to be cornered.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” the woman said.

“That’s okay because I do.”

And like the glutton for punishment that I am, I stepped aside and invited the woman into my home.

* * *

The story is alwaysthe same. At first, he seemed pretty decent. There were, of course, red flags popping up all over the place. Unfortunately, those flags were only visible in the rearview mirror.

In the beginning, she had only seen love. Or that was what she wanted to see. The thing about love, it seemed, real or not, is that it turns everything gray-scale except for those parts you want to see. The insults become a dark shade of gray while the sweet nothings blaze a bright, beautiful red.

At least, that was my understanding of love. Just before my mate rejected me eight years ago, I’d had the briefest glimpse of what it felt like to fall head over heels in love. And I knew that if he’d given me half a chance, I would have followed that feeling right into the depths of hell.

I could still feel that want and need thrumming in the background of my life, like an itch I could never quite reach.

My mate, on the other hand, had apparently found a way to rid himself of that feeling.

Good for him.

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