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“Right,” Cain said. “And no need to feel ashamed, Miss McQueen. I can’t catch it either.”
“But whoever lives here can?” I stared up at the mansion, picturing someone like Grandmere McQueen living there. My grandmother was the kind of woman most people imagined when they thought of a modern witch. She had long salt-and-pepper hair always tied back in a braid, and spent her days puttering around in the garden with her dirt-stained overalls, big sunhat, and bare feet. She looked like the kind of woman who would own a natural wellness store and smell like patchouli—though she didn’t.
Grandmere smelled of rain-moistened soil and fresh herbs.
She smelled of light magic, of healing spells and protection charms.
Memere smelled of swamp. Darkness and danger, and all the secrets people wanted to keep dead and buried. She smelled like peril.
I wondered what kind of witch would be behind those doors, and though I was imagining someone like Grandmere, my gut told me we were going to find a lesser version of La Sorcière.
Cain clapped a big hand on my shoulder and gave it an almost friendly squeeze.
“I think this is exactly where we need to be. And I’m rarely wrong about this sort of thing, you know?”
I did know.
Wilder had remained silent the whole time, but I could feel his gaze boring into me, and his disapproval of this whole arrangement was obvious without him having to say a word.
He had the pack mentality most wolves did. We should solve our problems on our own, and any outside influence would merely create more difficulty.
I had to say, in this instance I didn’t think he was wrong. But I also knew perfectly well I didn’t have a big enough umbrella to protect me from this shitstorm.
“Let’s talk to her I guess. What’s the harm in talking?”
Cain chuckled softly and opened the gate for us, then trailed behind as we approached the front porch. The steps creaked and popped as we ascended, the way all old houses seemed to. An antebellum alarm system.
It worked, because I’d barely gotten my hand on the old lion-head knocker when the black-painted front door opened.
My words of greeting got stuck halfway out my mouth. “Hel-urp.”
The witch in the doorway, haloed by the warm yellow glow from the lamps inside, was not like either of my maternal-grandmother figures.
For starters, he wasn’t a woman.
And he wasn’t old.
And he also wasn’t wearing a shirt.
I swallowed the poor attempt at words I’d been making, and it felt like a golf ball going down my throat.
The witch was about six feet tall, broad-chested with a narrow waist. He was Latino, and had a deep olive complexion and a rich tan on top of that making his skin a dark almost-copper shade. His thick black hair was shaved above his ears on both sides, revealing neat rows of runic tattoos that looked hand drawn. A single curl—damp, maybe from a recent shower—hung over his forehead and in front of his intense brown eyes.
Eyes that had never moved from me the entire time I stood in front of him.
He tilted his head, plainly aware I was appraising him, and said nothing. His whole expression was telling me, Drink it in. There was an air of confidence and certainty about him that should have been obnoxious, but was fascinating instead.
Fascinating.
“Hello,” he said finally.
I didn’t trust my words, so I nodded a greeting instead. The man’s gaze moved from me to Wilder, then landed on Cain, and his black brows came together.
“Cain.” He jerked his chin in something like a greeting. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”
He had the kind of voice that rumbled with bass. It reverberated deep in my stomach, the same way it felt to hear a lion roar.
Who was this guy?
