Page 44 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

Maya’d had her autonomy stripped away from her in a terrible way. She was fragile and broken. Betraying the cautious trust she’d placed in me seemed a deeply wrong thing to do.

So, I’d sit with my curiosity a little while longer. And tomorrow morning, I’d ask her to show me what was inside the bag and respect her wishes if she decided not to.

Being a witch with ethics really sucked sometimes.

A little past midnight found me showered and in pajamas. I’d fluffed up the pillows on Mom’s old bed—mybed—and was under the covers reading the magic tome Beau had loaned me. I was still wound up from the excitement of the night and sleep was playing a crafty game of hide and seek with me.

I glanced at my cell charging on the nightstand. I hadn’t heard from either Margaux or Bronwyn, which was odd. Though it wasn’t unheard of for a coven meeting to last until the early morning hours, or even longer if they were casting a difficult spell, so there was no reason to worry.

“There’s nothing you can do about it. Leave it, Betty,” I kept telling myself.

But I wasn’t listening.

Fennel let Maya into the house sometime after dawn. I heard them come in. I’d been dozing, but deep sleep had evaded me. I still hadn’t heard from the witches.

Maya went directly into my old bedroom—I’d set it up for her earlier in the evening—and closed the door. Fennel sprang onto my bed and threw his body against my hip twice before curling into a fuzzy black ball and drifting off to sleep.

“Thanks for bringing her back,” I whispered. “Did the rats go home?”

“Mreow,” he murmur-meowed, which I took to mean both “you’re welcome” and “yes, they did.”

I managed to fall back to sleep and woke at seven a.m. with a crick in my neck and a cat on my chest.

“Me-ow.” He smacked me across the cheek with his paw. Claws retracted, thank goodness.

“What the heck, Fennel?” I sat up, and he leapt onto the other side of the bed and paced. His purr was too loud to be soothing and his ears were plastered to his head.

Wide awake now, I jumped out of bed and ran to Maya’s room. Threw open the door.

She was sound asleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady, even rhythm.

I caught the door before it hit the opposite wall and woke her. Quietly closed it.

“If it’s not Maya, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He pointed a paw at the door then stomped his feet while I grabbed a sweater and slipped into a pair of rubber slides I kept by the door. It was early May, and Smokethorn was warming up, but it was still chilly in the mornings.

I chanted a shielding spell I’d found in one of the magic books last night, keeping it at the ready in case I needed it. Fennel didn’t alert to just anything. What I was about to face was either dangerous or important to him in some way, and I was betting on the former.

With the spell spooling in my consciousness, I opened the front door. There was no one on my porch. From the corner of my eye, I saw Cecil dart out from behind a cluster of dandelions on the lawn. Fennel and I followed.

The gnome stopped at Red’s grave and peered over one of the stones surrounding it. He chittered and pointed to a pile of black clothing on the ground.

Not clothing. A person. A familiar person.

“Margaux?”

Ten feet from the mailboxes, just a foot or so from where my old trailer had been, lay Margaux Ramirez. Next to her was a pool of vomit that she appeared to be continuously adding to.

She lifted her head, her chin trembling, eyes glazed with pain. “Your magic is stronger now.”

“Compared to what?”

Margaux leaned over and threw up again. She swiped a hand over her mouth. “The last time I was here—and before she died.”

Mentioning Mom was a dumb thing for Margaux to do, and she had to know it. Fennel weaved around my legs in an attempt to ground me. We’d done this last night with magic, but now it seemed more like he was comforting me rather than helping me prep for a spell.

“Lila told me about you.” She heaved but didn’t throw up. “Everything. I know everything.”

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