Page 55 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

“I don’t blame you for hating me. I lied to you. I did it because it was Lila’s last request of me, and I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m sorry, Betty. For everything.”

She opened the car door and stepped out onto the street. “I wanted so badly to save her, but I couldn’t. I won’t make that mistake with Bronwyn. I’m depending on you to find her if I can’t, Betty.”

“Margaux, don’t do this.”

“And I’ll tell you one last thing. If you need help, there’s someone you can call. He’ll hate it, but he’ll come. Tell him it’s to save Bronwyn. Tell him it was Margaux’s last request. Tell him, we’re even after this.”

“Tell who?” I whispered.

“That person is Mason Hartman.”

Chapter

Twelve

Mason Hartman. Great.

The guy’s like a burrowing snake in the woodpile that is my life.

I locked the back door of Wicked and started jogging to Ronan’s Pub. I needed a vehicle, and he had a truck. I only hoped it was there and not wherever he was.

Wherever he was.

Margaux’s feet made a crisp clicking sound as she strode to Desmond’s front door. In order to see where I was going, I’d had to minimize her in my vision, but I was listening.

“Pay close attention to every word,” she said. “Don’t miss a thing. The spell will stay active as long as I’m alive, but will go dark if I’m knocked unconscious.”

“Gods above and below, Margaux,” I said under my breath as I picked up speed. “Hold on.”

“Don’t youdarebarge in here half-cocked. I made my choice,” she said. “Listen, learn, and before you come after this witch, make sure your magic is as strong as you can possibly make it. If Desmond’s been abusing the blood magic spells in theWeret-hekauMaleficium, he doesn’t care about the state of his soul anymore. He’ll be reckless and vicious. Ten mucho cuidado.”

“You be careful, too, Margaux,” I said.

She raised her fist to the door.

Desmond Mace opened it before she could knock. He appeared crazed—his hair was greasy with sweat and his white complexion was sallow. He looked like an addict a few hours into detox. “What did you do with her?”

“Funny you should ask that, because I came to ask the same thing.” Margaux had conjured up her cold, evil stepmother voice, the one she’d used on me the day I showed up at her house.

“Where’s Maya?” he demanded.

“Where’s Bronwyn?” she countered.

I looked both ways before crossing Main Street then sprinted past Beau’s Oddities and El Rancho Grande Taco Shop. I took a shortcut down an alley, spilled out onto the street in front of the pub, and burst through the front door.

“I could kill you where you stand, witch, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Likewise,” Margaux said. “So, let’s talk.”

“Betty?” Gladys clomped around the bar and met me at the door. She wore a pub T-shirt, a skintight skirt, black tights, and rhinestone-studded black cowboy boots. Her hair was shellacked into an updo. “What’s wrong, hon? Is it Ronan?”

I wanted to cry. Yes, it was Ronan. And it was Bronwyn. And now it was Margaux.

“You should’ve run when you could,” Desmond said. “If you’re smart, you’ll do what Bronwyn wouldn’t. Tell me where my wife is.”

“And if you’ve got half the intelligence I once credited you with, you’ll tell me where Bronwyn Jonas is. Now.”

Gladys put a hand on my cheek, pulling me out of the vision. “Talk to me.”

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