Chapter 7
SEVEN
R ainbow light danced across the polished wooden tables of Witch’s Brew Café, cast by enchanted crystals dangling in the bay windows. The morning sun caught their facets, sending prismatic patterns spinning across walls adorned with floating teacups and animated artwork.
Rich aromas layered the air—freshly ground coffee beans blessed under the full moon, pastries pulled moments ago from ovens that never burned anything (unless they sensed someone was having a particularly bad day and needed slightly singed comfort food), and Romi’s latest experimental brew, which seemed to be emitting sparkles and a scent like summer rain.
Clover sank deeper into the plush velvet booth, letting the familiar magic of her cousin’s café wash over her. A fairy light floated past, carrying a tray of delicate porcelain cups that chimed soft musical notes when they clinked together.
“Incoming!” Romi’s voice rang out as she navigated between the tables with practiced grace. She carried an enormous tray loaded with steaming mugs, each one garnished with what appeared to be tiny, edible butterflies crafted from sugar and starlight. “One rose-petal cappuccino with extra sparkles for my favorite candle-making cousin, one lavender dream latte for our resident troublemaker?—”
“I resent that accusation,” Sabine Katz interjected, grinning as she accepted her drink. “I prefer the term ‘chaos coordinator.’“
“—and my latest creation.” Romi set down a swirling, iridescent concoction that smelled like midnight gardens and possibility. “I call it the Moonflower Mocha. It makes you temporarily speak in rhyme, but only happy ones.”
“That explains why I heard Mrs. Wellby reciting poetry about her cat this morning,” Clover mused, watching one of her sugar butterflies take tentative flight before dissolving in a shower of sweetness over her cappuccino.
“Speaking of poetry...” Sabine leaned forward, her honey-blonde hair catching the light as her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Let’s talk about my brother’s rather impressive display of destruction in your shop a few days ago. I haven’t seen him that flustered since his college graduation speech when he accidentally thanked his ‘fellow felines’ instead of his ‘fellow students.’“
“He did not!” Clover’s laugh escaped before she could stop it.
“Oh yes.” Sabine’s grin widened. “The tiger was so close to the surface that day, he slipped up. The whole pride was in the audience trying not to howl with laughter. Mother was mortified, but grandmother thought it was hilarious.”
“Almost as hilarious as watching him knock over your entire mood-matching display,” Romi added, sliding into the booth beside Clover. “Those candles knew exactly what they were doing, by the way. I’ve never seen such deliberately romantic chaos.”
“It wasn’t romantic,” Clover protested. “It was...”
“Magical?” Sabine suggested innocently.
“Destiny?” Romi wiggled her eyebrows.
“A disaster,” Clover finished firmly, but her traitor lips curved upward. “Though I suppose it could have been worse.”
“Oh, honey.” Sabine set down her latte, eyes dancing. “It’s about to get so much worse. In the best possible way.” She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out what appeared to be a contract. “How much would it take?”
Clover blinked. “How much what?”
“Money. Resources. Magical artifacts. Name your price to date my brother.”
“Sabine!”
“What? Most people have to pay women to keep them away from men. I’m willing to fund this romance because watching him pine after you is both adorable and slightly pathetic.” She tapped the contract. “I even had it drawn up by the pride’s lawyers. Very official.”
Romi peered at the document. “Is that a clause about mandatory date nights?”
“With a sub-clause about proper romantic lighting and minimum requirements for meaningful eye contact.” Sabine nodded seriously. “I’m very thorough.”
“You’re both impossible.” Clover tried to glare, but it was difficult when she was fighting laughter. “And I don’t need incentives to?—”
“To what?” Romi pounced on her hesitation. “To spend time with the incredibly attractive alpha who keeps finding excuses to visit your shop? Who, according to certain sources—” she nodded at Sabine “—has been asking very specific questions about Weaver’s Botanicals?”
“He’s probably just researching local vendors for his new medical spa,” Clover said, but even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “It makes sense to source locally.”
“Right.” Sabine rolled her eyes. “Because billion-dollar CEOs always personally inspect small-town shops. Multiple times. Making adorably awkward small talk about candle scents while trying not to stare at the owner like she’s personally responsible for hanging the moon and stars.”
“He doesn’t stare at me like that.”
Romi patted her hand. “He absolutely does.”
“Really?” Clover’s brow furrowed.
“Yes.” Sabine’s eyes lit up.
“You’re not joking around?” Clover’s heart thudded double-time.
Sabine’s voice softened. “He met you and immediately came to me to ask about you and Weaver’s Botanicals. He even went as far as asking about your medical tinctures.”
“He asked about the tinctures specifically?”
“Mh-mmm. And the botanical blends. Very interested in your whole magical herbalist operation.” Sabine waggled her eyebrows. “Almost like he might have plans that require your expertise.”
“Speaking of plans,” Romi cleared her throat, “we should probably discuss the wedding before we get completely sidetracked by Clover’s budding romance?—”
“There is no budding romance!”
“—because if you think I’m letting my best friend and favorite cousin avoid helping plan my special day by hiding behind all this delicious romantic tension, you’re sadly mistaken.”
A dark shape swooped through the café’s open window, cutting off whatever protest Clover had been about to make. Poe landed on their table in a flutter of glossy feathers, sending sugar butterflies scattering and coffee cups dancing.
“Trouble!” he squawked, feathers bristling. “Claw marks behind the shop! Tiger, again.”
Clover’s amusement vanished. “Again?”
“Fresh marks. Come see!”
“I’ll come with you.” Sabine rose, her playful demeanor shifting to something more serious. “If there are rogues in pride territory?—”
“No.” Clover stood, gathering her bag. “You have that meeting with the elders. I can handle this.”
“Clover—”
“I’ve got this.” She squeezed Sabine’s hand. “Go. Keep the peace. We both know how the elders get when they’re kept waiting.”
The spring air carried hints of cherry blossoms and awakening magic as Clover hurried back to Spellbound Lights. Behind the shop, she found exactly what Poe had described—deep claw marks gouged into the stone foundation, radiating traces of unfamiliar shifter magic.
“I don’t think this is anyone from Rook’s pride,” she murmured, extending her magical senses. The residual energy felt wrong—angry and volatile, nothing like the contained power she associated with the Western Mountain Pride.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Poe said from his perch on a nearby crate. “Three different signatures. Strong ones.”
Clover’s jaw set. “I need to talk to Rook.”