Chapter 45
Rowan was moving before Annelise hit the floor, but he wasn't fast enough. He watched as she crumbled, lifeless, and sprawled across the chalked pentagram.
Scrambling to her side, he was now ignoring Story as the other women attended to her and said ridiculous things like “I knew it would work out,” and “It’s good to see you here, Vienna.”
Even as he reached her, sliding across the floor, slipping his hand behind her head and lifting it, he was petrified this was worse than just passing out. Had they come here to save Story and exchanged Annelise for her grandmother? He did the only thing he knew: he prayed.
She was warm in his arms, and he told himself that was a good sign.
Story had actually died, and he didn’t want to think about the long minutes Story had stayed dead.
His brain flashed through every possibility, and he counted the five—now six—witches here who could maybe perform the same magic on the woman he loved.
It was Delanie who appeared on the other side of Annelise, bright green eyes mirroring his own worry.
Rowan's fingers moved to Annelise's neck, feeling for her pulse. Moving one hand over Annelise’s torso as if operating some kind of witchy MRI, Delanie tested what she could. Her other hand fumbled in her pocket—deeper than it looked. She seemed to have options in there, so Rowan checked again and finally felt the relief of Annelise’s thready pulse beneath his own pounding one.
“She’s okay,” Delanie declared, but before the words were even out Rowan was arguing.
“No, she’s not.”
She was unconscious, but at least not dead, the voice whispered in his head.
Delanie looked at him softly, “She just needs rest. She was here for a while.”
He rocked back onto his heels, pulling Annelise with him, her form still limp. One arm still hung down, wrist on the floor smearing at the chalk design Story had drawn—how long ago, he didn’t know. He rocked her softly as Delanie repeated, “She needs rest.”
He almost didn’t hear her. He was trying to calculate how long Annelise had been working magic alone on top of taking on the heavy physical toll of CPR. “I was at the office just outside of Richmond when I heard her.”
He watched as Delanie’s auburn eyebrow rose at him, as she added it up, too. “It took you half an hour to get here.”
He felt the squeeze in his chest as the numbers added up, and he nodded to her.
It was too long. Even just doing CPR for anywhere near that long, rescuers were supposed to trade out.
With magic on top of that—costly magic as she continually fought to bring her grandmother back—this seemed inevitable.
He explained then to Delanie what he’d seen—the chest compressions, the song from the hollow—and then instead of resting for a few beats, how Annelise had revived Story.
This time Delanie’s face showed wild surprise. “She pulled Story back by herself? Over and over?”
Rowan shrugged. “It didn’t seem to stick. I think she just kept trying.”
Even Delanie swore under her breath. There were some things a witch could do, but the cost was so high. He was holding that price in his arms now.
Out of fear or the need for reassurance, he put his fingers once again to Annelise’s neck and again felt the pounding fear of his own pulse first. When he found her heartbeat weak but steady under his touch, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Lifting his arm, he shifted her, curling her tighter against him, tucking her loose hand up in her own lap as if she’d meant for it to be there.
Though Rowan tried to hide the move, he placed his hand at the top of her chest, feeling more relief at her slow if shallow breathing.
Delanie leaned in close, still reassuring him, “She’ll be okay. I don’t think she’s even unconscious—not anymore—just asleep.”
Again, the redhead waved her hand over Annelise, past the dark hair, the closed lids that held the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and down along her torso.
This time she produced a piece from her pocket—a small silver and amethyst bracelet.
Picking up Annelise’s limp hand, she slid it softly into place.
He’d expected such things from Delanie, but with no real witchcraft of his own he had no idea what it meant.
Still, he was surprised when she reached back into the pocket and pulled out another piece.
Two small amethyst figurines were set gently into his palm.
“Keep these in your pocket,” she instructed. “Somewhere on you all the time until she’s better.”
Was the warmth that radiated from the stones from Delanie, or the stones themselves? Not about to disobey or do anything to hinder Annelise’s progress back to him, he did as he was told. Rowan offered a soft thank you that came out as a whispered prayer as he slid them into his pocket.
“We should get her to a bed,” was what he said out loud, though he also meant that he should be there with her.
Both he and Delanie looked up through the still-open walls that he somehow felt responsible for.
The court case was progressing too slowly.
He needed to pressure the insurance agency lawyers.
Annelise and Story needed a home they could live in.
On the other side of the studs, he saw the metal bed frame and the new mattress propped against the wall, still in plastic.
He tried to think about where to take her.
Any hotel was a good half hour away, and he didn’t quite feel comfortable putting her in the backseat of his car for that distance.
Suddenly he felt the hand on his shoulder, and he shouldn’t have been surprised when his mother’s voice came to him, leaning near him as she offered, “We’re close and we have the room. ”
Turning, she looked to Story who was trying to push the protective crowd away and get to her feet. The witches around her held their ground and consistently told her to stay put.
With a smile, Vienna turned to the oldest Lockheart. “You too, Story.”
The wild thing about Story Lockheart, Rowan knew—had always known—was that she helped everyone at any expense to herself. But she was also unlike her granddaughter. Story was always willing to ask for and accept the help in return.
Maybe tonight, if Annelise remembered any of this when she woke up, she would learn that she was not only the most powerful witch in the hollow, but the leader of a coven of powerful witches.
Which apparently now included his own damn mother.
He was getting ready to respond to his mother, trying to figure out how to say he hadn’t come home on purpose. That he knew what she’d done. But he also saw how she’d showed up tonight.
Vienna shook her head at him, seeming to understand his dilemma. “Not tonight. Not until you’re ready. I’ll tell you everything—but first we take care of the Lockhearts.” She paused a moment, adding, “I’ve got you parked in, so I’ll drive.”
They coordinated the effort. He carried Annelise, her limp form heavy but right in his arms, as he slid into the backseat.
Story slid into the front with Vienna driving.
Before he knew it, they were at the top of the hill, in front of the house he now had very mixed feelings about, and he carried the still limp form up the steps and into his own room.
Behind him, he heard his mother making a space for Story, who had the kind of grace to say thank you despite the many ways that the Velascos had made decisions that hurt her over the years.
He’d passed his brother in the kitchen stirring a pot that smelled amazing, of course. He wasn’t surprised when Jasper came in with a cup of the liquid for Annelise.
“It’s a bone broth,” his brother offered it, and Rowan had a flash of insight. If Vienna actually had craft, what about her children?
“So, you just happened to be making a bone broth tonight?”
Jasper shrugged—an even more interesting answer.
His brother did seem to have a knack for always having the right food on hand.
This was just the first time Rowan had questioned it.
As Jasper turned away, Rowan tipped his head, watching while his brother seemed to not realize he was watching.
Jasper dropped a pinch of herbs into the broth and moved one hand over it as it stirred.
Son of a bitch, Rowan thought. He’d missed a lot of things along the way—but he didn’t doubt what this was. Jasper? Not only did Vienna have craft but Jasper, too? What else had Rowan not seen right in front of him?
As crazy as it was, that could wait. He turned his attention to the woman who needed him. Then he slowly, sip by sip, dripped the broth—and whatever else it might be—into Annelise’s mouth, grateful that she at least seemed to be swallowing if not waking.
In that moment, he wished he had some of Jasper’s magic—though the very thought made him shake his head. He wished he could see what tomorrow would bring. But all Rowan could do was curl himself around her and pray.