Witchy Woman (The Pruitt Witches #2)

1. Once Upon A Time

Once Upon A Time

There’s one thing in my life that I am absolutely clear on.

I do not want a soulmate.

It doesn’t matter that my family is ‘blessed’ by some long-dead witchy ancestor, so I have one by default. It doesn’t matter that I’ve already met him.

I have free will, and I don’t want a soulmate.

I’m quite happy not dealing with any of the excessive drama that seems to follow the entire concept of soulmates around like a cloud.

It’s only been a month since Noah got kidnapped and it practically destroyed Hazel. And that’s without even mentioning the death of my father, who was literally killed by a warlock because he was my mother’s soulmate.

Soulmates are more trouble than they’re worth.

Grandma never met her soulmate and she’s just fine. And I’ll live without mine and be just fine.

Despite the fact I think about him constantly.

Especially when I’m here at the witches’ market where I first met him, when I delivered a package from my grandmother to his booth.

My boots crunch on the semi-frozen ground.

Winter is fast approaching in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, and I’m expecting our first snowfall any day now.

Regardless of the cold—and any daydreams about a soulmate I don’t want—I’m not wasting the opportunity to come to the magic market.

On any given day there’s between twenty-five and one hundred booths selling anything I could imagine.

Fashion, accessories, spellbooks, food, herbs, talismans, art.

The possibilities are endless. The smells should clash with each other, but somehow they form a cohesive scent that has a warm, wintery, spicy undertone. It’s comforting.

The market is a little threadbare as we go into winter. Makes sense, really, but it’s a shame to see it less busy. It’s easier to get lost when there’s a crowd to get lost in.

“There’s my Goldilocks,” a rough, gravelly voice says in my ear.

And there’s the reason I would like to be lost in a crowd.

Ash Cedar.

The scent of warm fires, evergreen trees, and musk hits me as he leans in so close I can feel his breath tickle my ear. My soulmate.

Not that he knows that. Or ever will, if I have any fucking say in it.

“Can I help you?” I ask, resisting turning to face him.

“I haven’t been told I’m an overgrown brute today,” he chuckles. The warmth of his body is overwhelming, making me want to lean in and soak it up like a cat in the sun. “I missed it.”

“Surprising considering how insufferable you are.”

“There it is.” He circles me, coming to a stop in front of me.

He’s a gigantic bear of a man—lumberjack-core to the extreme—so it almost hurts my neck to look up at him.

But I want to make eye contact. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Even if it’s difficult not to notice how his black Henley strains against the muscles of his arms and chest.

I cross my arms, matching his emerald-green stare with one of my own. “Is there anything else I can help you with or did you just need to satisfy your degradation kink?”

His face lights up, a broad smile erupting underneath his short beard. “Say ‘kink’ again, Goldilocks.”

“You’re disgusting. And predictable. Boring, even.” I quirk an eyebrow. “I could forgive the rudeness, but being boring? I can’t forgive that.”

There’s fire in his eyes. “The last thing I am is boring.”

The dark timbre of his voice, the promise behind his words, chases my annoyance away, replacing it with pure heat. He would make me melt in his arms in moments, of that I have no doubt.

But I don’t melt. And I don’t do soulmates.

“As fun as this has been, I have things to do that don’t include verbally sparring with a lumberjack. Lovely as always, Mr. Cedar.”

I turn tail and flee as fast as I can without running.

I don’t imagine the dark chuckle chasing behind me.

I weave my way through the people, through families bundled up in their matching jackets, and feel a pang in my chest. Happy families always do that to me, though.

My gait slows as I come upon Hazel’s booth. It’s not completely set up yet, but she comes here multiple times a week to get it ready for the new year. She’s an artist and is going to sell her magical moving paintings.

A ripple of jealousy comes unbidden. My sister, the used-to-be hermit, is out here casually using magic to make all her dreams come true.

She’s found herself and her magic. It’s great. She just abandoned me to do it, then let me know in no uncertain terms that I was the reason she had nothing in her life.

The lion, the witch, and the audacity of this bitch.

I walk up to one of the paintings on display. It’s of Lake Erie, a view that you can find close to the coast outside of Cleveland. A spot I showed her. A spot I dragged her to because she used to barely ever leave the house.

And here she is selling a painting of it, her magic causing the waves to lap at the shore.

How did this happen? I was the confident sister. I was the one who knew exactly what she wanted out of life. I was the one who got out of the house and dated boys and was fucking headed toward something.

I was going to finish community college and go to fashion school—design hats, scarves, maybe some jewelry, too. I was going to escape this stupid small town and my fucked-up family, maybe move to London or Paris.

But that dream died a fiery death the minute Hazel stomped out of the house and changed our lives forever.

Now, the roles are completely reversed. Hazel has her soulmate Noah, she has her passion, she’s starting a business, and she has a backbone. Confidence.

She sacrificed me to get all of that. She threw me to the wolves without a single look back. Mom forced me to drop out of college, saying she couldn’t protect Hazel anymore but that she wouldn’t lose both of us. I couldn’t see my friends anymore. She actually stole my fucking car keys at one point.

But does Hazel know any of this? No. She didn’t care enough to ask.

“Hey, you!” Hazel pops up beside me. “Find anything?”

Asking me about shopping? She’s obviously feeling guilty. She doesn’t shrink into herself like she used to, but I can see that guilt written all over her face.

“Can we leave now?” I ask. I regret coming here with her, but I was hoping . . . I don’t know what I was hoping. Maybe that coming here would distract me. Maybe that it would inspire me.

All it’s done is remind me that I have a soulmate I need to stay away from, a life I hate, and a sister who I don’t understand anymore.

Her face falls, concern knitting her auburn eyebrows together. “Okay.”

Hazel and I arrive back home in a flurry of bags. Her guilt has made her willing to help me carry everything upstairs.

Her guilt also means she’s moved back in to the house from the apartment she was renting from Grandma. Which, in and of itself, isn’t the worst thing in the world. But the house likes her.

I’ve always known the house is sentient, despite Hazel apparently just finding out, and I’ve enjoyed my conversations with it over the years.

When Hazel left, I would sit and talk to the house for hours.

It was my way of pretending I wasn’t completely isolated and it stopped me from calling my sister.

It doesn’t respond like a human would—I’m not a crazy person—but I’ve learned to decipher the creaks and moans.

The way it would moan a little when I let the tears fall, or creak and crackle the floor when I made a joke.

But now that Hazel is back? The house pays attention to both of us, not just me. And I don’t like it.

Speaking of inanimate talking objects, the candles in my bedroom flicker and pop as I drop my bags on my bed.

Fire whispers to me. I’ve never been able to understand the soft whisperings, and I’ve gotten good at ignoring it.

When I first started hearing the mumbles as a preteen it scared the shit out of me, but I eventually figured it was fine because it never actually said anything.

It couldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t actually hearing voices.

But not anymore. Not since Mom splashed away in a giant ball of water with her ex-boyfriend-slash-nemesis-slash-whatever-the-fuck-he-was Draven a month ago.

Whenever anyone brings up giving Mom a funeral, the fire says no. It says no so clearly that I can’t mistake it for anything else.

I’m terrified of what else it might start saying.

“Laura!” Grandma calls from downstairs. “Dinner is ready!”

I don’t bother replying, I just leave my things in bags and walk into the hallway and down the staircase.

Grandma has also been staying with us off and on since Mom. She likes to maintain her privacy so she will usually stay for three to four days, work on Mom’s garden for a little bit, then leave for a week.

At the base of the staircase, I can see Grandma and Hazel’s heads are buried together in the kitchen. They’re conspiring so intently they don’t even notice me despite being in plain view. Hazel always used to claim I was Grandma’s favorite, and at one time that may have been true.

Not anymore.

Regardless, I’m hungry, and I’ll endure whatever ridiculous plan they’ve put together for a taste of Grandma’s pork roast.

I walk into the kitchen and grab a plate, startling the two of them. Jealousy rises like bile in my throat at their easy closeness. Closeness I used to have, closeness I don’t have anymore.

Whatever. I don’t care. Not when there’s homemade perfection in the form of fall-apart pork roast, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus, and brown sugar-glazed carrots.

Fucking yum.

“How was the market today, girls?” Grandma asks once we’re all seated. The antique table is worn on the edges from years of use, as are the matching wood chairs.

It feels weird that Mom isn’t here. As much as I don’t want her here, she had such a commanding presence. She took up so much space with her energy it’s as if there’s a black hole where her chair sits.

“Good!” Hazel pipes up. “I think I’ve got everything just about set for my booth next year.”

Whoop-de-doo.

“Laura? What about you, dear?”