Chapter 2 #2
Joan whipped around, searching his face for some deeper meaning, but it was perfectly composed, as always.
George was unwaveringly committed to Merlin in death, as he’d been committed to Merlin’s father in life.
Joan had spent years trying to worm her way into a joking relationship with him, and what they had now was as far as he had ever seemed willing to go.
But that statement hit her like a truck.
There were so few things that could not be undone. She stepped over the threshold. She… could step back one day. One day.
She could do that; she could change her mind later.
Carved into the stone above the door, the Greenwood family logo looked down on her, a coffin with a scythe in the background, wrapped in ivy.
Joan pushed the door open.
Inside, witches bustled from one side of the grand lobby to the other, their voices joining in a murmur loud enough to drown out the edges of Joan’s thoughts.
The two-story lobby was framed by double curved staircases on either side, and as the door shut resolutely behind her, no one paused in their various quests.
There were menacing-looking witches watching everyone, dressed in matching black uniforms. Likely a private defense company that had been contracted by the Greenwoods to guard the house, which was a truly terrible sign of what was to come.
The average witch knew only a small amount of offensive magic and certainly wasn’t trained for physical combat. These witches looked lethal.
Well, now that she was here, she would need to get things over with: find her family, listen to them talk at and over her for a while, retire to her childhood bedroom upstairs, sob in the shower, call CZ.
A nearby potted plant stretched its leaves out to her in her agitation.
It wasn’t real witchcraft; the magic in plants just liked Joan a lot.
If she knew her family—and despite her recent best efforts, she thought she did—they would be in Valeria’s study on the first floor.
Joan shoved through the crowd, stepping past expensive vases, priceless wall art, and the grand chandelier to fight her way to the wooden double doors of the study.
“You can’t go in there,” a sharply dressed witch said, half stepping into Joan’s way.
Joan shied back in frank shock. “Why not?”
“The Greenwoods are having a private meeting,” the witch said impatiently, tucking their long black hair behind their ears. “Wait out here.”
“The Greenwoods are having a private meeting,” Joan repeated faintly.
She clamped down on a do you know who I am?
because that was obnoxious, and this assistant or whatever was just trying to do their job.
But come on now, this was a bit ridiculous, wasn’t it?
Did she have to be on some sort of guest list to roam her own childhood home?
Worse, was she so entirely unrecognizable?
She’d passed portraits on her way over, an endless stream of stately oil paintings.
Grandparents, great-aunts, distant cousins.
Down the hallway Joan could see her mother’s portrait done in deep brown skin tones, her father’s pale face staring down at her, Valeria’s stately grace and eternally gray hair, Molly’s springboard curls and brown skin—but not Joan.
“Okay, can you please move?” Joan said, trying not to be mean but really starting to reach the end of her roughly one-inch rope.
The witch looked alarmed. “I said—”
“Pardon me,” a voice said behind Joan. “I think we’re meant to join that meeting?”
Joan whirled to find a frankly gorgeous Black woman behind her, dressed in a neat dark blue button-down and black pencil skirt, sensible heels on her feet.
Her box braids were pulled back into a matching blue scarf.
Her lips were a respectable dark red. Her chin was held high, which gave her a commanding enough aura that her complete lack of height was less noticeable.
She was looking at Joan as curiously as Joan was looking at her.
Beside her was a white woman with orange-brown hair, dressed in very expensive-looking clothing. She barely glanced Joan’s way.
“Ms. Collins, Ms. Ganon,” the doorkeeper said, “we’ve been expecting you. Please step in.” They nudged Joan out of the way, knocked, and opened the door, ushering Ms. Collins and Ms. Ganon inside.
Joan came to her senses in time to wedge her foot in the door as it closed—which, ow—and bodily shoulder the outraged gatekeeper to the side so she could palm the door back open.
“Ma’am!” the witch cried, wobbling before they lifted their hands, settling into the start of a binding spell Joan could recognize on sight alone—even if she did suck at casting, she still knew all the standard spells by heart.
“Oh my fucking god,” Joan ground out, shoving the door open wider to reveal the study. “Someone tell this person I am a Greenwood.”
Inside, Valeria, Head and High Witch of New York and Manhattan, respectively, was sitting behind her massive wooden desk in a lovely gray suit.
Her lips quirked in the ghost of a smile as she looked at the door, and Joan, the flustered attendant, and Ms. Collins, who had wheeled in alarm, though this Ganon woman was scanning the room.
“Francesca, darling,” Valeria said, “you don’t know Joan, my niece?”
Someone, presumably Francesca, gasped like she’d been shot in the stomach, but Joan’s pride kept her from turning.
Pride and maybe some animal instinct that knew better than to put her back to her father, Merlin Greenwood, who was standing behind one of the large leather armchairs, gripping it like it had personally wronged him, his salt-and-pepper hair looking a little run through.
“Joan!” Molly said, rising from the couch where she’d been sitting next to their mother, Selene. “Sorry, I forgot to warn everyone you were coming.”
“She should have been recognized on sight,” Selene said disapprovingly, her wavy black sew-in gathered neatly over one shoulder.
“Forgive Francesca; she’s new,” Valeria said. “And you, Joan, never come home.”
“I am so sorry!” Francesca said, on the verge of a wail, and Joan wouldn’t have been surprised to find Francesca had fallen to her knees in outright horror at the faux pas, but Joan still wasn’t turning around; she was accepting a hug from her sister, who was wearing neat beige work attire that blended in perfectly with all the wood and leather in the sizeable study.
“Hey, Mol,” Joan said softly, pulling her sister to her chest, avoiding eye contact with their father over Molly’s back. “Can you maybe euthanize me real quick? Preemptively.”
“Sorry again,” Molly whispered.
“Joan!” Merlin said, straightening. “You’re back in town?”
This was the first knife to Joan’s ribs.
“You’re early, aren’t you?” Selene said with a frown, another knife.
“I sent you all my information,” Joan protested weakly.
“She’s perfectly on time,” Valeria said. “You two forgot about her.”
“So did you,” Merlin replied, a bit petulantly.
“I did not. I simply never made any promises to her in the first place.” Valeria rose from her chair. “Come here, Joan.”
Joan obediently separated from Molly to hug her aunt, becoming acutely aware of her own griminess as she pressed against her aunt’s silk shirt. “Sorry,” she muttered generally, because it seemed the safest way to cover her bases.
“You really should have showered before coming here,” Merlin said, having made no effort to cross the room to her. “You look a mess.”
“Merlin,” Selene sighed, rubbing her forehead in irritation, but also not moving from her seat. “Joan, you should have called. I’d have sent a car.”
Ms. Collins cleared her throat. “Should we come back?”
“Nonsense,” Valeria said, having already left Joan to sit back down. “We need your expertise, Grace. When we called Fiona in, she insisted you come with her. She says you’ve studied with her?”
“I did, back home in Atlanta,” Grace confirmed. “She tutored me in spellmaking.”
Fiona smiled, wire-rimmed glasses glinting on her face. “My best student.”
Grace… why is that name familiar?
The room resumed their work as if the youngest Greenwood child hadn’t just returned home to build a life here after seven years away.
Joan let her bag slide off her body, ignoring Merlin’s disapproving glare when it thumped onto the Persian rug.
Valeria forged on. “Fiona’s been throwing around the word prodigy like it’s nothing, but you did always have a flair for the dramatic, didn’t you?”
Joan, staring at Fiona Ganon’s back, watched it stiffen.
“I don’t use the word lightly.”
Valeria’s smile was icy. “I assume you’ve both heard about this ascended human?”
Grace kept darting nervous glances Joan’s way as Joan noisily took a seat in an armchair, but Grace cleared her throat and addressed Valeria. “I have heard, yes. At least, the rumors of a human who seems to be attracting magic.”
“We have eyewitness reports of a human channeling magic into some sort of light spell last night before disappearing into the Night Market. We are beyond the scope of rumors,” Selene said dryly. “Witches on the scene confirmed a spell signature that indicated the human had been cast on.”
“Our top priority is, obviously, ascertaining how this happened,” Valeria said, picking up the threads. “A new spell? A freak accident? We need to know, and we would like you to stay close by, should you have any insight into how one might achieve these ends.”
“Do you?” Merlin said. “Have any insight?” There was a sharp, suspicious gleam to his eye. “Perhaps Wista Redd employed you to—”
“Enough, Merlin,” Valeria cut in. “This is not an accusation.”
Merlin threw up his hands. “Maybe it should be. We’ve been getting nowhere all day—no one can point a finger, but everyone knows a finger must be pointed.”
“So, you’re looking for both the human and the witch who must have changed them? I can assure you, I did not write such a spell,” Grace said. Grace. Grace, Grace, Grace who has ties to Wista Redd in Brooklyn—oh, CZ mentioned her.