Chapter 22
Forbes woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of children arguing about toast.
For a moment, he lay still, orienting himself. Herrick House. The guest room he’d been sleeping in since he’d arrived. Sunlight streaming through curtains that Lilith had probably sewn herself.
And last night—
Last night, he’d watched the woman he loved seal an ancient evil.
He’d stood behind the circle while power poured through her like lightning.
He’d held her on a park bench while her entire coven pretended not to watch, and they’d said I love you like they meant it—because they did—and then they’d kissed until someone—probably Tiffany—had wolf-whistled loud enough to be heard three blocks away.
He smiled at the ceiling like an idiot.
Mo chridhe. The words surfaced unbidden—Gaelic, old-fashioned, something his grandfather used to call his grandmother. He hadn’t said it aloud yet. But he would. When the moment was right.
The arguing downstairs escalated—something about jam distribution and territorial rights to the last piece of toast. Forbes pulled on clothes and made his way toward the chaos.
The scene that greeted him was pure MacBean mayhem.
Lilith stood at the stove, wielding a spatula like a conductor’s baton.
Alan sat at the head of the table, Sinclair on his lap, both of them watching the disputed toast with suspicious intensity.
Kinloch and Andrina were locked in a silent but fierce negotiation involving hand gestures and meaningful glares.
Olivia was reading a book at the table, pointedly ignoring all of them.
And at the center of it all—looking exhausted and radiant and slightly overwhelmed; she must have driven over first thing—sat Gwen.
She looked up when he entered, and her smile made his chest ache.
He’d thought he understood contentment before he met her. He’d been wrong.
“There he is,” Lilith said cheerfully. “The man of the hour. Or the man adjacent to the woman of the hour, anyway. Sit. Eat. You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I slept fine.”
“Liar.” She was already sliding a plate in front of him—eggs, bacon, toast, what looked like homemade jam. “You sat in the parlor staring at the ceiling until dawn.”
Forbes blinked. “How did you—”
“I know everything that happens in my house.” Lilith’s smile was serene. “Also, Alan checked on ye at four and ye were muttering about historical accuracy in yer sleep.”
“I dinnae mutter.”
“Ye absolutely do,” Alan said, not looking up from the toast situation. “Something about ‘tartan anachronisms.’ Very passionate.”
“He’s always like that,” Gwen said, her eyes sparkling despite her exhaustion. “I’ve learned to find it endearing.”
“Have ye now?” Forbes slid into the seat beside her, close enough their shoulders touched. “And when did this learning occur?”
“Somewhere between ‘oral traditions have significant historical value’ and ‘I love you’ on a park bench.” She took a sip of tea. “It’s been an eventful month.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “For the record, I find everything about you endearing. Even when you’re covered in ancient evil residue.”
“There’s no residue.”
“Metaphorical residue.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. I’m a writer. I make things up.”
She laughed—soft and genuine—and something in her expression flickered. Just for a moment. A shadow of uncertainty crossing her face.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Gwen glanced down at her hands, wrapped around her tea cup. “Do I seem... different? To you?”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. After last night, I feel...” She searched for the word. “Bigger, maybe? Like there’s more of me than there used to be. And I’m not sure if that’s good or terrifying.”
Forbes covered her hands with his. “You seem like you,” he said simply. “Like the woman I fell in love with. Just... more so.”
Her eyes met his, vulnerability and hope tangled together.
“That’s either very reassuring or very alarming,” she said.
“I vote reassuring.”
“You’re biased.”
“Completely.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, not caring who saw. “And I plan tae stay that way.”
Andrina, apparently victorious in the toast negotiation, looked up from her prize. “Are you and Gwen going to get married?”
The table went quiet.
Forbes felt heat climb his neck. “That’s—we’ve only—”
“Because Sinclair said your colors are all tangled together now,” Andrina continued, utterly unfazed. “And Mama says when colors get tangled, it means forever.”
“I said sometimes it means forever,” Lilith corrected, though her eyes were dancing. “And it’s rude to ask people about marriage at breakfast, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“Because they haven’t had enough coffee yet.”
Forbes risked a glance at Gwen. She was blushing—but smiling too. A small, private smile that made his heart flip.
Someday, he thought. When the time is right.
The back door opened, and Trent Massey swept in without knocking, carrying a coffee cup and wearing an expression of elaborate suffering.
“The conquering heroine,” he announced, making a beeline for Gwen. “Salem’s most powerful witch. Sealer of ancient evils. I leave town for ONE Samhain—”
“You were in Boston visiting your sister.”
“—and miss the most dramatic supernatural event in three hundred years.” He kissed her cheek, then turned to Forbes with a critical eye. “And you. The skeptic who became a believer. Very romantic. Very predictable. I assume there were declarations?”
“Trent—”
“There were declarations,” Gwen confirmed, hiding her smile behind her tea cup.
“On a park bench,” Olivia added without looking up from her book. “Courtney told me. She said it was ‘disgustingly sweet.’”
“Park bench declarations are classic,” Trent said. “Very When Harry Met Sally. I approve.” He helped himself to coffee. “Now. Tell me everything. Start with the ancient evil. What color was it?”
“What?” Lilith asked.
Forbes muttered, “I don’t think ancient evil comes in swatches,” but no one heard him.
“The ancient evil. Shadow entities usually have a color. Was it more of a charcoal? An obsidian? A deep aubergine?”
Alan snorted. “Ye’re asking about the fashion choices of cosmic horror?”
“Aesthetic matters, Alan. Even in evil.”
“It was... shadowy?” Gwen offered. “With cold-burning eyes? I was a bit busy sealing it to note the exact shade.”
Trent sighed dramatically. “Amateurs. All of you.”
This was what Forbes had stumbled into, he realized. A family that included time-displaced warriors and sarcastic neighbors and children who saw colors around people. A community that sent casseroles after supernatural emergencies and critiqued the aesthetic choices of ancient evils.
It should have been overwhelming. Instead, it felt like coming home.
“Celia’s hosting her séance tonight,” Lilith mentioned, refilling coffee cups. “The annual one. She wondered if you two wanted to come.”
Gwen groaned. “I just sealed an ancient evil. Can’t I have one day off from supernatural activities?”
“Celia’s séances aren’t really supernatural activities. They’re entertainment.” Lilith grinned. “She’s been doing them every October for years. Mostly it’s just her friends drinking wine and pretending to commune with the dead.”
“Except now we actually can commune with the dead,” Alan pointed out mildly. “Or some of us can.”
“Which is what makes it fun.” Lilith’s eyes sparkled. “The kids love it. They get to see things the adults can’t. Drives Celia absolutely mad.”
“Can I see ghosts?” Forbes asked.
“Probably not,” Gwen said. “Most people can’t, even when the veil is thin.
I can sometimes—when the veil is thin and I’m not distracted by, say, sealing ancient evils.
” She shrugged. “Last night I couldn’t see the trial victims at all.
Alan had to tell me they were there. But in the fog the other night, when I was calm and focused on helping them, I saw them clearly.
” She glanced at Alan. “He and the children see them more reliably than I do.”
“So I’ll be sitting there while everyone else sees ghosts and I see... nothing?”
“Welcome to my world,” George Porter said from the doorway, making everyone jump. Celia swept in behind him, silver hair perfectly coiffed. “I’ve attended these séances for years. Never seen a thing. Very peaceful, actually.”
“George!” Celia swatted his arm. “You make it sound boring.”
“It’s not boring, dear. It’s restful. I sit, I drink wine, I watch everyone else get excited about transparent people.” He smiled at Forbes. “You’ll enjoy it.”
“Bring a jacket and a sense of humor,” Trent advised. “Celia’s séances get... spirited.”
“Was that a pun?” Gwen asked.
“It was a warning.” But Trent was grinning. “Last time, Caleb spent twenty minutes lecturing everyone about proper silverware placement. And he’s been dead for over a century.”
Sinclair, who had been quietly observing from his father’s lap, suddenly pointed at Gwen. “Your colors are different.”
The table went silent.
“Different how, lad?” Alan asked.
“Bigger.” Sinclair’s brow furrowed with concentration. “Before they were all...” He made a squeezing gesture. “Tight. Now they’re...” His arms spread wide. “Whoooosh.”
Gwen stared at him. “Whoosh?”
“Big whoosh.” He nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied, and returned to stealing bacon from Alan’s plate.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Trent murmured.
Forbes watched Gwen absorb it—the confirmation, from a trusted but unexpected source, that something fundamental had changed. Her magic wasn’t tight anymore. Wasn’t compressed. It was whoosh.
“So.” Celia clapped her hands. “The séance. Tonight. You’ll both come?”
Gwen sighed, but Forbes saw the smile tugging at her mouth. “Fine. But I reserve the right to fall asleep in the middle of any summoning.”
“Noted.” Celia beamed. “Trent, you’re coming too. I need someone to keep George company while the rest of us commune with the dead.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Trent raised his coffee cup. “To Samhain. To sealed evils. To park bench declarations and disgusting sweetness.”