Chapter 11 Hannah
Hannah
When we get off the bus, we speed-walk around the corner to Maya’s apartment building, Julia’s cloak billowing and my sweater just…soggily flapping. Ugh, she’s so much cooler than me.
We get to the glass doors, and before I’ve finished saying, “It’ll be locked,” the lock clicks, and it swings open for us.
“Right,” I say. “Great.”
We take the stairs to the fourth floor, where Julia blasts Maya’s door open and strides in without hesitation. Fortunately, nobody else is here.
I wince, trotting in after her and locking the door behind us. “The neighbors, Julia! You have to at least be a little bit subtle.”
“No time for that.” She inhales deeply and flexes her fingers as if taking in the room’s vibe or something. “Tell me if you find anything unusual.”
I flip on the light and scan the small apartment. One bedroom, one bathroom, patio at the back, plants on the windowsill. Normal enough at first glance…but heavy curtains block every window, the place smells strongly like burnt sage, and the door has three deadbolts—top, middle, bottom.
The decor is also a little unusual. A strangely shaped, padded red sculpture in the corner might be an armchair.
Light fixtures made from twisted metal and bone hang from the ceiling.
Paintings cover the walls, too abstract to discern what they are—but when I study the strange shapes and dark colors, a heavy feeling settles over me.
It’s like they’re depicting something forbidden that the artist was trying to empty from their brain.
The paint-splattered easel and brushes tell me they might be painted by Maya herself.
Julia is already rummaging through a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, where a cluster of dark red candles sits half melted, the hardened wax pooling on the countertop. I head for the laptop on the desk and bend over it.
“What is that?” Julia asks.
“A laptop. Gives you access to the internet and emails and stuff.”
“None of those words made sense.”
“I’ll explain later.”
It boots up to the desktop, no password required. I guess her paranoia doesn’t extend to cybersecurity. I breathe a sigh of relief and start opening files.
My spine prickles at the stillness of the apartment and the frantic sounds of us both working.
The smell of old beer from my hoodie and the chilly dampness is getting unbearable, so I take it off and drop it onto the floor.
It’s a little cold to be in a camisole, but I’d rather be in this than an alcohol-soaked sweater.
I feel Julia’s gaze on me like a flame against my bare shoulders, but I don’t turn. A secret and confusing part of me likes that she’s looking.
“Who else was in your coven?” I ask as I scour the laptop, needing a clue as to what names I should be looking for.
“The only one we’re concerned with is Rebecca.” Julia moves to the bookshelf, and the soft scrape of books tickles my ears.
I click through Maya’s emails, scanning subject lines for anything witchy. “Were you friends with everyone in your coven, other than Rebecca?”
Not a pertinent question, but I’m curious about the life of Julia Moreau.
“Some I liked more than others,” she says vaguely.
There’s nothing weird in her emails, so I try her browser history. Recipes… Art… Online shopping… “What about your family?”
A pause. “A coven is a witch’s family.”
I don’t want to anger her by prying, but I want to understand more about this woman who’s suddenly become central to my world. “Parents?” I ask hesitantly.
She continues checking each book. At last, she says flatly, “My mother’s identity was discovered by a group of weak, scared men. They burned her at the stake when I was a child. I had no father.”
The words punch me in the gut. I stop scrolling through Maya’s browser history.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have.
“Don’t be. The men who killed her got what they deserved.”
A chill rolls through me at the cold satisfaction in her voice. I don’t ask her to elaborate.
I force myself to keep scrolling for clues. We need to get out of here as fast as possible.
“Did she love you?” The question spills out without my permission.
I’ve always been interested in the relationships other people have with their parents.
I loved going to Riley’s house for brunch on weekends and seeing the way she and her mom interacted.
Hugging, laughing, making references that only the two of them understood.
But my question is about more than that. I want to know who Julia was before the world turned her into this—or maybe she was born like this.
Julia stares at a novel in her hands, her fingers drumming its spine. A muscle in her jaw flexes.
“Yes. She did.” She slides the book back onto the shelf without looking at me. “My mother was a sanguine witch too. She understood me better than anyone else ever has.”
I swallow hard and return my attention to the laptop.
Maybe Julia wasn’t born a monster. Maybe the world made her this way by forcing her to witness a cruelty that no child should have to endure.
“Why do you ask?” Julia says.
I lift a shoulder. The words rise in my throat, threatening to spill. We’re supposed to be searching for the coven, not trading trauma stories.
But Julia’s watching me, waiting.
My fingers pause on the keyboard. “My parents didn’t love me.
Not really. They moved out on me as soon as I turned eighteen.
Left me behind to travel. I was always an inconvenience to them, like a dead weight stopping them from living the life they wanted.
” I open Maya’s calendar to avoid Julia’s gaze.
“I think the few years you got with a mom who loved you is better than eighteen years with parents who didn’t.
I’m sorry you had to lose her. That isn’t fair. ”
When I glance back, Julia is watching me with an expression I can’t read. Her brow is pinched—not in pity, thank God, but more like she’s recalculating me.
I turn back to the screen, heat creeping up my neck. Yup, I’ve spilled too much again.
Focus. Find the coven.
On the laptop, Maya’s calendar sits open, appointments and peoples’ names scattered throughout the month. “Hey, tell me if any of these names sound familiar. Maybe she’s still in touch with witches.”
Julia abandons the bookshelf to come closer. “Sure.”
I rattle off some calendar entries, waiting for her to stop me.
She peers over my shoulder, and my mouth goes dry as her cloak brushes me.
The soft fabric against my bare skin sends a tingle through me that settles deep in my belly.
The heat of her body radiates into me, and her warm scent has a dizzying effect.
“Um.” My tongue suddenly doesn’t work properly. “Yoga with Addy… That’s every Thursday, so I don’t think there’s anything suspicious there… Meet with Elizabeth? Know any Elizabeths?”
“I did,” she murmurs. “What’s the surname?”
I click the entry, but there’s no further information. “One sec…”
I return to her inbox and type ‘Elizabeth’ into the search. A few emails pop up. “Elizabeth Barnwell?”
Julia’s fingers close over my shoulder, warm against my cool skin. “That’s her. A green witch. She’ll know where Rebecca and my other sisters are.”
The skin-to-skin contact awakens that delicious connection between us, pleasure flowing into me like an IV drip.
Then her words register, and my heart leaps. I look up at her in disbelief. Did I seriously just find something useful?
“What else does it say? Is there a location?” she asks, her tone growing urgent.
“L-let’s see.” I scan the email subjects, looking for context, though it’s really hard to focus.
She’s standing distractingly close, her warm, apple-cinnamon scent making me drunk.
And the fact I’m face-level with her cleavage is not helping.
Her skin looks so soft and smooth, and her bodice is pushing her breasts up.
My fingers itch to trace along that exposed curve.
As if suddenly aware of what’s happening, Julia lets go, leaving a cool draft where her hand was.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can—I mean, I don’t mind if you—” I cut myself off, unsure what I’m getting at. Touch me, my annoying inner voice finishes.
She looks down at me, and my pulse quickens. When she licks her lips, my gaze catches on her tongue for long enough that it’s obvious I’m staring at her mouth.
Dammit. I absolutely cannot be attracted to her.
I’m not even convinced this is just the binding spell at work—she’s objectively stunning.
She’s confident and gorgeous, and she has the most piercing eyes.
But putting aside the fact that she’s a sanguine witch and a literal murderer, she’s also got to be twenty years older than me.
Or like, a century older, depending on whether you count the cursed sleep.
And anyway, I already decided I’m done letting myself have feelings for anyone, so this fluttering can fuck right off.
I turn back to the laptop, my breaths shallow and my face hot. “I’ll see if I can find an address.”
“Good,” she murmurs.
The way she says that single word of praise makes me tighten between my legs.
Stop it. Focus on getting info about Elizabeth.
Before I can move, my scalp tingles pleasantly, as if…
Oh God. She’s playing with my hair. Combing her fingers gently through the strands.
My eyelids flutter, and I stay perfectly still. Each stroke sends ripples through me.
But why is she playing with my hair? Is she doing this absently because I happen to be in front of her? Or maybe this is how she treats everyone she feeds off of, buttering them up before she consumes them. Or…
Or she could be flirting with me. Seducing me.
My heart beats faster. Blood rushes to my face, making my lips numb.
I have to remember who I’m dealing with. I can’t be attracted to her. I can’t trust her.
And I can’t trust the feelings I have when she touches me.
I blink the screen back into focus, scanning the emails from Elizabeth. There are six, and the first was received January 7, 2004. I open it with clumsy fingers.
A jolt of victory shoots through my chest. “Elizabeth asked Maya to come pick up family heirlooms.”
Julia goes still, and her fingers stop toying with my hair.
I scroll down, scanning for an address. “Crap… Maya said she’s not interested in joining any covens, given what happened to the other witches in her lineage…
whatever that means…” I get to Elizabeth’s final reply, and my breath catches.
“Wait. If you change your mind, here’s where to find me. Julia, it’s her address!”
“Perfect,” Julia says, a rare note of elation in her voice.
I grab a notepad and pen, scribbling the address with a trembling hand. “Do we need anything else?”
Before she can answer, the lock on the apartment door clicks.
We both freeze, eyes widening.
Maya is home.