Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Honeysuckle House, Now
The protection candle burned in the window where Evie left it, the flickering flame reflected in the glass.
The house felt every moment of it—the heat from the fire, the intentions in the wax.
It was a familiar power, one that had become deeply embedded in the walls, clear down to the studs, and one that was starting to fray at the edges.
As hours slipped past and October thirteenth crept closer, the magic in the walls shuddered, longing for a release that could only come one way.
The house did its best to hold on.
The Caldwells were a comfort, the way only family could be.
They were joy and love and history, everything Honeysuckle House felt and longed for because of the magic in their hearts that had given it life.
But Clara? Clara was special—untouched by what had come before.
The house loved her desperately. It knew if she uncovered the truth, she would do everything in her power to keep the magic flowing in the pipes and wires, like blood pounding through its veins.
The house did not want to die.
The thought made the walls creak, the hallways contracting subtly like a shallow breath.
Condensation formed on the glass like tears.
As it thought of all the witches who had walked its halls, all the births it had witnessed and the deaths it had endured, the energy in the air shifted. Then, the black candle tipped over.
It fell off the windowsill onto the small, circular rug.
The house would’ve blinked, if houses could blink, stunned as it was that the candle had fallen. Whatever power had pushed the candle had not come from the house.
The fibers in the rug caught fire, and the flames shot toward the far wall as if someone had poured a line of gasoline.
The house tipped over one of Evie’s jars of moon water then another and another, but the fire only grew as it ate away at the wall the house had so carefully constructed the day Linda Caldwell died thirteen years ago.
The glass glowed orange as voices rose up from the front lawn.
The house opened the window wide, sending in a rush of cold air that only served to fan the flames.
It tried to shift the wood and plaster, to close over on itself and contain the fire, but where the flames touched the wall, the house had lost control.
As it burned, the house thought back over every tragedy that had happened on its grounds, every broken body, and wished it had understood then what it knew now.