CHAPTER TEN
In all her years on this earth as a witch, Nyssa had experienced all sorts of emotions: love, anger, joy, fear, hate. But she wasn’t sure of the last time she’d felt this. This intoxicating flood of pure and unconditional acceptance that hadn’t left her since the other night at The Pixie’s Grove.
It flowed through her as she slid the bolt shut at Teas and Tales and stood in near silence, the only other sound beside her breathing the melodic tinkle of the broomstick windchime above the door.
In her old life, there would have been no time to savour the moment, but out here, in the middle of Nighthaven, there was nothing but time.
She turned back to face her café slowly, taking in each tiny detail with a smile on her face.
After the absolute curse-storm that had occurred the week before, the café was finally back to its usual self.
Clara’s fathers Cain and Emyr had, thankfully, been understanding when Nyssa blamed the issue on a pixie playing a trick, while Alaric had taken the real explanation without any hint of judgement.
In fact, when she’d explained what had been happening with her magic, the druid had thrown an arm round Nyssa’s shoulders and squeezed gently.
‘Don’t let it upset you too much, Nys. I used to bungle my magic all the time,’ he’d told her conspiratorially.
‘There was even one time that I was trying to annoy Amelia and I thought it would be funny to coax her hair into shedding with the magic that I used to help trees shed their leaves. Only I pushed it too far and ended up taking off her entire head of hair, and her eyebrows, too! It took months before they came back in full. Our mother was so mad …’ He’d chuckled to himself, then scratched his chin musingly for a moment, adding, ‘Actually, maybe best not to mention that one to Amelia. I suspect she’s probably still not forgiven me for it. ’
The druid’s openness about his own magical mistakes had made Nyssa laugh and helped to ease the worried knot in her chest a little more, and so, surrounded by her friends, Nyssa had even felt confident enough to redo her enchantments around the café.
So far, all had been stable. Torin had taken to his new role like he was born for it, and today had been another busy and successful day.
Most of the tables were cleaned up, except for the oak one near the fireplace; Liora had insisted on one final game of Familiars before they retired for the evening, and the more Nyssa got to know her, the harder it seemed to be to tell her no.
Not that she was the only one. A smile tugged at Nyssa’s lips as her gaze landed on the small, enchanted owl figurine the bard had chosen to use for tonight’s game. It was Alaric’s favourite – a secret that he’d asked Nyssa to take to the grave – and yet he let Liora use it every time.
With a small chuckle, Nyssa continued clearing up, ignoring the pointed glare Nyx gave when she moved her to fluff the cushions at her back.
Beneath dozens of fairy lights, enchanted brooms began to sweep the cake crumbs from the carpet at the click of her fingers, and the clay figurines of Familiars – her cat, Liora’s owl, Alaric’s bear, Gwen’s raven and Elowen’s wolf – all began to walk back into their box, where they would stay locked up until Nyssa called on them again.
They were all old belongings of her grandmother, bewitched by magic that wasn’t hers, and as the rich, honey-sweetness of it flooded Nyssa’s senses, she found herself craving the scent of a different kind of magic.
One she hadn’t experienced since the night of the warding ritual.
Memories threatened to flood through her defences, and Nyssa closed her eyes.
Forced herself to take a deep, appreciative breath of the honey-sweet enchantments and the lingering scent of Gwen’s latest tea brew.
She’d been suspended from her position as head mage for a reason, and until she could learn to balance her power with her emotions, that sort of magic was off-limits.
Slowly, like fog dissipating from Nighthaven’s lake on a sunlit morning, the craving began to fade. Nyssa was just about to open her eyes – to continue her nightly routine and remind herself of all the things she loved about her new life – when a knock sounded at the door.
Years of witch-instincts caused Nyssa to tense. The hairs on the back of her neck raised. And then, like the briefest caress of a ghostly hand, she felt it.
Magic.
It wasn’t the soft, enchanting kind she now used in her café.
Nor was it the all-consuming, intoxicating rush of the kind of high-level spell work she’d just been craving.
This was the kind of magic Nyssa had sworn off.
The kind that fell over you like a shroud, snuffing out all your other senses until it was all you knew.
There were only a select few people powerful enough beside herself to wield that kind of magic.
And none of them were people Nyssa wanted outside her café door.
For a second, she considered pretending she wasn’t there.
The newly enchanted windows meant that whoever was outside wouldn’t be able to see inside at this time of night, and the enchanted windchime she’d found in her grandma’s things had been imbued with a protection spell that repelled anyone who might wish Lisabeth or her kin harm from passing the threshold it was hung above.
If Nyssa could just sneak into the back room before whoever was out there sensed her magic—
‘I know you’re in there, Hawthorne.’
The familiar cadence of his voice sent shivers down Nyssa’s spine. Of all the people she’d dreaded being on the other side of that door, Morven Delamorte was the worst.
The last time Nyssa had seen him, it had taken the entire might of her coven to weaken him enough to banish and imprison him. That had been years ago. More than enough time for the warlock to have regained his strength.
‘Are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to break through your grandmother’s pathetic protection spell?
’ Morven’s tone made it clear he was in no mood to be kept waiting.
The warlock never had been very patient, even before he’d become an enemy of the coven.
A memory surfaced of him tossing a tome across the library table at the covenstead when, after barely flicking through it, he’d declared the library’s selection ‘inadequate for my needs’.
Nyssa had merely rolled her eyes and passed it off as her friend being impatient and overly blunt.
Now, she knew it had been the start of his descent into the dark.
Maybe he’s here to reconcile, Nyssa thought.
There had been a time when Morven was a friend – her closest friend – back when Nyssa had been a newbie witch with a too-big-head on her shoulders.
She had changed in ways she hadn’t even considered in the years since she’d last seen the warlock. Maybe he had changed, too.
And maybe Alaric shall streak naked through the town tomorrow morning, she thought ruefully.
With a sigh, Nyssa called out, ‘I don’t suppose you’re here to let bygones be bygones, are you?’
The lights of the café flickered, and Nyx – who until now had been fast asleep on her favourite jade green armchair – hurried to her side, her tail as bushy as the feather duster in Nyssa’s broom-closet as she let out a long, warning hiss.
‘What do you think, Hawthorne?’
She could leave him out there. Flee through the back window and leave Nighthaven before he’d even broken through the café’s warding enchantments.
And perhaps, a few months ago, she would have done.
Back when this place was nothing but an empty building and the people of Nighthaven mere strangers.
But now, the thought of leaving the life she was building here behind – of putting Liora, Alaric, Elowen, Gwen and the rest of the town in danger – had her staying firmly put.
Morven Delamorte was her problem. And coven-less or not, Nyssa would find a way to deal with him.
She just had to be smart about it.
Her attention immediately snagged on a board game on one of the top shelves, its box creased and worn from over-use.
Familiars.
As a child, the nightmares she’d had of getting trapped inside the game had terrified Nyssa in a way she couldn’t explain. Now, it gave her an idea.
But … could she really pull it off? The kind of magic it would take was stronger than any she’d used since leaving the coven, and if it went wrong …
With a smash, all of the light bulbs in Nyssa’s café shattered.
Glass sprayed, and Nyssa had just enough time to cover her face before it reached her, shredding into the skin of her hands and arms like tiny blades.
A hiss of pain escaped her lips, and Nyssa’s magic roiled in response, fed by the emotion.
Use me, it willed. Protect yourself. Protect Nighthaven!
The café door flew open with a gust of wind and magic, the smell of iron and fire-smoke overpowering the honey-sweetness of her grandmother’s enchantments.
Glass crunched as Morven entered the café, his footsteps slow and languid, and Nyssa’s eyes caught on the crushed windchime in his fist as she finally turned to face him.
He’d always been handsome, and that hadn’t changed in the years since she’d seen him.
Dark blond curls framed a square jaw and deep brown eyes; he had a full mouth, a nose that was just a little too pointed, and a tall, slender but well-toned frame that, if it had belonged to anyone else, would have made Nyssa stop to appreciate it.
But like everything at Morven’s disposal, his looks were a tool he used as a weapon.
One Nyssa would not allow herself to be injured by.
He opened his fist, letting the pieces of the windchime clatter to the floor.
‘How are you here? Your imprisonment—’