Chapter 5 Avine
FIVE
AVINE
She woke to chaos.
Or rather, she woke to hammering on her door, which was chaos enough at—she squinted at the ancient alarm clock on the nightstand—six-thirty in the morning.
“I got here yesterday.” She groaned into the pillow. The pillow smelled of must and sea air. Definitely needed new linens. Definitely needed not to deal with whoever was trying to break down her door.
The hammering intensified.
“Coming!” She threw back covers and stumbled through the unfamiliar room, stubbing her toe on a box she didn’t remember placing there. Emotional Baggage (Literal). Because of course. The universe had a sense of humor today.
The front door opened before she reached it.
“Really?” Avine glared at the brass mermaid knocker, which managed to look innocent. “We’re going to have to set boundaries about the whole ‘opening for whoever you want’ thing. This isn’t a speakeasy. I don’t have a password. There should at least be a password.”
A woman swept in. Swept was the only word for it—she moved with the sort of dramatic energy that made entrances into events. Wild dark curls, sea-glass blue eyes, clothes that flowed around her in layers of coastal aesthetic. She carried a basket that smelled of fresh-baked bread and honey.
Behind her came three more women, each more visually distinct than the last: a petite redhead whose hair sparkled in the early light, a curvy woman with honey-brown hair and flour dusted on her apron, and a serene-faced woman with silver-streaked dark hair who smelled—improbably—of lavender and woodsmoke and knowing.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Avine’s power recognized them.
Four bright threads of magic brushed against hers—different flavors, different strengths, but all undeniably witch. Storm and sea from the wild-haired one. Alchemy and transformation from the redhead. Hearth and comfort from the flour-dusted baker. Earth and intuition from the serene one.
Sisters, her magic whispered. Not blood, but craft. Not born, but bound.
She saw the same recognition flicker across their faces. The redhead’s eyes widened. The baker pressed a hand to her heart. Even the serene one’s composure shifted into wonder.
“Well.” The wild-haired one broke the silence first. “That’s new. Usually the sister-bond takes at least a few drinks.”
“The surge.” The serene one’s voice was low, knowing. “It’s accelerating everything. Including this.”
“Excellent.” The redhead was already rifling through cabinets like she owned the place.
“Skip the awkward acquaintance phase, jump straight to found family. Very efficient. I approve. I’m Junie, by the way.
That’s Cassia, this is Dahlia, and the cryptic one is Narla.
We’re your coven now. Resistance is futile. ”
Avine opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I—what? I haven’t even had coffee. I don’t know any of you, and my house apparently lets anyone in now, and there was a surge? What surge? Did I break the town? Also, did you say coven?”
“What Junie means,” Dahlia stepped forward, her voice patient, “is welcome to Haven Shores. We registered the magic last night—everyone did—and we came to check on you. I brought pastries. They’re not hexed or anything.
” A beat. “Well, the cinnamon rolls are mildly enchanted for comfort, but only in a therapeutic way.”
“And the sister-bond is real,” Narla added, moving past Avine toward what she apparently sensed was the kitchen.
“You can feel it too, can’t you? Our magic recognizing yours.
It happens between witches sometimes—an affinity that goes deeper than friendship.
The surge is making it happen faster, but that doesn’t make it less true. ”
Avine could feel it. Their magic intertwining with hers, four threads weaving into a braid that hadn’t existed ten minutes ago. It should have been terrifying—strangers, in her house, claiming some kind of mystical bond.
Instead, it was like finding puzzle pieces she hadn’t known were missing.
“Coffee first.” She held up her hands. “Then explanations. And possibly those cinnamon rolls.”
Dahlia’s face lit up. “Oh, I knew I was going to like you.”
The kitchen, when they reached it, had transformed overnight. The dust was gone. The windows sparkled. The old appliances—which Avine distinctly remembered being covered in grime—gleamed in the morning light.
“The house likes you.” Narla ran a finger along a spotless counter. “It hasn’t done that for anyone in decades. The last four owners couldn’t even get the stove to work.”
“Four owners.” Cassia held up fingers. “Remember the guy who tried to turn it into a B&B for magicals? The plumbing flooded his car. Specifically, his car. On the third floor. The house carried water up two flights to make a point.”
“That’s vindictive.” Avine sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “I respect it.”
Junie was already producing a coffeemaker that Avine could swear hadn’t been there before. An iridescent snake glittered in her hair—not a hair clip, but alive, watching Avine with bright, intelligent eyes.
“Familiar.” Junie caught her stare. “Her name’s Glimmer. She’s harmless. Well, mostly harmless. She bit that guy from the mainland last month, but he deserved it.”
“He made a comment about her scales looking ‘fake.’” Cassia’s gasp was theatrical enough for Broadway. “In front of her. She has feelings.”
Glimmer flicked her tongue in vindication.
“Coffee.” Junie thrust a mug into Avine’s hands—black, exactly how she liked it. Of course, they knew. “Drink. Then we explain. Then you officially join the coven. Then we eat our feelings about the mating surge in cinnamon roll form. Standard witch-sister protocol.”
“There’s a protocol?”
“We’re making it up as we go.” Dahlia set a plate of cinnamon rolls on the table—fragrant, impossibly perfect. “But I’ve found that most things in life are improved by pastry.”
The first bite was heaven—butter and cinnamon and comfort that spread through her like sunrise. The enchantment wrapped around her, gentle and kind.
Avine closed her eyes. “Okay. Fine. I’m in your coven. Anyone who makes pastry this good can have access to my soul.”
“That’s the spirit.” Cassia was practically vibrating with energy. “Now—Haven Shores 101. Your aunt didn’t tell you anything, did she?”
“Sue tells people exactly what she wants them to know and not a syllable more.” Junie flopped into a chair. “It’s infuriating. Also, she’s definitely been orchestrating your arrival for years. Possibly decades. Very on-brand.”
The explanation came in overlapping waves.
Haven Shores: founded in 1692, witches fleeing Salem, wolf pack offering protection, supernatural sanctuary ever since.
Witches, shifters, fae, gnomes, sirens—“The usual,” Cassia said, as if any of this was usual.
The ward system that Avine had apparently supercharged last night.
The gossip network of magically enhanced seagulls and too-clever familiars.
“I’m never going to have any secrets here, am I?”
“None.” Dahlia’s cheerfulness was almost concerning. “Zero privacy. It’s awful and wonderful and mostly awful. But at least you have us now.” She reached across the table and squeezed Avine’s hand. Power pulsed between them—the sister-bond humming where their skin touched. “We look after our own.”
“Which brings us to the mating surge.” Narla’s voice was measured. “It started about a month ago. Magic’s been unstable. Potions going sideways. Candles lighting on their own. And mate bonds—” She paused. “They’re forming faster than they should. Stronger than they should.”
“Mate bonds.” Avine set down her coffee. “Those are real?”
“Shifter mate bonds. Witch mate bonds. Fae mate bonds. All of the above.” Cassia fanned herself.
“It happens naturally sometimes, but when there’s a surge…
it’s more. The wards react. The magic pushes people toward each other.
There’s a lot of sudden declarations and dramatic confessions and people making out in the tide pools at midnight. ”
“Very inconvenient for my potions,” Junie muttered. “Everything keeps going haywire. Last week, I made a confidence elixir that made a customer confess his feelings to three different people. Three. He didn’t even like two of them.”
“And you activated the wards.” Dahlia’s voice had turned gentle. “We don’t know if that made the surge stronger, or if the timing was coincidence, but…”
“But there’s going to be a lot of attention on you.” Narla finished. “From the coven. From the pack. From everyone. You’re new and interesting, and your magic shook the whole town.”
“Also, you’re single.” Cassia’s grin turned wicked. “And the Alpha’s single. And the surge makes single people very interesting to the local matchmakers. Fair warning.”
“The Alpha.” Avine pinched the bridge of her nose. “The wolf Alpha.”
“Theo Vance.” Dahlia supplied.
She knew that name. He was the guy who showed up to check the wards. The wolf. It was probably not a good idea to tell them about the crazy sparks between her and Theo the previous night. That might give them the wrong idea.
“Theo Growly Hunk Vance.” Cassia’s voice suggested this was a name worth remembering. “Very intense. Very broody. Very…” She held her hands apart to indicate size.
“Cassia.” Dahlia’s tone was warning.
“What? I’m being informative.” She fanned herself again. “The seagulls talked about it for weeks. There were reenactments.”
“Seagull reenactments,” Avine repeated flatly.
“They’re very theatrical.” Junie shrugged. “It’s their whole thing.”
“Well.” She raised her coffee mug. “I guess I’d better meet the neighbors.”
Cassia whooped. Dahlia beamed. Junie’s snake did a thing that looked almost like a nod. Narla inclined her head, quiet amusement in her eyes.
“Welcome to Haven Shores, Avine Bell.” Narla lifted her own mug in salute. “Sister.”
The word took root deep in her chest, a key finding its lock.