Chapter 6 Avine
SIX
AVINE
Three days after the Alpha had invaded her porch and her peace of mind, Avine was elbow-deep in a box labeled Kitchen — Actually Important when the commotion started.
She’d made progress, though “progress” might have been generous.
One room was officially livable—the First Quarter Suite had clean sheets, a functioning lamp, and a nightstand that only wobbled if you breathed on it too hard.
The kitchen now contained actual food instead of Aunt Sue’s welcome basket, including an embarrassing amount of instant coffee and frozen dinners that would have made Dahlia weep.
She’d found the vintage espresso machine hiding in a cabinet, which had immediately tried to bite her.
The inn, it seemed, had opinions about caffeine delivery systems.
She’d also befriended Eleanor the ghost, who turned out to have strong opinions about furniture arrangement.
The armchair in the parlor had migrated to three different locations before Avine figured out that Eleanor preferred it near the window, where the morning light fell across the cushions.
The ghost’s approval manifested as a slight easing of the cold spot—either touching or deeply creepy, depending on how Avine chose to think about it.
She’d resisted the urge to text her new witch-sisters about every weird noise the inn made. Mostly. There had been one incident involving what she’d been sure was a demonic howl but turned out to be the plumbing. Junie had responded with seventeen laughing emojis and a GIF of a screaming goat.
She had not resisted the urge to think about Theo Vance. But that was a different problem.
A thump from outside. Then voices—multiple, excited, not threatening but unexpected.
Avine set down the vintage colander she’d been examining—why did she own a vintage colander?—and headed for the front door.
It burst open before she got there.
“You locked this.” Junie swept past her with the satisfied air of a cat who’d cornered a particularly amusing mouse. “I picked it. Magically. For practice.”
Avine crossed her arms. “That’s breaking and entering.”
“That’s sisterly affection. Different legal category entirely.” Junie was already rifling through the nearest box, Glimmer peeking out from her hair with bright, curious eyes. “Ooh, books. Let’s see what you’re reading.”
Behind her came Cassia, Dahlia, and Narla in a wave of energy and gifts.
Cassia carried three bottles of wine in one arm and a bag of sea salt in the other—“for protection or margaritas, depending on how the night goes”—and pressed a bottle into Avine’s hands before sweeping into the parlor.
Dahlia had a basket of pastries that smelled like heaven manifesting as carbohydrates, plus a smaller basket that appeared to contain emergency chocolate.
Narla brought up the rear with a collection of candles in various sizes, her serene expression suggesting she was the only one who’d considered knocking.
Between them, held aloft like a battle standard, was a banner.
WELCOME TO CHAOS, it proclaimed in sparkly purple letters. A small drawing of a seagull occupied the corner, looking maniacal.
“What—” Avine started.
Cassia thrust a wine bottle into her hands. “Official welcome party. The morning thing was reconnaissance. This is the real deal.”
“The morning thing was an ambush.”
“Loving ambush.” Dahlia was already setting up her pastry spread on the dining room table with military precision. Each item had a handwritten label: Courage Croissant, Sleep Well Scone, Don’t Overthink Danish, Forget Your Ex Eclair. “There’s a difference.”
A cream-colored blur shot past Avine’s ankles and launched itself onto the best armchair in the parlor.
Marzipan, Dahlia’s familiar, claimed the cushion with the air of a monarch seizing a throne.
Her golden eyes surveyed the room, found it acceptable, and dismissed everyone present as beneath her notice.
Dahlia smiled, not entirely convincingly. “She’s very social.”
“She’s a menace with fur.” Junie had extracted a book from Avine’s collection and was examining the cover with growing delight. “Ooh, smutty. Good. We were worried you’d be boring.”
Avine lunged for the book. “That’s—give me that.”
Junie danced backward, grinning. “‘His hands traced fire across her skin,’” she read aloud, voice theatrical. “‘She had never known a touch could burn so sweetly—’”
“I will hex you.”
“Empty threat. You like me.” Junie tossed the book onto the couch and headed for the kitchen. “Where do you keep your cocktail supplies? Never mind, I’ll find them.”
A rush of wind announced Gust’s arrival—Cassia’s storm petrel familiar swooping through the window Avine was fairly certain had been closed. The bird circled the parlor twice, shrieked in triumph, and landed on the mantelpiece with dramatic flair.
Cassia shrugged. “He’s theatrical. Gets it from me.”
Avine pressed a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “Shocking.”
Narla moved through the chaos with quiet purpose, lighting candles and placing them around the room.
The first flame caught, and the atmosphere shifted.
Comfort spread through the space—not physical heat, but ease.
The inn’s old magic seemed to sigh with contentment as Narla’s scent-magic wove through the air.
“Lavender for calm,” Narla murmured. “Cedar for grounding. And a touch of sea rose, because the house likes it.”
“You can tell what the house likes?”
Narla’s small smile held secrets. “I can tell what everything likes. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
Junie emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of drinks that hadn’t been possible with Avine’s limited supplies. “Cocktails. Don’t ask what’s in them. The magic works better if you don’t question it.”
“That’s concerning.”
“That’s witchcraft, baby.” Junie distributed glasses with a flourish. “Now. Everyone, settle in. We have important business to discuss.”
An hour later, Avine was two cocktails deep, surrounded by pastry crumbs.
The witches had circled back through the details with wine-fueled enthusiasm—the Elder Council, who met monthly in theory and meddled constantly in practice. The gossip network, which Junie called “aggressive communal eavesdropping.”
Now they’d moved on to town stories, each one more ridiculous than the last.
“—and then the seagull,” Cassia was saying, tears streaming down her face, “the seagull lands on Elder Piprick’s head and screams. Right in the middle of the council meeting.
Screams like it’s seen the apocalypse. And Piprick’s sitting there with bird feet in his hair going ‘I believe we were discussing zoning permits?’”
Dahlia wiped her eyes. “He didn’t even flinch. Kept talking about setback requirements while the seagull had a complete meltdown above him.”
“Speaking of meltdowns.” Cassia’s grin turned sharp. “Let’s talk about your visit from the Alpha.”
The ease in Avine’s shoulders stuttered.
“There’s nothing to talk about. He showed up. He checked the wards. He left. I barely know him.”
“And yet.” Narla’s voice was quiet, observant. “Here you are, very carefully not talking about him.”
“Which is classic mating surge behavior, by the way,” Dahlia added, reaching for another pastry. “The magic makes people orbit each other while pretending they’re not. It’s predictable once you know what to look for.”
“I’m not orbiting anyone.”
Avine reached for a Don’t Overthink Danish. “He was rude. And territorial. And—”
“Hot,” Cassia supplied. “You forgot hot.”
Avine bit into the danish. “I didn’t notice.”
Every candle in the room flared bright orange.