Chapter 3 #2
The moment I hit eighteen and could leave, I did.
Since then, I’ve truly been on my own. The Foxglove fortune everyone whispers about?
I haven’t seen a dime of it. I’ve worked so many odd jobs just to make ends meet while going to university for a degree in the history of magic.
Specifically the twelfth century, which was when our world nearly ended.
That time period has always been my special interest. Earning a degree in it was worth all of the countless overnight shifts I worked to get by.
In 1301, a doorway was ripped open between here and another.
A witch, werewolf, and daimon sacrificed themselves in order to close that doorway.
That time period is referred to as the Hex.
During the Hex, our genetics were changed permanently.
Every person born—witch, werewolf, daimon—was also designated as an alpha, omega, or beta.
The Hex not only nearly ended our world before the doorway had been closed, whatever magic leaked from it permanently changed the structure of our societies.
Supposedly, the tear happened right here in the mountains by the lake. The town is named after it.
Of course, one of the witches who sacrificed herself was a Foxglove. My family has always had a stake in the fate of the world, but that ends with me. I’m not an alpha witch. I don’t have the power to save anyone.
Sylvan’s demeanor softens, but only by a fraction. He leans over the table, blanching as he looks over the contract. A grunt leaves him, his fingertips digging into the surface with enough strength to leave dents in the hardwood.
My skin prickles as a wave of power rolls off him. I clench my thighs together.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
“If Maeve has already bound us, why the paper?” Sylvan asks.
“Well . . .” There’s an uneasiness in Byrne’s voice that makes me nauseous. “The way this is written . . .”
Sylvan’s breath rushes out. I stare down at the contract in front of me, trying to comprehend just how entirely fucked over I am. It’s a lot. She really did this to me.
My grandmother really, really hated me.
“This is everything,” Sylvan whispers. “This contract says every part of the inheritance is in my control.”
There’s a sharp ringing in my ears.
It’s not supposed to be this way.
I fulfilled my duty at the funeral. I followed through with our traditions and did everything I could to make this simple and easy, but of course—of course she can’t just let me go.
Sylvan shakes his head. “I do not need this. I'd rather go on my way. I have plenty of money and the only reason I even take gigs like these is to keep busy.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter. All of the anger I’ve felt the last few days shrivels. I’m hollow inside.
His nostrils flare in response. “I’d rather reject this and leave.”
“You cannot reject the contract. You’ve already been bound to the witch, Sylvan.
No amount of magic can unravel this. The Foxglove inheritance is in your possession to protect for exactly nine full months.
In this time, you will also protect Morgan.
Both of you will reside within these walls.
Once the nine months have passed, if Morgan is safe and sound, you will retain fifteen percent of the fortune, and the rest will be passed on to her. If you fail, you . . . Well . . .”
“I what?” he whispers. When Mr. Byrne doesn’t immediately answer, Sylvan’s growl shakes the table. “I what?”
“If any harm falls to Morgan, it falls to you as well.” Byrne pales as he reads over the paper in his hands one more time.
“If she so much as receives a paper cut, you will feel her pain.” He lets out a soft sound, his frown deepening.
“Perhaps Morgan is in danger, then. This is a serious spell. As fickle as Maeve could be, I don’t think she would do this out of spite. ”
A dry laugh leaves me.
He never really knew Maeve at all then.
Sylvan hangs his head, hair flopping forward.
His shoulder muscles ripple with tension as he blows out a breath.
“There’s no danger in Hex Ridge. The worst that happens in this town is when someone forgets to put a newspaper on someone’s doorstep or they run out of donuts at the cafe in the square.
There’s what? Only a couple thousand people who live here? ”
“There’s the coven,” Byrne says. “House of Hecate. One of the oldest and most respected covens in the world.”
“Okay, and? That was Maeve’s coven. But she passed the torch on to some other person, right? The woman in the mask at the funeral is probably the coven leader.”
“Cassandra,” I mutter. They both look at me, but I shrug my shoulders. “She’s a bitch and she hates me, but I don’t think she’d actually hurt anyone. The coven is regarded highly in our world, you know that. I don’t think they’re doing anything bad.”
Byrne shakes his head vehemently. “Maeve perceived danger. The torch was red. Her dying wish was to bind you to Sylvan. She would not have done this for nothing. You both may be pissed off about this situation, but you’re stuck together for nine months now.”
“Which again is your fault, lawyer. Considering you had us hold hands or whatever the hell that was. We could report this to the Council,” Sylvan says.
“I didn’t know a binding spell would immediately take place.
It’s not like I planned this. You saw me crack the seal.
Besides, daimons can’t perform magic like this.
Report it to the Council, for all I care.
They can get back to you in approximately three years after they’ve worked through all the other stupid requests they have.
None of this is my fault, so don’t bite the messenger. ”
“I’ll rip the messenger limb from limb if I feel like it,” Sylvan sneers.
I’m completely lost. I keep volleying between anger and a sense of despair.
I’m going to be trapped here again. Neither Sylvan nor Mr. Byrne understand just how horrible of a punishment this is for me.
To be back in the house that holds all my nightmares .
. . I haven’t stepped foot back in this town in a decade for a reason.
She always said I’d come back one day. When I ran away, she swore I’d return and of course, I told her I would when she died. Well, I guess we were both right. At least she’s dead now.
“How did she die?”
My whisper quiets their bickering. I feel the weight of their attention.
The lawyer frowns. “What?”
“No one told me.” I run my nails through my hair, thinking about the phone call I received from one of the coven leaders. I can’t remember his name. Stephen? Zaryn? Not Cassandra, thank the goddess. “All I know is that she died. No one told me how.”
Byrne shrugs callously. “I was told it was old age. I personally haven’t seen Maeve in about a decade. The last time was to . . .”
“Cut me off,” I say. “To make sure I had nothing since I left Hex Ridge. No access to money. No support whatsoever. No help getting an ID or finding a place to live. That time, Mr. Byrne?”
Sylvan’s eyes land on me, a frown marring his handsome face.
Byrne winces. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I know this has not been an easy life for you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “I guess she was old. But given how much spite that woman had in her, I thought it’d pickled her soul.
I figured she’d outlive me, truth be told.
Do you know, Sylvan? You were her bodyguard.
Did something bad happen to her or was this really a natural death?
” And did I really even care if someone did kill her? Hadn’t they just done me a favor?
For the first time in our conversation, Sylvan’s anger completely disappears.
He presses his lips together. “Two days before Maeve died, she asked me to take off for the weekend. She insisted that I take a break, and made it sound like it was the last I’d have for a while.
” His frown flickers into a smile. “I guess she did plan this, then. What an old witch.”
“I can think of a better word for her that rhymes with witch.”
That annoys Sylvan. “She wasn’t that bad . . .”
“She absolutely was.”
“Right.” Byrne sighs with clear impatience and snatches our pens, uncapping them. “Just sign here. Both of you.”
“What’s in the third envelope?” I ask.
He picks it up and turns it over. “It’s for you. But only to be received in nine months.”
“Great. Probably another way to fuck me over.”
Byrne doesn’t disagree, which doesn’t give me much hope I’m wrong. “Let’s just get these signed and I’ll be on my way. I’m sure the two of you have much to discuss given your new living situation.”
Sylvan meets my gaze across the table. “This is your fault.”
“My fault? Are you forgetting who bound us together in the first place?”
“Sign the papers, please.”
“Fuck you, Byrne,” Sylvan mumbles, scrawling his signature on the paper. He tosses the pen down. “I should complain to—”
“To who?” Byrne asks. “The Council again? I’ve heard things about you.
You’re a lone wolf. You won’t go to them because you already want to stay off their radar.
Frankly, just be happy you’re watching over the last Foxglove.
If this town is as basic as you claim, it should be an easy paycheck for you. ”
Sylvan’s golden eyes flash like lightning, then darken like a roiling storm over an ocean. He stalks out of the dining room, and this time, the house lets him.
“Where are you going?” I call out.
“To my side of the house. Stay away from me, witch.”
The sound of his boots fade.
Damn it. He’s taken the west wing. That’s the side of the house I was never allowed on, far away from my childhood bedroom. I would have wanted to take that side just so I could be away from where I lived growing up.
I pick up the pen and sign my name. Something wet splashes on the paper next to my signature and I swallow hard. It’s a tear.
Byrne pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and surprises me by tucking it into my hand. “Do not cry, child. I cannot stand tears. All will be well.”
I strangle a laugh. “Nine months. Nine. And I’m stuck with that. What are we going to do during my heat?”
“The house will take care of you, I’m sure. My understanding is that his room is warded for his rut.” His gaze softens. Maybe Byrne does have a heart and isn’t just a soul-sucking lawyer. “His scent should not bother you.”
The problem is, it already does. His scent is like a blanket, and every cell in my body already craves its comforting warmth. But why? Why do I like his scent when we clearly are so painfully incompatible? He’s hated me from the moment I walked through the door.
“This is terrible.” I push the paper across the table. “Is there really no loophole?”
“It’s only nine months,” Byrne chirps. I narrow my eyes on him.
He’s a little too excited about getting the hell out of here.
“It’s a binding contract. He’ll protect you, you’ll live a quiet life until it’s over, then you can run off to do whatever you were dreaming of.
And what was that, Morgan? No longer being a Foxglove? You’ll never escape the name.”
“I will one day,” I say. “I’m not like them.”
He offers me a soft, sad smile. “You are far more like them than you can imagine. Give me a call if something goes terribly wrong. Otherwise, be good. I wish you luck.”
I nod numbly as he gathers everything into his briefcase and retreats to the front door.
The house lets him go.
“Why?” I whisper once I’m alone. “Why would you do this to me? Wasn’t hating me for years enough? Wasn’t reminding me my parents died for me enough? Wasn’t hating me enough?”
Apparently not.
When I stand up, I waver on my feet. A whole checklist of things I need to do starts running through my mind. A hot shower, arranging a room for myself, grabbing my belongings from the hotel I’ve been staying at—
The house shutters, and my suitcase appears in the doorway.
“Really?” I ask. “So you can do that, but you can’t guard me from whatever danger is apparently lurking around? Why do we need an alpha werewolf, Tabby?”
The house is silent. I roll my eyes.
Since age three, I’ve called the house Tabitha.
Back then, I still had my parents, and was far too young to understand how disappointing I was to my grandmother.
The reason I call the house Tabby is because of a doll Maeve gave me that went missing one day.
I’d cried and cried until my mother told me the house took it.
So the house became Tabitha, or Tabby. The nickname tends to annoy it more. Or her. I’m still not entirely sure if a spirit inhabits these walls or if it really is just the accumulation of magic from several generations of powerful witches.
Either way, the house is just as fickle as my grandmother. And it’s apparently in on whatever little scheme she came up with before her death.
“Is there still whiskey in the back of the herbal cabinet?”
I’m already stepping into the kitchen. The house doesn’t answer me, but that’s fine. I know it’s back there. I rummage around a couple of cabinets until I spot it. I pour myself a shot and hold up the glass.
“Cheers,” I say. “To Maeve. I hope there is an afterlife so you have to suffer knowing you can’t fuck me over any more than you already have.”
I throw back the shot and grunt as it sears my throat, warming me from the inside.
Now, I just have to figure out how the hell I’m going to live with a werewolf for nine months.