Chapter Five
I had the waitress box up my untouched enchiladas. My stomach still sloshed with margarita and nerves, the two combining into a lovely cocktail of acid and oh-no-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into.
Black smoke. A demon. A fairy in the greenhouse. At this rate, a talking llama would barely make the top five weirdest things that had happened this week.
I hadn’t seen Dougal McAllister in years. I knew him—everyone in Hickory Hollow knew the man who ran the antique store across from Enchanted Blossoms. Owen’s dad. Walking reminder that the past never stayed in the past around here.
As we drove back toward town, I stared through the bug-splattered windshield, my thoughts whirling faster than the passing trees.
“Mac is your dad,” I blurted, breaking the silence.
Owen’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “Yeah. He is.”
“When you introduced yourself, you said your name was Mac.”
“So, I took his name.” He was quiet for a beat. “Honestly? When I saw you on the side of the road, I panicked. I didn’t know if you’d remember me, or if you did, what you’d think. Dad’s been ‘Mac’ my whole life—it just came out. And then I wanted to see if you’d figure it out.”
It shouldn’t matter. It did anyway.
“In my aunt’s letter, she said you liked me. Do you?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
Owen’s head snapped toward me, surprise written all over his annoyingly handsome face. Okay, maybe the tequila had been a mistake.
“Are you drunk?” he asked.
I flushed and stared hard at the road. “No. Answer the question, McAllister.”
“So, I’m McAllister now, not Owen.”
I blew a raspberry in his direction and crossed my arms, wishing I could crawl under the seat and stay there.
“Yes, Piper. I like you.” His voice went soft, earnest. “I’ve always liked you. Since the day you pushed me down on the playground in kindergarten.”
Heat rushed up my chest and into my cheeks. He remembered that?
And all this time I thought Hickory Hollow was in the past. Turns out, pieces of me were still living here.
I’d been six. Halle dared me to kiss Owen McAllister. He’d run; I’d chased him, grabbed his shirt sleeve, shoved him down, and landed on top of him to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. He’d shoved me off and stuck out his tongue like I’d given him cooties.
The teacher had caught us and hauled us both to the principal’s office.
Maybe my crush had started way earlier than late high school.
“I don’t remember that,” I lied.
“Now who’s the liar?” he said, but there was no heat in it.
I scowled out the window. “Can we go see your dad?”
He smirked, victorious, as he pulled into a space in front of Charmed & Vintage.
The bell over the door jingled when we stepped inside.
The familiar smell hit me first—dust, old wood, polish, and something sharper underneath.
The place was crammed with furniture and objects that looked like they carried stories whether you wanted them or not.
Dougal McAllister looked exactly like a man who belonged in a shop full of secrets. Tall—easily six-three—with the same straight nose and square jaw as his son, he wore a white golf shirt, black pants, and polished shoes. Less rumpled professor, more retired navy captain.
“Owen,” Dougal said, brows lifting. “What brings you here this time of day?”
“Hey, Dad. You remember Piper Wakefield?”
“Of course.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. When I took it, he closed his other hand over mine, his grip warm and solid. “I was sorry to hear about Alice.”
“Thanks,” I managed.
“She was a special lady.” His gaze softened, studying my face in a way that made something twist low in my chest. “You have large shoes to fill.”
“So you’ve heard?” I asked. “About the will?”
He scratched his chin. “Hard not to, with Iris running around town spewing her nonsense.”
I winced. Of course Iris was airing dirty laundry all over Hickory Hollow. The thought made my shoulders creep up toward my ears. Maybe Iris was owed something. Maybe I was the spoiled brat who got everything.
“Dad, we need to talk to you,” Owen said. He glanced around the cluttered shop. “In private.”
Dougal’s expression sharpened. “What’s this about, son?”
“Please, Mr. McAllister,” I said. “It’s important. And it’s about my aunt. I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”
Realization flickered through his eyes. He nodded once. “Of course. Follow me.”
He led us through a maze of chairs, sideboards, and mysterious trunks to a door marked PRIVATE. Inside was a small, dusty office crammed with a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and enough floor space for two chairs.
He waved us into the seats and propped himself against the edge of the desk.
“You’ve come about the ritual, I suppose,” he said. “I wondered when I might see you.”
“I told her some of it,” Owen said. “But I don’t have all the details.”
Dougal nodded. “I’ll tell you what I can, but Alice kept most of it close.” His gaze settled on me. “She didn’t want it getting out.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“She was afraid it would bring unwanted attention to the town.”
I thought of the demon in the flower shop, the tusks and the drool and the smell of rot. Pretty sure the unwanted attention had already arrived.
“Do the townspeople know about this… supernatural superhighway thing?” I asked.
“Some of them,” Dougal said. “At least in the old families. Alice took great pains to keep it under wraps. But over the last few months, something changed. She was afraid. Kept to herself more. She came to me a couple of times for help.”
He cut a glance at Owen, then drew a long breath. “I tried, Piper. I don’t think I was successful.”
My fingers tightened around my knees. “What do you know about her death?”
Dougal looked to Owen again.
“I told her,” Owen said quietly. “I think something killed Alice for what she was doing.”
Dougal’s shoulders sagged a fraction. He studied me closely. “How much do you know?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “Just that there was some ritual she had to perform at the tree. That’s what Owen told me.”
Dougal nodded slowly. “That’s true. But what he didn’t tell you—because he didn’t know—is that the tree is dying. Alice was trying to keep it alive.”
Owen stiffened beside me. I felt my pulse jump.
“Owen told me she was a… guardian,” I said.
“Yes,” Dougal said. “Guardian of the Crossroads.” His voice went grave. “Her duty was to keep the gate clear of black magic and darkness. But over the last few months, dark things have been seeping into our world. Things out of our worst nightmares.”
His mouth flattened. “Someone—or something—has been stealing pieces of bark from the hickory tree. Alice believed that was what was killing it. And if the tree dies…” He let the thought hang for a beat.
“There’ll be nothing left to stop them from coming through.
Into Hickory Hollow. And then into the rest of the world. ”
My aunt hadn’t been protecting a town. She’d been holding back the dark.
And Enchanted Blossoms, the house on Snapdragon Drive, the greenhouse, Town Hall Street—none of it was quaint small-town baggage anymore. It was the line.
If the tree died, Hickory Hollow wouldn’t be the place I’d come back to. It would be the first thing to fall.
He straightened and looked me dead in the eye.
“Piper, you’re her heir. It’s up to you to be the Guardian now.”
The words sat between us, heavy and unreal.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not— I’m not—” I broke off, breath unsteady. “Alice never told me any of this.”
The shop. The house. The word ever in Alice’s will. I’d thought she was trapping me in Hickory Hollow.
But this was worse. She hadn’t trapped me here. She’d handed me the keys and expected me to hold the door against whatever lived on the other side.
Dougal didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, he exhaled slowly, as if weighing how much truth I could bear.
“Hickory Hollow sits in a strange place,” he said at last. “Some towns are just towns. Others…”
He hesitated, lips pressing thin, gaze drifting briefly toward the wall—as if he could see past it.
“Others exist where paths overlap. Where worlds brush too close. Your aunt used to say it was a Crossroads—whether people believed in that or not.”
Silence slammed into the room.
I stared at him, the words ricocheting through my skull.
Guardian. Gate. Worst nightmares. Me.
My stomach cramped so sharply I folded in half, bracing my elbows on my thighs and dropping my head between my knees.
“You okay, Piper?” Owen’s hand landed between my shoulder blades, warm and steady.
“I’m in a lot of trouble,” I muttered. Then I jerked my head up and glared at him. “You knew and didn’t tell me, didn’t you? That’s why you freaked out when I said Alice left me everything.”
He had the decency to look guilty. “I knew… some. I didn’t know what you knew, and I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.” He winced. “Sorry I was the one to tell you.”
I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Get her some water, son,” Dougal said.
Owen slipped out, leaving me alone with his father.
“Piper,” Dougal said gently, “I think there was a reason Alice left you her estate. I don’t know what it is yet.”
“You don’t know,” I said, “or you can’t tell me?”
His gaze flickered, something unreadable moving there. “I don’t know. Alice was a smart woman. She never did anything without a plan. She’d been keeping that gate at the hickory tree for a long time.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Years.” Dougal pushed away from the desk and moved to stand in front of me. He crouched until we were eye to eye. Up close, I could see the worry carved into the lines around his mouth. “Owen doesn’t know this part, but I was helping her keep some artifacts.”
My skin prickled. “What sort of artifacts?”
“Magical ones,” he said simply. “I don’t know where she got them. I didn’t ask. She told me the antique shop would be the perfect place to keep them. So I agreed.”
Because of course the place across from Enchanted Blossoms doubled as a magical storage facility. Why wouldn’t it.
“Where are these things now?” I asked.
“In the storeroom. Locked up in crates like she wanted.” Dougal straightened and paced the cramped office. “Also, Piper… your aunt was a witch.”
My mouth went dry. For a second, I thought I’d misheard him.
Alice, with her gentle hands and dirt-smudged gloves. Alice, who told stories about other realms like they were half-remembered dreams. A witch.
Something strange flickered there again when he said your aunt, like the words didn’t sit right in his mouth. It slid down my spine like a tiny shard of ice.
I might have laughed if Owen hadn’t reappeared with a paper cup of water. Dougal fell silent while I gulped the cool liquid down in one go. I pressed the empty cup into Owen’s hand.
“Another, please,” I croaked.
Owen shot his father a look and slipped out again.
“You can’t be serious,” I said as soon as the door shut. “Witches are born, not made.”
“Sometimes,” Dougal said. His tone stayed calm, careful. “And sometimes people grow into what they already are. Or learn how to use things they didn’t know they had.” His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me. “Owen doesn’t know.”
Owen returned and handed me another cup. I drained it, grateful for the coolness against my raw throat and knotted stomach. Then I crushed the cup in my fist and stood.
“Well. Thank you for your time, Mr. McAllister.”
He smiled faintly. “Let me know if I can be of further help.”
“Oh, I will,” I said. “Count on it.”
I turned to Owen. “Can you take me home? I’m not sure I should be driving.”
“Sure. No problem.”
We said goodbye and stepped back out into the store, then into the bright afternoon. The drive to Snapdragon Drive was quiet, the air between us thick with everything unsaid.
“I heard what my dad told you,” Owen said finally, eyes on the road.
“What?” I asked, though I already knew.
“He said your aunt was a witch.”
A slow, shaky breath slipped out of me. “Yes.” The word came out thin and cold.
“Do you believe him?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Do you?” I studied his profile, the tight line of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Maybe,” he said. “Probably.”
“I’m sorry he didn’t tell you,” I said. “No one told me, either.”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I guess we’re both in the dark. Just… different dark.”
“Me more than you,” I said softly. “I feel like I’m standing in a room with the lights off, and things keep moving that I can’t see.”
“I’m still willing to help you,” he said.
“I know.” And I did. “Thank you. I appreciate that. When I know what I’m doing, maybe you can.”
Because whether I understood any of it or not, the tree was dying. Alice was dead. And Hickory Hollow was somehow mine now in a way I had never asked for and could no longer pretend didn’t matter.
He pulled into my driveway and shifted into park. I rested my hand on the door handle, then paused to look at him.
“Thanks, Owen. For everything.”
Our gazes caught and held. Now that I knew he liked me—had always liked me—I felt painfully aware of him. Of the warmth in his eyes. Of the air between us that felt charged, like right before a storm.
“You’re welcome,” he said quietly.
Before I could overthink it, I leaned across the console and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm and faintly rough with stubble.
I didn’t wait for his reaction. I bolted out of the car, heart racing, and climbed the porch steps. Only once I was inside did I dare peek through the window.
He was still sitting there, one hand on his cheek, as if he wasn’t sure what had hit him. I didn’t move away until I saw his truck finally back out of the drive and disappear down the road.
A pang of longing caught me off guard, sharp and startling.
Guardian. Witch. Ley lines. Demons.
And Owen McAllister, who had always liked me.
Welcome home, Piper. Whether I was ready for it or not.