Chapter 32
GREY
Ifelt the magic stir. A restless energy settled into my bones. I needed to leave the house —now.
The Dutchman was quiet and empty at this early hour. I took a seat at the bar, tapping my fingers impatiently.
“A little early even for you, isn’t it?” Hayes asked.
“Nice to see you, too.” I pointed at the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind him.
“Shut up, asshole,” he said, pouring a generous glass of the brown liquid. I didn’t bother sipping and instead downed the entire thing in one gulp.
“Does this have anything to do with the pretty witch you’ve been hanging around?” He quirked a brow in my direction as he refilled my empty glass.
“How do you know I’ve been hanging out with someone?” I sipped the whiskey this time, fighting the urge to down the entire thing again.
“I’m a bartender in a small town. People talk, especially when it comes to someone as interesting as Lyra Clarke.”
People needed to mind their own damn business and stop sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.
“So, you and the Clarke girl…” Hayes waited for me to continue.
I opened and shut my mouth as I worked out how much to actually tell him. Old habits died hard. “Lyra is helping me remove this damn thing.” I pulled down my sweatshirt to give him a better view of the shackle around my neck.
“And you’re sulking because a smoking-hot witch is willing to help you?” Hayes questioned.
“I’m not fucking sulking.” I slammed the glass down onto the counter. “I’m drinking to get drunk.”
“Most people wait until at least lunch to have their first drink.”
“Thanks, I’ll take that into consideration next time I decide to day drink.” I motioned for a refill.
“What the fuck is she getting out of helping you? Because I know it’s not the presence of your company.” The asshole laughed, and I resisted the urge to punch him in the face. See, I knew how friendship worked.
“I’m helping her with a spirit problem.”
“Interesting.” He busied himself behind the bar.
“Out with it,” I growled. This conversation was putting me in a piss-poor mood. I came here to enjoy my drink, not talk about my fucking feelings. I’d done enough of that recently.
“It’s just—I’ve heard rumblings. A girl was found mutilated in the town square this morning. Her throat slit.” Hayes leaned across the bar to whisper, “Magic is thrumming under this whole damn town.”
Another victim? Shit.
“You feel it too?” My voice dropped an octave.
“Something is coming. Or it might already be here,” Hayes said in a dramatic end-of-the-world voice. But he really might not be too far off. “I’m not saying the witch isn’t helping you, but the timing of everything is suspicious.”
My teeth ground together at Hayes’s warning because history had a way of repeating itself.
The whole town was fucking crazy. People laughed with excitement, walking the streets where a girl was brutally murdered just this morning. But that was what drew people to Twisted Spires. The dark and twisted.
I knocked on Lyra’s ridiculously ornate front door. Humans and their expensive shit. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look at the entire house. The unfathomable wealth these families possessed was nothing compared to the magic that flowed through their veins.
“Hello,” I hollered. But no one answered. I turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. Two girls had been murdered, and she still couldn’t bother to lock the front door. Lyra would, without a doubt, be the first to die in a horror film.
I walked down the hallway, not caring that my ratty boots tracked filth through the home. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason this house felt more inviting than Devin’s, but it did. Maybe it was because I’d never been tortured in their basement.
Pans clanked together and I followed the sound to find Lyra wearing an apron and not much else. The kitchen looked as if a tornado had swept through, leaving only destruction in its wake. Dishes filled the sink while open bags of ingredients overtook most of the counter space.
The scene before me was chaotic and ridiculous, and I watched in awe as Lyra bounced around from the island to the counter.
“Has everyone in this town lost their mind?” I asked, taking in the beautiful madness.
She jumped; eyes widening. “Grey,” she brought her hand to her chest, “you scared the shit out of me.”
“You left the door unlocked.”
“Opps.” She shrugged.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Baking for the cinnamon festival,” she singsonged.
“The what?”
“The. Cinnamon. Festival,” she said each word slowly like it would help make sense. “I completely forgot about making the cinnamon pies.”
I looked around the counter to find a dozen pies covering the large kitchen island. “Emory promised to help me, but after our little spat this morning, she made some lame excuse and bailed.” She sighed, continuing to mix the ingredients.
The oven beeped, and she bent over, removing a pie from the oven. Her shorts rode up, and I couldn’t help myself. My palm smacked against the curve of her ass, hard enough to leave a stinging sensation in my hand.
She yelped, smacking me with a pair of oven mitts.
“I’m going to kill Kenna and Emory for leaving me to make all these,” she muttered. But suddenly, her face fell. “They found another girl this morning.”
“I know. Hayes told me about it at the bar.”
“On a first name basis with the bartender, are we?” She quirked a brow. “Grey, do you have a friend?”
“No, I was just out of whiskey because you used it all. But word is already spreading around town. Did you feel anything last night?”
“No.” She shook her head, staring at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” I moved, trapping her between my body and the counter. “I want to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. Even your darkest thoughts.”
“What if this is my fault? Like maybe it’s happening because my magic isn’t strong enough to help the souls.”
I placed my finger under her chin, lifting it until I saw those beautiful hazel eyes. “This isn’t happening because of you.”
“Another girl was murdered. Sacrificed. And we still aren’t any closer to answers.”
“I know. I can feel the magic stirring. Calling to whoever will answer. Whatever is happening is almost here.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I whispered, gingerly placing a kiss on her lips.
The oven beeped.
I tightened my grip around her, refusing to let her go. Fuck the pies, I would let the world burn for this girl. What was a pie or two?
“Grey, they’re going to burn.” She pushed against my chest. “Where are they?” She frantically searched for the oven mitts I’d discarded somewhere in the mess as the oven continued to beep. “Where did I put them down?” she muttered, continuing to look.
I opened the stove, reaching in to remove the two pies with my bare hands.
“Don’t!” she shouted. “They’re hot, you’ll burn yourself.”
“I’ll survive.” The heat barely registered. “I couldn’t bear the thought of your precious pies burning.”
I placed them on the counter with the others. The tops of the pies had a golden hue.
She placed a kiss on my cheek, then began inspecting the pies. Sugar coated her hair as she moved about the kitchen with practiced ease.
“How many of these do you have to make?” I asked.
“As many as I can crank out.” The tension returned to her shoulders. “Mr. Whitethorn will be expecting at least a dozen.”