Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The double doors of Ashcroft Manor slam open with a crack that echoes through the entrance hall like a gunshot. The perfect stained-glass goddess above the entrance bathes the foyer in fractured color as I storm through, Asher and Rowan scrambling to keep pace.
"Poppy, maybe we should…" Rowan starts.
I don't slow. I storm down the portrait-lined corridor, past generations of Emberwood witches whose painted eyes seem to judge my every step.
The rage thrumming through my veins drowns out reason, drowns out caution, drowns out everything except the need to make Laurel answer for what she's done.
The meeting room doors are partially open. Voices drift out—hushed, and heated.
"—happened to Davina can’t happen again.”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t know that!”
I shove through the door so hard, the panel swings back and the doorknob slams through the drywall.
Nine high-backed chairs sit around a massive ebony table, its polished surface reflecting the chandelier above like dark water. The goddess’ moon phases trace across the wood in elaborate silver inlays, and seated around the table’s edges are faces both familiar and strange.
Laurel stiffens at the head, her silver hair pulled back, highlighting the severity of her displeasure as I burst in.
Marcus sits to her right, his expression carefully neutral given the tension of the conversation I interrupted.
Jane is standing, her palms braced against the table, her red hair catching the light as she leans forward in a fury.
Stuart sits rigid and sniveling beside two people I've never seen before—a woman with sharp cheekbones and calculating dark eyes, and a man whose salt-and-pepper beard does nothing to soften his harsh features.
"What is the meaning of this?” Laurel's hand slams down on a leather-bound ledger, snapping it shut with such force the sound cracks through the room. Equal parts fury and something that looks like panic flash across her face.
For a split second, I register that I've interrupted something important—the tension in the room and shifty glances aren’t just about my dramatic entrance—but my rage surges back, obliterating curiosity.
Laurel composes herself first and sends me a look to kill. “Get out. You are trespassing. This is a private meeting.”
“Private? Sure, let’s talk about the importance of privacy." The words come out sharp as broken glass. “Let’s talk about your very public post blaming me for the dangerous destabilization in Emberwood’s magical ecosystem. Or how I created rifts in the veil and attracted malevolent entities.”
I storm straight at the empty end of the table and glare. “Seriously? You blamed me for that? That was all about you being an elitist coward too busy covering your puckered ass than doing your fucking job as a coven leader!”
Footsteps pound into the room behind me.
I’m half-expecting to be hit in the back by a spell or to get lifted off my feet, but neither happens, so I count that as a win.
“I don’t like or respect you, but I was willing to stay out of your way if you stayed out of mine.
Throwing me under your bus was a big mistake, bitch. ”
Laurel stands, her chair scraping against the floor. “Well, little girl, until you have the juice to back up your threats, I suggest you shut your mouth and leave.”
I laugh. “Always with the threats. No wonder the Emberwood Coven is literally coming apart at the seams.”
Jane laughs, a sharp bark of sound. “Like you know anything about what Emberwood’s been going through. You’ve been here for what… four weeks?”
“Exactly my point! I was too busy having my mind wiped and being exiled by my coven to have anything to do with the destabilization of Emberwood’s magical ecosystem.”
"Enough." Laurel's voice carries command, that authority she wears like armor. “What I posted is the truth, as the other covens need to understand it.”
“But it’s not the truth.” I move to round the table, and Asher's hand brushes my elbow, tugging me back. I shake him off and continue forward. “You lied at my expense.”
Laurel's chin lifts. “I stated facts. Your presence, your actions, your very existence has destabilized the power and peace Emberwood has known for generations. That is not a lie, Poppy. That is reality."
The laugh that escapes me sounds wrong, too dark.
“Do you really want to talk about reality? The reality is you betrayed the witches in your coven for power. You covered up the fact that your actions resulted in the deaths of five people. And then you kidnapped me and my sisters, so no one could connect the dots.”
The temperature in the room plummets and at the same time, the magical energy in the room builds. The hair on my arms stands on end, and I brace myself for Laurel’s attack.
The witches sitting at the table exchange loaded glances. I bet when they arrived at this meeting, they weren’t expecting this kind of magical drama.
Oh well. Sucks to be them.
“Poppy.” Wylder's voice startles me, but not enough that I take my eyes off Laurel. “This won’t help. You need to calm down.”
“Fine, I’ll calm down as soon as she tells me what the hell she did with my sisters. Where are they, Laurel? What don’t you want me to find out?”
The pressure in the air shifts.
The magical energy all around us arcs.
Wylder moves before I can process what's happening, his arm hooking around my waist as Laurel's arms come up and I’m hit with a blast of energy. The repulsion spell hits like a wall of solid force, shoving me and everyone with me back into the hallway with brutal efficiency.
“And stay out!” Laurel's voice rings with finality.
The door slams shut with a force that blows my hair back from my face. Wylder grips me by the shoulders and pins me to the wall. “Enough, Poppy. Take a breath.”
I fight his hold, and a moment later, the world pivots.
“This isn't over!” I spit the words over Wylder's shoulder as he hauls me like a sack of particularly angry potatoes toward the door.
Being manhandled wars with the passionate fury still burning through my veins, but the moment the cool evening air hits my face, my fire seems to extinguish.
The violent darkness dissolves, leaving me drained and a little bewildered. “Okay, so that happened.”
The worry in Wylder’s gaze is too much, so I turn to Asher. He looks even more panicked.
“What? She totally deserved that. What’s the problem? No blood was shed.”
Asher blinks. “Baby girl, I’ve seen you lose your shit more times than I can count. It’s always a kick, and I’ve always got your back, but that was next level.”
“Well, she really pissed me off.”
“I get that, but it’s not like you to get unhinged.”
Rowan has shadows gathering at her fingertips like she's ready to fight something, but doesn't know what. “It was scary, girlfriend.”
“We’re just worried about you, Hallowind.” Wylder’s words are quiet, his expression softened. “It was like you were possessed. And given what happened two days ago…”
With the fury drained, exhaustion rushes in its wake. And underneath that creeps a niggling unease. The darkness in me thrums smugly in the recesses of my mind. It took hold of me, and I liked it.
And what’s worse? It knows I liked it.
I blow out a breath. “Can we just go?”
The hot shower does nothing to wash away the unease crawling under my skin. I scrub harder, like I can scour off whatever darkness wrapped around me at Ashcroft Manor, but the water just runs clear down the drain.
I catch my reflection in the steamed mirror as I towel off. Same blue hair, vibrant blue eyes of my magical affinity. But something feels different.
Wrong.
I decide against putting my clothes back on and pad down the hall toward my room in my towel. Not for the first time, I stop and study myself in the Concordance Mirror.
It stands taller than me, a sentinel between the bedroom doors that has always been part of Hallowind House and always will be. Its frame is dark, old wood, carved by hand into twisting vines and small leaves, the details softened where time—and my ancestors—have worn them smooth.
The edges of the glass are clouded enough to blur the reflection if I don’t look straight on. That aged blur gives everything a gentler focus, as if the mirror isn’t interested in sharp lines or surface truths.
When I meet my own gaze, I know I’m being quietly measured. My image ripples, and my reflection stirs.
There’s a lag between the reflection of me and the reality but whether that’s a commentary on my emotional or spiritual alignment, I can’t say.
Magic balance, soul fractures, possession, divided loyalties… the mirror doesn’t tell you the answers, but it highlights the symptoms to make you aware of what’s going on within you.
I’m out of sync. No big surprise there.
Maybe one day I’ll stand in front of this mirror, and my image will be clear and locked in place. I laugh inwardly and continue down the hall to my room.
Yeah, maybe one day.
Hanging in my closet, all soft, furry, and cute, is my sloth onesie. I pull it on, needing the comfort of being ridiculous and safe in my own home.
Downstairs, voices drift from the family room, low and careful. I pause at the bottom step, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
"—never seen her like that." Wylder's baritone carries the weight of worry.
"The energy coming off her was…" Orion trails off.
"Dark," Rowan finishes. "Like properly dark. Shadow magic, curse-craft dark, but worse. Colder."
My chest tightens.
"Should we tell her?" Orion asks.
"Tell her what? That we think she's losing control?" Wylder sighs. "She knows. The panic of knowing was in her eyes when the rage cleared."
I back away from the doorway, pressure building behind my eyes. They're not wrong. That's the worst part. I had lost control. The fury that consumed me in Laurel's office felt good in the moment—righteous and powerful.
Now it just feels terrifying.
Maybe I should hide in my room until I can figure out what to say. I turn to head back upstairs and nearly collide with Asher.
He's wearing his Scooby-Doo onesie, the hood with the floppy ears pushed back, and is carrying two bowls of popcorn so large they should require structural engineering.
He takes one look at my face and leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. The bowls wobble dangerously.
"I'm calling a Bridgerton binge-night." He says it like he's declaring a national holiday. "The Life and Death Brigade needs a night off."
The knot in my chest loosens. "Ash—"
"No arguing, Pops. We're watching hot dukes make terrible decisions and eating our body weight in popcorn. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"Doctor of knowing when my girl needs a break." He grins. "Now come on, I made the good popcorn. The kind with—"
The doorbell chimes.
Immediately, the house erupts in the chaos of our determined doggy defense duo. Nobuddy and Somebuddy rocket past us like furry missiles, their high-pitched barking echoing off the walls.
Asher frowns. "Who shows up at—" He checks his watch. "Eight-thirty on a Wednesday?"
"Only one way to find out." I head for the door, the chihuahuas circling my ankles like manic satellites.
Asher sets the popcorn bowls on the hall table and follows.
I pull the door open to find Mica on my porch, flanked by two other young witches.
I recognize Izzy from the wellness shop, but the third girl is new.
She’s a petite black girl, that reminds me a great deal of Rue from the Hunger Games.
Her dark blue eyes are fiercer than her size suggests, and her smile seems genuinely warm despite never having met her.
Mica's gaze travels from my sloth onesie to Asher's Scooby-Doo ensemble, and her lips twitch. "Did we interrupt a cosplay convention?"
"We're having a night in." I bend and scoop up Nobuddy before he launches himself off the porch. "And yeah, this is how we roll.”
Points to them that they seem more impressed than alarmed.
I shrug. “So, what's up?"
Mica's expression shifts, humor replaced by something sharper. More urgent. "We might have an idea about how to send the demons back to the Hell Realm."
Asher sighs. “Boo, the Life and Death Brigade does not get a night off.”