to look at her. It dropped the body. Tufts of straw trailed from where the child was missing an arm.
Chandler let out a relieved breath. She recognized the child and the creature now. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s just Henry with Brooklyn’s scarecrow.” Well, there wasn’t anything to worry about as long as Brooklyn didn’t see Henry, Devlin’s golden retriever, making off with her straw man. If she did, there’d be hell to pay.
Peregrine wiggled past her to look. “I wasn’t afraid of nothin’. And that isn’t what I saw. What I saw was bigger. A lot bigger.” He fanned his arms, indicating something twice as tall and large as the scrap-metal rhinoceros that she’d sold to a client last month, impossibly larger than a redcap.
She gave him a side-eye look. Now he was fibbing, except…
A chill traveled up her arms, prickling against the magic in her tattoos. But what if—other than the size—it wasn’t a fib? What if he did have the sight like his father?
Chapter 2
Some say the duplicity comes from demons vying for man’s soul
or the fae seeking sovereignty over this realm.
Many believe it’s witches tainted by a lust for power.
It is all these things and more.
—Rafael Mastroianni, High Chancellor
Eastern Coast High Council of Witches
“Do redcaps leave footprints?” Peregrine asked as they passed the journalist’s Volkswagen on their way to the main house.
“Can we not talk about redcaps anymore?” Chandler said.
He scuffed his feet against the walk. “If their hats are all bloody, why don’t they leave a gooey trail wherever they go?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“I wish I’d see someone shift into a loup-garou. I wonder if Gar can shift. His father’s a loup-garou…”
Chandler tuned out Peregrine’s chatter, focusing instead on the soothing energy wheeling off the main house. The brick building that served as the heart of the coven’s complex had been an abandoned factory before Devlin and his sister, Athena—who had served as high priestess beside him—had taken over the project of revitalizing it from their mother. Chandler had loved the place from the first moment she’d arrived, well over eight years ago now. There was something about its psychic energy. Perhaps it was the memories imprinted into its scarred floorboards by the factory workers who’d traveled over them for decades, or the emotions crackling off the graffiti that still slashed its brick-walled hallways, tags left behind by people who had claimed the factory during the years it stood forsaken. Chandler couldn’t help wondering if their current confrontation with the journalist would also fuse itself to the building’s soul.
Of course it will, she answered her own question. If the journalist hadn’t attempted to infiltrate the coven, things might not have gotten to the point where the Circle couldn’t ignore him. But he had—and, unfortunately, it had happened after a witch by the name of Rhianna had murdered Athena and used dark magic to impersonate her. Every single member of the coven felt ashamed that they had failed to realize Rhianna wasn’t Athena. However, the journalist most likely still believed that Athena, and not Rhianna, had performed the ghastly spell that left his brain scrambled.
Chandler opened the building’s front door and let Peregrine race into the foyer ahead of her. He spread his arms out as if transforming into the falcon he was named after. Then he screamed into the hallway, his birdlike shrieks echoing off the brick walls as he made for the stairwell down to the first floor.
She rushed after him. But by the time she reached the open stairwell, he was already in the living room below. He made a loop around Chloe, who was setting a bottle of wine on the coffee table, then beelined into the lounge before vanishing into the dining room hallway. Hopefully, Brooklyn and Midas would be able to keep him occupied for at least a few minutes.
Chandler hurried down the stairs. “Where is everyone? I thought the journalist was here?”
Chloe was in her early twenties, willowy, blonde and bound-for-med-school brilliant. She was one of the most recent initiates to the coven, but she and Devlin had already formed a close relationship. That was a good thing; coping with the fallout from Athena’s murder hadn’t been easy for any of them, especially not for Devlin. He loved his sister deeply and needed the support—and distraction—of a vivacious witch like Chloe.
Sadness tightened Chandler’s chest. She missed Athena so much. Sure, Athena’s spirit was still present. But that wasn’t the same as having her longtime friend around, not at all the same.
“Unfortunately,” Chloe said, “the journalist is most definitely here. Devlin and Gar are giving him a tour of the teahouse right now. They should be back any second.”
Chandler frowned. “A tour seems a little friendly, all things considered.”
“I imagine they’re testing to see how much he remembers about the stuff that happened here with Rhianna. Not to mention trying to figure out if he really witnessed a loup-garou transforming.”
“That does sound smart.” Chandler eyed the wine bottle, weighed the idea of having a glass, and decided against it. “I wish I’d met the journalist that night and stopped Rhianna before she cast the spell on him. I can’t believe I missed everything.”
“Rhianna probably went out of her way to keep you in the dark.”
“I suppose.” She still felt awful about not noticing what was going on right under her nose. “How much damage do you think her magic did to him?”
“Something’s wrong with him for sure. He stumbles over his words as if he can’t get his thoughts to come together. If Brooklyn hadn’t told me that he was fine before Rhianna’s spell and worse as it went on, I’d assume he was recovering from aphasia.”
An ache pulled at the back of Chandler’s throat. A few years ago, when her adoptive mom had the stroke that put her in the High Council’s palliative care infirmary, she’d suffered from aphasia. It had been heart-wrenching to watch such a dynamic woman struggle to form even a single word.
The glass-and-steel industrial doors that formed the back wall of the living room glided open. Devlin and the journalist strolled in, shadowed by Gar’s broad-shouldered outline.
Though Chandler hadn’t met the journalist before, she had seen him on TV. It had been a rebroadcast of him ranting to a reporter that witchcraft was responsible for a club fire and a ton of crazy incidents around the city. He’d come across as irrational, but he’d been a hundred percent right about everything. At the time, she’d registered only that he was a slim, determined black man in his mid to late twenties with haphazardly chopped-off hair. Now, in real life, his loose-jointed stride and crazy hair made her think of Ichabod Crane from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” The fact that he wore slightly twisted librarian-style glasses only added to the unconventional vibe.
Chandler pressed her lips together to hide an amused smile. If she were to create a sculpture of him, she’d start with pipes from a child’s swing set for his long legs and wild curls of dark chain for his hair. She wasn’t sure what she’d use for his lips. He had beautiful lips.
She clenched her hands, squeezing them tight to stop the sculpture from coming to life in her head. She couldn’t afford to let his quirky appeal convince her he was harmless. He was dangerous. If they couldn’t convince him he was wrong about everything he’d witnessed and keep him quiet, the High Council would rescind the reprieve they’d given the coven. The Circle would once again be accused of being responsible for breaches in the witching world’s anonymity. For sure, they’d get disbanded. Worse than that, the Council could even have the members’ abilities to work magic removed. Their sacred objects and all their assets could be seized, including the complex. They could lose everything.
The