Chapter 15
It was, Wells reflected as he placed a new display of amulets on the counter of Penhallow’s, much more peaceful when he wasn’t feuding with Gwyn Jones.
It had been a week since the . . . incident in the cellar, and after Gwyn’s offer of coffee and a truce, he’d barely seen her. Occasionally they were opening up or closing down at the same time, and when that happened, they’d give each other a cordial wave. No arguments, no attempts at outdoing one another. Just two local business owners with an appropriate Business Relationship, all very civilized.
So yes, much more peaceful.
And also, he had to admit, much duller.
He caught himself glancing at the front window again, something he was doing more and more frequently lately. Wells always told himself it was because he was keeping an eye out for any potential customers, but the truth was, he was hoping to see a glimpse of red hair, and that was so pathetic he could hardly stand it. This was what came of living a fairly celibate life for too many years, clearly. One kiss, and he was practically pining. He’d be doodling “Mr. Llewellyn Penhallow-Jones” in a notebook next.
And Gwyn had made it very clear that she was not doing the same.
You should have told her about the “spell,” you numpty, a voice in his head reminded him, and Wells sighed, sliding the display case closed.
“To what end?” he muttered out loud just as the bell over the shop door rang.
Another stupid leap of his heart, hoping it might be her—although if she heard him say “to what end?” he was in for a pretty thorough mocking, he knew—but as he looked over, he saw it wasn’t Gwyn but another woman, slightly shorter, dressed all in black. Her hair was black, too, so dark it had an almost blue sheen in the lamplight.
Her skin was pale, her lips a deep crimson, and the magic radiating off her was so strong that Wells nearly took a step back. He hadn’t felt power like that . . . well, ever, really. And his family was full of very powerful witches.
“Good morning,” he called down, stepping around the counter, and she turned toward him, those bright red lips curving into a smile.
“Llewellyn,” she said, and he paused, his eyes searching her face, looking for anything familiar. Surely, he’d remember her. Not just because she was beautiful—although she was certainly that—but for this sensation, like electricity was coming off her. He half expected to find his hair standing on end.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” he asked, and she laughed, waving one elegant hand.
“Oh, not really,” she said, a faint Southern accent rounding her vowels. “We were at Penhaven at the same time, but I don’t think we ever actually spoke.”
Ah. That would explain it. He’d had his nose pressed against the proverbial grindstone so hard in that brief time at Penhaven, it was a wonder he had any nose left at all.
“I’m Morgan. Morgan Howell,” she said now, offering her hand for Wells to shake. He was reminded of the other morning, that brief press of his palm to Gwyn’s, how he’d been intensely aware of her skin and the warmth of it, how such a simple gesture had had him flexing his hand for the rest of the day, like he could still feel her touch there.
There was no such spark with Morgan, which was both a relief—he hadn’t developed some kind of handshaking fetish—and also an annoyance since it was just another tick in the column reading, “Wells Is a Stupid Git With a Wildly Inappropriate Crush.”
“Your store is lovely,” Morgan said, gesturing around, and Wells slid his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little. It was a new feeling, this pride in his establishment, and he was rather enjoying it, if he was honest.
“Thank you. I’ve only been open for a couple of weeks, but so far, it’s done well.”
“I can see why,” Morgan said as her gaze took in his neat shelves, the dull glimmer of the various amulets, the crackling fire against one wall.
Then her dark eyes moved to him, and Wells had the sense he was getting the same level of assessment she’d given the shop. “But nothing in here is . . . real,” she added.
“Oh, it’s all very real, I assure you,” Wells replied, knocking on the shelf that held the grimoires. “It’s just that none of it is magic.”
Grinning, Morgan reached out with one hand, swatting at him. “Obviously, that’s what I meant,” she said, and Wells didn’t miss the way she ducked her head just the littlest bit or the dimple that appeared in one cheek.
She was flirting with him.
And if he had any fucking sense, he’d flirt right back. This was a beautiful woman who was also a powerful witch, and she was clearly interested in more than just his wares. Women like this were not exactly thick on the ground.
But then he once again felt his eyes wander to the front window.
Morgan followed that look. “Gwyn Jones still runs Something Wicked, right?” she asked, and Wells snapped back to attention.
“Indeed she does,” he replied. “It’s got, as I believe she’d say, ‘a different vibe,’ but it’s a lovely store in its own way.”
“Gwyn was always a firecracker,” Morgan mused, still looking out the front window, and Wells couldn’t help but smile.
“That has not changed, I assure you.”
Morgan turned back to him then, her gaze assessing. “Are the two of you . . . ” she asked, trailing off suggestively, and Wells could actually feel himself about to launch into some sort of terrifyingly prudish bumbling speech, all stammers and formal words like he was in some dire romantic comedy.
Instead, he stepped back from the window, giving what he hoped was a carefree-sounding laugh. “Oh, no,” he said, even as visions of his hands in Gwyn’s hair, her lips parting under his, laid siege to his brain. “Merely fellow local business owners. And . . . family, I suppose. Her cousin is married to my brother.”
Morgan nodded. “I heard all about that. And it’s the Jones family’s magic currently running the town now, yes?”
Wells nodded even as he waited for the irritation he normally felt at that reminder to bubble up. But there was nothing there this time. Maybe it was because he’d been in Graves Glen long enough now to see how smoothly things seemed to be running. How happy his brother was.
Maybe, though he’d never say it out loud, his father had actually been . . . wrong.
No lightning bolt crackled out of the sky to singe him for such a disloyal thought, so Wells added, “Doing a bang-up job of it, too.”
Morgan smiled again, reaching up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “That’s actually why I’m here,” she said. “After Penhaven, I went back to Charleston and joined a coven there. It’s been wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but Rhiannon knows Charleston has plenty of witches, which means hundreds of covens, and I was starting to feel a little lost in the shuffle. I thought it might be nice to settle somewhere smaller, closer to a direct source of power. And when I heard that that power was now being channeled through Gwyn and her family, I knew this was the right time to come back.”
Reaching into her coat, she pulled out a cream-colored envelope, his name written elegantly across the front, a purple wax seal affixed to the back.
“I’ve got a place just outside of town, near the college, and I’m having a little housewarming party Friday night. Local witches only.” She said that with another one of those sharp smiles. “I hope you’ll drop by.”
The invitation was heavy in his hand, the paper thick and expensive, and Wells had to admit he was a little impressed even as something about Morgan’s story . . . well, it didn’t bother him exactly, but something about it didn’t quite add up for him, either. Wells may not have had that many customers at The Raven and Crown, but you didn’t run a pub for years without learning how to read people.
And right now, Morgan was trying slightly too hard.
He thought again about what Bowen had said, about how shifts in magical power could draw all sorts of bad people.
Was that why Morgan was here?
This, Wells reminded himself, was why he’d come here. To be of use to the town his ancestor had founded and keep it safe.
So he smiled back at Morgan, tapping the invitation against his palm. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Have I mentioned how much I’m gonna miss you?”
Gwyn was sitting cross-legged on Vivi and Rhys’s bed, watching as her cousin did some last-minute packing. Or Vivi’s version of it, at least. She’d been packed for weeks as far as Gwyn knew, but she always ended up doing this, taking everything out and doing a thorough repacking in case she’d forgotten something.
Now, as Vivi folded up one of her skirts and laid it in the open suitcase by Gwyn’s hip, she shook her head slightly, blond hair falling over her shoulders. “We’ll be back before you know it. The weeks leading up to Samhain are always nuts, anyway, so you’ll be too busy to actually miss me.”
Gwyn gave a dramatic sigh and fell backward on the bed. “You’re right, I know you’re right.” Propping herself up on one elbow, she narrowed her eyes at Vivi. “Ooh, and with you and Mom gone, this makes me the head of the family.”
Vivi laughed at that, and encouraged, Gwyn sat up. “The matriarch,” she continued. “Head Witch in Charge. Queen Witch. I’ll be drunk with power by the time you come home. Just full-on Galadriel, beautiful and terrible.”
Flicking Gwyn with one of the sweaters she was about to fold, Vivi grinned. “Okay, now I think you’re trying to convince me to stay home.”
“Oh, there will be none of that,” Rhys announced, coming into the room. He was holding a beer, his dark hair tousled, and Gwyn swore Vivi actually swooned. Who swooned for their own husband?
Then Gwyn glanced behind Rhys and spotted Wells standing there. She’d heard Rhys open the door to him earlier, assumed he was also dropping in to say good-bye since Rhys and Vivi were due to leave at a truly illegal time of morning tomorrow.
Wells also had a beer, and if his hair was a little neater that Rhys’s, he definitely looked more casual than he usually did, dressed in jeans and a V-neck sweater.
Whatever that little swoop in her belly was, it was definitely not a swoon.
Sitting up, Gwyn tucked one leg underneath the other, fluffing her hair a bit as she did. “I was just reminding your wife that with her gone, I’ll be the most important witch in town and was therefore planning my tyrannical and power-hungry reign.”
“And the town shudders,” Rhys replied, stepping close to Vivi and sliding an arm around her waist. She lifted her face to his, and as Rhys kissed her, Gwyn saw Wells grimace slightly.
“They do this all the time,” she told him. “It’s the worst.”
“Indeed,” he muttered against the lip of his beer bottle. As he took a sip, Wells glanced over at her, and when their eyes met, Gwyn could swear there was a slightly conspiratorial twinkle there.
“The two of you are the worst, and I will not be shamed for kissing my gorgeous wife in my own home,” Rhys said, pointing at Wells and then Gwyn, and Gwyn lifted her hands in surrender.
“Fine, I’ll admit, your own apartment is the correct space for that kind of thing.”
“Oh, come on,” Rhys replied. “Every space is the ‘correct’ space for a bit of snogging. Apartments. Cars. Libraries.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “Cellars . . . ”
Vivi elbowed him in the side, and he gave an exaggerated wince even as Wells shot him a dark look. Gwyn, for her part, willed herself not to blush. They were all adults here, for fuck’s sake. She could take a little light teasing about one freaking kiss.
“You know, Rhys,” she told him, “when I’m Queen Witch, I could have you executed for that kind of thing.”
“And while I will actively lead a resistance against the dark sovereignty of the Witch Queen Gwyn, I will support her in this one thing,” Wells said, tipping his beer bottle in Rhys’s direction.
Rhys frowned, looking back and forth between them. “Wait. Wait, no, I hate this. Go back to being mean to each other, please.”
Vivi laughed. “Serves you right,” she said, and Gwyn caught Wells’s eye again. He was smiling a little, looser and more relaxed than she was used to, and she had to admit, this was kind of . . . nice. Having another person to share these little looks with when Rhys and Vivi were being Peak Them. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having Wells around more after all, especially if he could be this Wells.
Except that this Wells also made her fingers itch to touch his sweater and see if it was as soft as it looked. To slide her hands underneath it and feel his skin, warm and solid beneath her palms. To—
Gwyn looked away so fast she was pretty sure her eyes made an audible snapping sound.
“I still don’t like it,” Rhys continued. “Me finished packing before you, Gwyn and Wells teaming up, Wells getting a date—the whole world is off its axis.”
Gwyn looked over at Wells again, eyebrows raised.
He was allowed to have dates, of course. He should have dates. Wells having dates would be a very good thing for all kinds of reasons she was sure she would think of any second now, but there was still just the tiniest little bit of relief that spilled through her when Wells rolled his eyes and said, “For the last bloody time, it’s not a date.”
“Are you sure?” Gwyn asked him. “I realize whoever this woman is, she probably didn’t ask your father’s permission to court you, but it might still be a date to those of us who aren’t time travelers from 1823.”
Wells threw her a scowl even as Rhys hooted with laughter.
“I assure you, it’s not a date,” he said again, but since he didn’t offer any additional information, Gwyn wondered.
Not that it was any of her business.
Getting off the bed, she nodded at Vivi’s suitcase. “I think you’ve achieved Packing Utopia, Viv. Just one more thing.”
Gwyn reached for her bag, tossed carelessly to the side of the bed when she’d come in, and pulled out a piece of amethyst, wiggling it between her thumb and forefinger.
“Never leave home without it!”
Leaning over, she placed the crystal on Vivi’s things and laid a hand on top of it, the cool stone pressed against her palm. It was a spell she’d done a thousand times, a completely simple protection ward that would ensure Vivi’s luggage wouldn’t get lost.
Given that Rhys’s particular magic talents dealt with luck, especially when it came to travel, there wasn’t much chance of that anyway, but Gwyn still wanted to send a little piece of home off with Vivi.
A little piece of her.
She thought the words of the spell and waited for that warm feeling to spread up from her toes, down her arm, into the hand now resting against the amethyst.
Nothing happened.
Her eyes shot up, her brow wrinkling as she looked at her hand.
“Gwyn?” Vivi asked, and Gwyn looked up at her cousin, giving her a smile even as the faintest alarm bells started ringing in her head.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just wasn’t concentrating hard enough.”
This time, she didn’t just whisper the words in her mind. She shouted them, as loud as she could, her eyes squeezed shut, tiny drops of sweat popping out on her brow.
Immediately, she felt magic surge through her, the crystal glowing warm, and she laughed, a little breathless.
“There,” Gwyn said, straightening up, then opening and closing her hand a few times, shaking it like she was trying to wake it up. “That was weird.”
Vivi wasn’t smiling, though, and even Rhys looked serious. Wells was behind her, so she couldn’t see his face, but Gwyn could still feel his gaze on her.
“What?” she said, looking around. “It’s fine! I was just lazy, and the magic was, like, ‘Nope, not the vibe, girl,’ so I put my back into it a little more, and voilà!”
Gwyn knew that could happen. Magic was a wild thing, after all. Sometimes it might not cooperate.
It’s just that it had never happened to her before.
She wiggled her fingers again, sending little showers of golden sparkles into the air, then, just for good measure, called up a quick light spell, a glowing orb hovering just over her shoulder.
Trying not to look as relieved as she felt, Gwyn shrugged. “Right as rain.”
“Future as Witch Queen secured, then,” Rhys said, and Vivi’s shoulders relaxed.
“Sorry,” she said, a little sheepish. “I guess after everything last year with the curse and Rhys’s magic, I’m a little paranoid.”
“Understandable,” Gwyn acknowledged, “but there’s nothing to worry about. You two go on your big honeymoon, and don’t think about this place for a second. I will have everything absolutely under control.”
“And you’ll have Wells,” Rhys said, gesturing at his brother, a slightly evil gleam in his eye. “The two of you will hold down the fort admirably. Like a team.”
Gwyn glanced over her shoulder, and saw Wells seemed every bit as horrified by that idea as she felt.
Still, she made herself smile. “Sure. A team.”