Chapter 17
Friday night arrived quicker than Gwyn would’ve thought. The store had been busy, plus Sam, Cait, and Parker had had a test on moon phases in their Natural Magic class, and Gwyn had agreed to help them study for that. Then Sir Purrcival had a vet appointment for his annual checkup, Elaine had wanted to have a Skype chat, Vivi had called to check in . . .
It was honestly a wonder she’d remembered the party at all, but now here it was, Friday evening, and she was in her truck, following the directions on Morgan’s fancy invitation.
The mountains and hills were a hazy blue against the last of the sunset, houses—any kind of building, really—getting sparser until Gwyn was driving down into a valley she had a vague memory of driving through before.
There hadn’t been a house there, though, and Gwyn picked up the invitation again, checking that the directions were right. There was no address listed, just a vague bit at the bottom about “You’ll see the house,” and Gwyn peered out the windshield as the road narrowed, the rocky hills on either side of her blocking a view of anything else.
Then the road turned, widened, and Gwyn’s mouth dropped open.
She saw the house, all right.
Apparently, whatever Morgan had been doing for the past decade had served her well because this wasn’t just a house. It was like something out of a movie, the classier, less terrifying version of the Penhallow house.
Turrets pierced the violet sky, narrow windows spilling golden rectangles of light onto the lawn. Gwyn spotted a balcony over the alcove leading to a massive front door, and just behind the building, she could see a greenhouse, misted with condensation.
Cars were parked in neat rows in the field just beyond the house, and Gwyn slotted her red truck in next to a Mercedes. There were a lot of Mercedes, she noticed, as well as a couple of Audis and even a Rolls-Royce.
Rhiannon’s tits, who all had Morgan invited to this thing?
The sharp heels of her boots pierced the grass as Gwyn stepped out of the truck and made her way to the house. As she approached the front steps, she heard a car door close behind her and turned.
It was already dusk, the light a soft purple, but she’d recognize that ramrod-straight posture anywhere, and when Wells stepped into the light spilling from the windows, she hated the way her heart gave an extra kick in her chest.
He was wearing a white button-down and dark pants, no vest tonight, but back in that really, really good coat he’d had on the night he’d arrived in town, and she wondered if she had some heretofore-undiscovered kink for outerwear because honestly, this was getting ridiculous.
“Gwyn,” he said, coming up short, and she didn’t miss the way his eyes skated over her. It was subtle and, since it was Esquire, fairly respectful, but it was definitely there.
And she was suddenly glad she’d decided to wear the dress Vivi always referred to as “the sexy sorceress one.” It was a blue so dark it was nearly black, and even though it had long sleeves and a skirt that would’ve brushed the ground if her boots hadn’t had a slight heel, the front was cut low enough to show off a particularly pretty silver and sapphire pendant she’d picked up at a Beltane festival a few years ago.
She fought the urge to fiddle with that necklace now. Gwyn Jones was not a fidgeter, after all. She was the one who made other people fidget. So instead, she straightened her shoulders and gave him her best smile.
“Esquire,” she replied, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I see our truce doesn’t extend to the nickname.”
“Wasn’t one of the terms.”
He heaved a sigh, shoving his hands in the pockets of that damn coat, and walked closer, the gravel crunching underneath his shoes.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you,” he said. “It’s clear this is a party exclusively for witches.”
Gwyn didn’t have to ask what he meant. She could feel it herself, the magic so heavy you could almost taste it. Everyone inside that house had power, and if she was judging it correctly, a lot of power at that.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her, and her eyes widened. “Ohhh . . . this was your Not a Date Date,” she said, and there was that muscle tic again.
“Now demonstrably proven to be Not a Date,” Wells replied, gesturing at the house, and Gwyn shrugged, shifting the chain of her evening bag on her shoulder.
“For all we know, they’re doing witchy speed dating in there.”
Wells visibly shuddered. “Christ, what a ghastly concept.”
Gwyn was inclined to agree, not that she was going to let him know that. “Only one way to find out!”
He followed her up the steps, his tread heavy. “Did you know Morgan?” Wells asked. “Back at Penhaven?”
Surprised, Gwyn glanced back at him. “What, you didn’t?”
Wells shook his head. “I assume I got an invite because of my last name.”
“Well, that and she had a massive crush on you,” Gwyn replied, and was gratified to see Wells look slightly surprised.
“What?”
“I know, I found it very hard to believe, too, but there truly is no accounting for taste!”
She’d expected one of the patented Wells Penhallow Scowls at that, but instead, he just shrugged. “I suppose she was a bit flirty when she came into the store.”
That little nugget of information should not have bothered Gwyn in the slightest, so it was very annoying to feel her stomach do just the tiniest drop at thinking of Morgan—beautiful, mysterious Morgan—and Wells flirting. Did Wells even know how to flirt?
He sure as hell knew how to kiss.
Not a helpful thought right now.
From inside, Gwyn could hear the low sounds of people talking and distant music, and at her side, she sensed Wells steeling himself.
Clearly not a party person, Esquire, so why had he accepted the invitation?
She was just about to ask him when he turned to her, offering his arm. “Well,” he said on a sigh. “Shall we?”
Gwyn was staring at his elbow like she’d never seen that particular bit of anatomy before, and Wells wondered if he should just drop it and knock on the door.
But after a beat, she laid her hand almost gingerly on his arm, fingers curling into his sleeve.
He could tell himself he was offering his arm just to be gentlemanly, but he wasn’t that deluded. From the second he’d seen her standing there in that dress, the urge to touch her had been almost overwhelming. She looked like something out of legend, a siren, a sorceress, the kind of woman men happily went to their dooms for.
It was distracting as hell when he was meant to be here getting a better sense of what Morgan might want in Graves Glen, but then Gwyn Jones had been distracting and unsettling him from the moment he’d walked into this town.
He wondered if he should share with her his suspicions about Morgan, but Gwyn and Morgan were clearly old friends. She’d probably just roll her eyes at him again and tell him he was being an idiot. And it was very possible that he was, but an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.
Wells frowned and made a mental note never to actually say that out loud in front of her.
Raising one hand, he went to knock on the door, but as he did, it eased open on its own, revealing a front hall lit up beneath a sparkling chandelier.
The music and talking were louder now, and Wells moved inside cautiously, Gwyn’s hand in the crook of his elbow.
That feeling he’d had outside of an almost overwhelming amount of magic was even stronger now, and at his side, Gwyn took a deep breath, her head swiveling from one side to the other as she took in their surroundings.
The front hallway was massive, soaring up at least two stories. There was a staircase just ahead of them carpeted in deep red, almost the same shade of the lipstick Morgan had been wearing the other day, and the floor underfoot was a dark wood so shiny, Wells could practically see his reflection in it.
Rooms opened off the hallway, and Wells chose the one on their right, a drawing room with gilded furniture and gold silk wallpaper.
It had been a while since Wells had been to a party, and as he stepped into the room, he remembered why exactly that was.
There were just . . . so many people.
Groups of them, standing around holding champagne flutes or cocktail glasses, talking, draped over furniture, laughing. Over a dozen in this room, at least, and Wells had gotten a glimpse of another drawing room, similarly crowded.
He’d been worried about maybe being a little overdressed tonight, but as Wells glanced around, he saw that, for perhaps the first time in his life, he was actually the casual one. There were two men in tuxes chatting next to a piano, and several in the formal robes his father favored. Almost every woman was dressed similarly to Gwyn, in clinging gowns with low necks and subtly shimmering jewelry.
Next to him, Gwyn leaned in a little closer, her long hair brushing his sleeve. “Okay, if I didn’t know for sure that vampires weren’t real, I would definitely think these people were vampires.”
Wells glanced down at her, screwing up his face in confusion. “Vampires are real.”
Gwyn’s head jerked up, her eyes going wide. “Wait, seriously?”
“How do you not know that?”
“Because I’ve never seen one!”
“And I’ve never seen the Loch Ness Monster, but I still know she exists,” he said with a sniff, and Gwyn’s eyes somehow, impossibly, got even bigger.
“Nessie’s real, too?”
Wells held his pompous stance as long as he could, but the absolute shock in her voice had his lip twitching, and when her eyes narrowed at him, he couldn’t help but smirk, and then that smirk actually became a laugh as she hip-checked him.
“Okay, you know what? Just for that, when these weirdos pick someone to ritually sacrifice tonight, I am absolutely volunteering you.”
“No less than I deserve,” he replied, and she smiled a little, shaking her head.
“I hate when you make me like you, Esquire.”
“I’ll endeavor to be more unlikable in the future,” he promised, and Gwyn snorted.
“Sentences like that help.”
A waiter passed by then, holding a tray of champagne flutes, and Wells and Gwyn each took one, Gwyn’s hand finally dropping from his arm.
He felt the loss of that touch more than he wanted to admit, so to distract himself, Wells studied their fellow partygoers. He didn’t expect to recognize anyone, so he was more than a little shocked when he spotted a familiar face. Bronwyn Davies was a member of one of Cardiff’s most influential witch families, a pretty blonde Simon had once hoped Wells might be betrothed to. She’d decided not to marry anyone, as far as Wells knew, and he hadn’t seen her in ages. What was she doing here?
And there, near the large bay window, he recognized Connell Thomas, another Welsh witch he’d known briefly at Penhaven.
“Is this supposed to be a reunion?” Gwyn murmured, and when he looked over at her, she gestured with her glass.
“These are Penhaven witches,” she said. “From our year. And what would’ve been your year, I guess, if you’d stayed.”
She’d barely finished her sentence before there was a squeal, and a tall brunette was crossing the room, arms spread wide. “Gwynnevere Jones!” she cried, and Gwyn smiled back, letting herself be pulled into the woman’s embrace. “Hi, Rosa,” she said, and as she pulled back, she nodded at Wells.
“You remember Llewellyn Penhallow. Or maybe you don’t, I don’t know. He isn’t all that memorable, really.”
Rosa laughed at that even as Wells shot Gwyn a look before offering his hand to Rosa.
“It’s Wells, and it’s lovely to meet you.”
“Oh, I remember you,” Rosa all but purred, her dark eyes bright as she smiled at him, and though he couldn’t be certain, he thought Gwyn’s shoulders might have stiffened just the tiniest bit.
Biting back an unattractive amount of smugness, Wells smiled back at Rosa. “I’m afraid I was something of an idiot during my brief time at Penhaven. That’s the only excuse I can think of for not remembering you.”
Rosa gave a pleased chuckle, and Wells was very sure Gwyn was now gritting her teeth.
“Well, we’re all reunited now,” Rosa said. Wells wasn’t sure how exactly she made such innocuous words sound so . . . promising, but there you had it.
Slinging back the rest of her champagne, Gwyn turned to the two of them, smile fixed in place. “I will leave you two to get reacquainted while I go find Morgan and say hello.”
Wells watched her retreating back—and the eyes of every other man and quite a few women in the room did the same.
“She was always something,” Rosa said, then nodded in Gwyn’s direction in case Wells had missed her meaning. “Gorgeous and smart and powerful. I couldn’t believe it when I heard she stayed in this Podunk town, selling cheap tchotchkes to the humans. Such a waste.”
Wells clenched his jaw, his fingers going tight around his champagne flute. “And yet,” he said, the words clipped, “it’s her magic currently fueling this town. And frankly, even if it weren’t, the life Ms. Jones has built for herself here hardly seems wasteful to me. Her store is a lovely place that brings happiness to everyone who enters it. We should all be so lucky to provide such a thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He moved away from Rosa, her lips slightly parted in surprise, and plunged deeper into the party.
A waste.
If that term applied to anyone, it was him. Spending his time doing his father’s bidding. No, what Gwyn had done was use her magic in a way that made her and those she cared about happy. That was downright bloody noble when you thought about it.
Pausing in front of a table set up with tiny plates of canapés, Wells sighed.
Making up excuses to touch her and now defending her honor in public. He truly was a hopeless case.
Glancing around now, he tried to spot Gwyn’s red hair, but she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Morgan, and Wells slipped out of the drawing room into another long hallway.
It was dim and deserted here, but that sense he’d had outside the house, like magic was lying in heavy waves all around, was stronger here.
And not just strong.
Wrong.
This had always been Wells’s skill set, sussing out the tenor of magic, what kind of spell was being used, the intent behind it. Whatever was happening in this house wasn’t dark or evil, exactly, but it wasn’t good, either. It was like a discordant note in an otherwise beautiful symphony, and the farther he walked down the hall, the stronger it got.
He came to a door at the very end of the hall, right next to a rather lovely landscape painting of mountains and fields that reminded him of home.
From back in the drawing room, Wells could still hear the low murmur of conversation, and someone had started playing the piano.
Looking around him one more time, Wells curled his fingers around the doorknob, twisting it slowly.
The door opened soundlessly, and breathing a sigh of relief, Wells darted in, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him.
A light blazed on, nearly blinding him, and he threw up a hand against the glare even as his heart pounded hard in his ears.
He’d say he was looking for the loo. He’d say he took a wrong turn. He’d—
“Esquire?”