Chapter 25
Wells had been thinking about Gwyn on a fairly constant loop for the past twenty-four hours, so when he drove past her cabin on his way home and saw her standing on the porch, he was almost sure that all that obsessing was resulting in visions now.
But then he saw her face, pale and worried in the porch lights, and slammed on his brakes so hard that the back of his car slid slightly on the dirt and gravel road.
He barely managed to get it in park before he was flinging open the car door and hurrying over to her.
“Gwyn?”
“Wells!” she cried, and that’s when he knew that whatever was wrong, it was serious.
He made his way up the porch steps just as she started coming down, and now he saw that there were tears in her eyes, and by St. Bugi’s heart, he was going to kill whoever had made Gwynnevere Jones cry.
Magic was already crackling in his veins, his hands clenched tight at his sides as he asked, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“I can’t find Sir Purrcival,” she said, her voice small and scared and so very Un-Gwyn. “When I got home, the door was open. I thought someone might have broken in, but I think I just forgot to lock up this morning, and we had all that wind today, and it must’ve blown open and he got out.”
As though she’d summoned it with her words, the wind picked up then, leaves raining down, the air heavy with the smell of rain and ozone.
She looked up at Wells, mouth trembling. “He’s so little,” she said, and Wells felt like something in his chest had cracked open. In that second, he would’ve given anything in the world to hand her that cat, to make her never look or sound like this again.
“We’ll find him,” Wells said immediately. If I have to comb through every corner of this entire bloody mountain.
“I tried,” she said, her voice wavering. “I was going to do a location spell, but my magic is on the fritz or something. Nothing was happening.”
Wells frowned. That was three times now Gwyn’s magic had not worked as it was meant to, or at least three times that he knew about.
But they could worry about that later. Right now, he needed to get this cat back for her.
“You were probably too upset,” Wells reasoned, “so let me try, hmm?”
She nodded, swiping at her eyes and taking a shuddery breath, and Wells grasped her shoulders briefly, squeezing.
Then he turned away, scanning the woods in front of him, trying to calm his own racing heart and focus. He’d only seen the cat a handful of times, but he pictured him as best he could, raising his hands as magic crackled along his fingers. He could feel a kind of tugging in his mind, and to that image of Sir Purrcival, he added Gwyn’s tear-streaked face, the weight in his stomach when he’d realized she was crying, the fierce desire he had to fix this for her.
Light zipped from his hands, spilling out onto the ground, a twisting band of light that snaked out in front of him and through the trees.
Gwyn was already running, following the light as it zigged and zagged, and Wells was right behind her, careful not to trip over roots or stray rocks as they moved deeper into the forest.
The path of light ended at a hollow tree, and Gwyn stopped, panting as she called out, “Sir Purrcival?”
And there he was, the little bastard, sauntering out of the hole in the tree stump, his big green eyes blinking as he looked at Gwyn.
“Treats?” he asked, and she burst into tears then, big noisy ones, as she leaned down and scooped him up.
Relief surged through Wells. Relief and pride, and a fierce gladness, and then there it was again, that feeling in his chest, a tightness and a warmth all at once as Gwyn covered the cat in kisses.
“You don’t deserve any,” she told him. “But yes. All the treats you want. All the treats in the whole wide world.”
“Treats,” Sir Purrcival confirmed happily, settling in for more snuggles.
Wells never thought he’d be so envious of a cat.
Gwyn turned to him then, her face red and wet, Sir Purrcival tucked under her chin.
“Thank you,” she said. “Seriously. I was panicking, and I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“You would’ve figured it out,” he said, and she gave another one of those shuddery breaths as she scratched Sir Purrcival’s belly.
“Still,” Gwyn insisted. “I appreciate it. And so does Sir Purrcival, don’t you?”
Sir Purrcival studied Wells for a moment and then gave a sleepy-sounding “Not Dickbag.”
“Beg pardon?” Wells asked, eyebrows raised, and Gwyn waved him off.
“He calls Rhys Dickbag, so trust me, this is his version of a compliment.”
“Ah. Well, in that Sir Purrcival and I are aligned,” Wells said, and Gwyn shook her head at him as she started heading back to the house.
“We’ve talked about the Austen-speak, Esquire,” she said, sounding more like herself now. “You clearly need to watch some bad reality TV or something, start picking up how we humans talk.”
“Or maybe I’ll just spend more time with Sir Purrcival here. He clearly has a vast knowledge of fun and exciting slang terms for me to learn.”
Gwyn snorted at that, and Wells trailed her back to her front porch, pausing there at the foot of the steps as she made her way to the front door.
When she realized he wasn’t following her, she stopped, turning to look down at him.
“I should head back to mine before the rain gets here,” he said, gesturing toward his car. “Let you and Sir Purrcival settle in.”
It had been easy not to think of last night when he was too worried about her being upset, but now that the crisis had passed, memories were sliding back in, lying heavily between them, and Wells felt . . . well, shy was perhaps not the word, but unsure. Did it mean something, those long, heated moments in her truck, far above Graves Glen?
Or had it just been a one-off, a fun way to pass an evening?
He knew which he preferred, but he didn’t get to decide that himself, and it might be for the best to keep his distance for a while.
Self-preservation and all that.
But then she shook her head, rolling her eyes with what he thought—hoped—was fondness.
“You saved my cat, Esquire. At least let me make you a drink.”
She pushed the door all the way open with one hip, then threw a look over her shoulder at him. “You coming?”
Self-preservation was, Wells decided as he all but ran up the front steps, truly overrated.
It’s just a drink.
Standing in the kitchen, muddling black cherries and an orange peel, Gwyn repeated that like a mantra.
Sir Purrcival was happily napping in his bed on the kitchen table, purring away, and as Gwyn glanced over at him, there was a rumble of thunder, a pattering of rain against the windows. The storm that had been threatening all day had finally blown in, and Gwyn felt her throat go tight all over again. Sir Purrcival had been deeper in the woods than she ever would’ve guessed. What if he’d still been out there when it started storming? What if Wells hadn’t come along when he did?
But he did. And that’s why you’re making him a drink, and then he’ll drink it and go, and it doesn’t have to be anything more than that.
It already seemed like more than that, though.
She’d cried in front of him. That was way more personal to Gwyn than coming in front of someone, and she’d done both in the past twenty-four hours with Wells. That had to be some kind of Emotional Vulnerability Record for her, and given that she was still feeling a little shaky, it would’ve been smarter to agree that he should go on up to his house.
Instead, she’d invited him in, and now, as she walked out of the kitchen, drinks in hand, her heart stuttered in her chest.
He was standing in the living room, his back to her, which let her admire his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, the way his hair curled against his collar, the things those dark jeans he was wearing did for his ass and thighs.
Should’ve made him get naked, too, she thought a little wistfully, then shook herself. She was supposed to be handing him his “thanks for rescuing my cat” drink and sending him on his way, not ogling him.
“Made you an old-fashioned. Felt appropriate,” she said, and he turned slightly, accepting the cocktail from her, his fingers brushing hers. That simple touch sent a rush of heat through her, and she didn’t meet his eyes as they clinked glasses.
“To Sir Purrcival and his continued safety,” Wells said, and outside, there was another boom of thunder.
Wells glanced toward the front door, a crease between his brows. “I never hear that sound without thinking my father is somewhere nearby and in a bad mood.”
“Is your father Zeus?” she asked. “Odin, maybe?”
That made him chuckle, and he shrugged as he took another sip. “Sometimes he feels like it. But no, his magic is tied to weather, which means anytime he’s annoyed, it rains. And it rains a lot.”
Gwyn had met Simon Penhallow once and not been impressed. Rhys had always insisted Wells was basically a younger version of his father, but Gwyn wasn’t so sure. Yes, he could be as haughty as a Roman emperor, but Wells was also kind and thoughtful. Sweet in his way.
And apparently very generous in bed.
Those were Danger Zone Thoughts, though, so Gwyn turned her attention to the shelf Wells had been studying when she came in.
“What were you looking at so intently?” she asked, and he reached out, tapping a tarot card lying there.
“This,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”
It was the Ten of Swords, a rough card, one that usually showed someone on the ground, skewered there by all those blades. But while this one had those elements—a redheaded woman on the ground, her body surrounded by swords—it wasn’t nearly as grim. For one thing, the swords weren’t piercing her flesh, just the fabric of the long dress she wore, and while her eyes were closed, she didn’t appear to be dead or hurt, just resting, the smallest smile tilting her lips. And in the distance, past a row of dark and forbidding trees, the sun was coming up, bathing the top part of the card in a soft pinkish light.
“Usually such a dark card,” Wells went on, “but this one is lovely, and it seems to understand the real point of the card. That yes, the worst has come, but look.” He tapped the sunrise in the background. “A new day is coming. And the wounds the swords have dealt aren’t fatal, just binding for now.”
Wells took a sip of his drink, and Gwyn watched his throat move above the collar of his white shirt, her own throat suddenly tight.
“I’ll have to see who makes this deck, get it into Penhallow’s,” he went on, and Gwyn shook her head, placing her drink on the mantel just to her left.
“You can’t,” she told him, and when he looked over at her, she crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head.
“That deck is a Something Wicked exclusive.”
Wells raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”
“Because I painted it.”
Outside, the rain was pounding down now, the wind howling, and the lights actually flickered for a second before Wells said, “You really are a bloody wonder, Gwyn Jones.”
She was wearing ripped jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said, IF I WERE A WITCH GIRL. Her face was still red and probably a little puffy from crying, and whatever makeup she’d put on that morning was long gone. She felt tired and raw and worried about her magic, and Wells was looking at her like she was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, a world wonder he could not believe he was in the presence of.
“That is so deeply unfair,” Gwyn said on a sigh, and then took one last swig of her drink and stepped into his arms.