Chapter 32
It was the middle of the night in Wales, but luckily for Wells, his father had never kept the most regular hours.
When he suddenly appeared in Simon’s library, his head spinning, his stomach lurching, Wells saw his father was at his usual spot, near the large map table under a huge window that faced the rocky hills of Dweniniaid.
It was dim, as it always was, and as Wells stumbled forward, his father’s heavy brows drew together.
“Llewellyn?”
He came out from behind the table, robes swishing, and Wells remembered a hundred other moments in this room, a thousand. His father congratulating him on his first successful spell, telling him he was going to Penhaven, asking him to run the pub now that his uncle was dead.
This had been the scene of nearly every important meeting they’d ever had, so it felt right to be here now dealing with maybe the most important problem he’d ever faced.
“Da,” Wells said. “Something’s happened. In Graves—in Glynn Bedd.”
“Slow down, boy, slow down,” Simon said, reaching out to steady Wells, but Wells shook him off.
“I’m fine, but I don’t have much time. I need to ask you about—”
Your ring.
The words were right there on his lips, but Simon’s hands were still outstretched, and in the dim glow of the iron and antler chandelier overhead, his signet ring caught the light.
Wells felt as though the ground were very slowly tilting underneath his feet, and Simon stepped forward again.
Flinching back, Wells raised his eyes to his father’s. “I thought you gave me that ring,” he said, and Simon looked at his hand.
“Ah,” he said, flexing his fingers. “And I see you’re not wearing yours.” Simon nodded down at Wells’s hand. “Someone already catch wise? They’re a quick lot, I’ll give them that. But never mind it, boy. I take it the thing did its job.”
Simon was already turning away, and Wells felt frozen in place, blood whooshing in his ears.
“It was you,” Wells said, and he hated that he sounded surprised. Hated that there was still some part of him, somewhere, that had wanted to believe his brothers were wrong about their father. That he was a better man than this.
A better father than this.
Simon’s brows drew together as he looked back at Wells, his hands folded in front of him.
“What, did you think someone else cursed a ring that brought pain unto our enemies?”
He gave one of those huffing laughs, the one Wells had heard himself make and vowed never, ever to make again.
“You . . . you gave me that ring so that I could drain the power of the Joneses,” he said, still not wanting to believe it even though it was so clearly true.
“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d be caught out so soon. It was meant to be a slow drain, take months, maybe even years.”
“It took a few weeks,” Wells said, lifeless. “And it only took power from one of them.”
Simon’s eyebrows rose. “Then you must’ve gotten very close to that one indeed. The spell works on proximity, so the more you were around her, the more you took. Well, I took, to be fair.” He thumped Wells on the shoulder.
“Stronger than I’ve been in years, which is a good thing because returning our magic to that town is going to take some work.”
“You used me,” Wells said. “You knew that night when you came into the pub that I’d volunteer to go. That’s why you came. Had to let me think it was all my idea because I never, ever would’ve been a part of this knowingly. But good, dutiful Llewellyn. Couldn’t resist the chance to make you proud.”
“Don’t act so wounded, boy,” Simon said, voice gruff. “I did what needed to be done. Besides, how do we know those sad excuses for witches were even telling the truth? Gryffud Penhallow was a powerful warlock. He’d have had no need to take magic from a woman like Aelwyd Jones. Barely more than a hedge witch from what I’ve read. No, all of this was merely some sort of scheme by those Jones women to wrest control of our power, and—”
“Stop it.”
Wells didn’t shout the words. He’d never been one to raise his voice, and he certainly had never raised it to his father, but he’d also never interrupted him, never looked at him the way he knew he must be looking at Simon now.
And maybe it was that look or maybe it was something in his voice, because Simon fell silent even though his scowl deepened.
“Rhys was right,” Wells went on. “The spirit of Aelwyd Jones was right. Gryffud had magic, yes, but he took hers as well, and the Jones family has just as much a right to the town of Graves Glen as we ever did. More, given that they made it their home. What you’ve done is—”
“It was necessary,” Simon said, and Wells knew then that there was no coming back from this for him.
He thought again about Gwyn’s face in the candlelight, closed off to him, her eyes hard.
Every time he’d been near her, touched her, kissed her, he’d been pulling magic from her veins.
The shame was enough to nearly choke him.
He knew he would never forgive his father, but more than that, he didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself.
“Well, it’s failed,” he said now. “Gwyn may have lost her power, but her mother will still have hers. So will Vivi. And Rhys will never speak to you again after this. Bowen, either. This . . . this was too far.”
Simon waved that off. “You’ve all turned so bloody dramatic,” he said, and if Wells weren’t feeling quite so shattered, he might have retorted that those were bold words from a man currently wearing sorcerer’s robes.
“In time,” Simon went on, “you’ll understand. You’ll know what one has to do to preserve the legacy of this family.”
“Nothing about this family is worth preserving,” Wells replied, and he turned away, heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” his father demanded, and Wells stopped, turning around to face this man he had once been so desperate to please.
“I don’t know, honestly,” he replied. “But I’m not staying here. Not for one fucking second more.”
Simon’s expression went thunderous. “Don’t you dare use that language to me, boy.”
But Wells was already walking away.
It had been over a week since Wells had disappeared from the storage room of Gwyn’s shop.
Over a week since she’d learned he was the reason she’d lost her magic.
Over a week since she’d felt like smiling. Or laughing.
Or getting out of bed.
But the thing was, the world didn’t stop when your heart broke. She’d always told herself that, always bounced back from breakups quickly before, and she told herself that’s what she’d do this time, too.
So she did get out of bed every day, and she made breakfast and fed Sir Purrcival and ran the shop, and worked on finding ways of undoing what Wells had unknowingly done.
And she did it all feeling like there was a bag of shattered glass in her chest.
That part was new. In the past, getting back to normal as quickly as possible had been her own personal brand of magic, clearing the pain of heartache away better than any spell.
But not this time.
Why wasn’t he back? She could admit that she’d frozen him out that night, but when you found out the man you thought you might be falling for was the reason you’d lost your magic, you were allowed to take some time to process that.
And yes, it had pissed her off that he’d been so quick to defend his father, but she’d known Wells was loyal, and hell, who wanted to believe their dad went past “kind of a dick” and straight into “power-hungry monster”?
Still, it had hurt. In that moment, she had wanted him to believe her, and he hadn’t.
Or hadn’t been able to.
In any case, she’d still expected him to show up at her door later that night, and then he just . . . hadn’t.
Had he gone back, discovered the truth, and assumed she’d never want to see him again?
Was his father missing, and Wells was searching for him?
Or—and this was the kind of thing that only sneaked into her mind late at night, whispering when she couldn’t sleep—had it all been a plan? Had Wells known what he was doing after all, and, mission accomplished, fucked off back home?
Gwyn knew in her bones that that couldn’t be true, but the longer he was gone, the louder that voice was getting.
We were supposed to be a team, she’d thought to herself a million times since he’d been gone. We were supposed to work this out together.
And that, really, was the crux of it. When things had gotten hard, gotten messy, he’d bailed, and now, as she sat behind the booth she’d set up at the Fall Festival, her eyes kept being drawn to the empty spot where the Penhallow’s booth should have been.
She could still feel his arms around her as they’d stood there in Something Wicked, teasing each other about sorcerer’s robes; she thought of how happy she’d been, how good it had felt to stand there with him, joking and kissing and making plans.
How impossible it seemed that only a heartbeat later, everything would change.
The memory made her eyes sting, so she shoved it away, turning to a customer approaching her booth with a smile.
This was her place, after all. This is what she did, and she was damn good at it. Wells Penhallow was not going to spoil Fall Festival for her.
So she straightened her witch’s hat and sold the hell out of some tarot cards while the evening breeze sent the lights strung overhead swaying, and the smell of autumn filled the air.
When there was a lull in her line, she checked her cell phone—she tried not to have it out at things like this, technology really killed the Witch Vibe she was going for—and was surprised to see she had a missed call from Sam, two from Cait, and one from Parker.
That was weird.
But maybe they’d heard something about Wells.
Gwyn was just about to call them back when she heard someone shouting her name.
“Gwyn!”
Glancing up, she saw Morgan making her way over to her, not nearly as severe as usual, decked out in an orange blouse, black pencil skirt, and orange-and-black-striped tights.
Smiling, Gwyn put her phone down. “I see you’re embracing the theme!” she called out, and Morgan struck a pose, arms raised.
“When in Graves Glen!” she replied, and Gwyn gave her a thumbs-up.
“Actually,” Morgan went on, coming closer, “can I get a hand with something? I found a painting in all that stuff in the attic that wasn’t actually magic or terrifying, so I thought I might donate it to my friend Charlotte’s booth.”
Gwyn vaguely knew Charlotte, a non-witch in town who ran a small gallery just down from the Coffee Cauldron.
“Sure,” Gwyn said, coming out from behind her booth. This side of the fair was quiet right now, most people in line for food at this time of night, and she could use the chance to stretch her legs.
Morgan walked quickly, and even though Gwyn was pretty long-legged, she had to jog a little to keep up. Overhead, the sky was dark, clouds stretching across it, and Gwyn shivered as the sounds of the fair grew fainter.
“Did you park in North Carolina?” she asked Morgan, and the other woman laughed, the sound high and a little strained.
“Sorry, it’s just a little farther.”
Gwyn shrugged. “I see why you wanted help,” she called to Morgan. “It would be a real pain to lug a picture all the way back from out here.”
Morgan didn’t reply, and Gwyn felt her neck prickle.
The grass was taller here, damp against her ankles as she stopped, looking around her. It wasn’t just the night chill she was feeling, she realized.
It was magic.
A lot of it.
“Morgan?” she called again, and Morgan turned around then, her arms folded over her chest, her lips tilting up into a smug smile.
“You know, it’s a real shame you don’t have any more magic, Gwyn,” she said, and out of the corner of her eye, Gwyn saw a dark figure approaching.
She turned and there was another. A third. A fourth.
“Lucky for us, though,” Morgan continued, walking forward, her hands in front of her, fingers crackling with power, “we don’t need your magic. We just need your blood.”