Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When the door opened to The Raven and Crown, Wells actually let himself believe—foolishly—that he might have a customer coming in.

It was a rainy evening after all, the mid-September weather typically cool and blustery for this tiny corner of Wales, and the pub was warm. Cozy, even. There was a fire crackling merrily away in the hearth, there was ancient dark wood everywhere, and, most important, if you’d been out in the rain on a cold autumn night, there was alcohol.

Lots of it, given how rarely Wells actually got to pour a drink in this place.

So when he heard the creaking of the door, heard the rain slapping against the side of the building as someone pushed their way in, he situated himself at the taps, ready to pull a pint or pour a dram, whatever was needed.

The figure at the door muttered to himself, pulling off a hooded greatcoat, and an older version of Wells’s own face stared back at him.

Bollocks.

Not a customer after all, merely his own father.

Simon Penhallow didn’t often make his way down into the village of Dweniniaid, preferring the confines of their slightly ghastly manor on a hillside just outside of town. In fact, Wells knew for a fact that his father had only been in The Raven and Crown twice in the thirteen years since Wells had taken it over.

Once had been Wells’s first day in charge, and his father had only stayed long enough to grunt, glance around, give a nod that passed for approval in the Penhallow family, and stomp back out.

The second time had been last year, after Wells’s youngest brother, Rhys, had informed his father that the Penhallow magic that had once fueled the town of Graves Glen, Georgia, was no longer present, driven out by a powerful coven of witches.

One of those witches was now Rhys’s wife, something Simon had not taken particularly well. Privately, Wells thought it was the best thing for his brother, settling down with a woman who seemed to be sensible enough aside from falling in love with his idiot brother, but that was something best kept to himself.

So now, as Wells watched his father unwind his scarf, hanging it alongside his coat, his disappointment that this wasn’t an actual paying customer slowly began to bleed into something else.

Suspicion.

What on earth would bring Simon from his books and his spells and his various plots on a night like this?

But his father let him have the lie, nodding absently to himself as he accepted the glass Wells had poured for him, and then, to Wells’s absolute shock, turning the glass up and draining it dry in one go.

When he thunked it back to the bar with a nod and a gruff “Another,” Wells complied, then grabbed himself a glass and sloshed a measure in as well. Whatever it was that had his father in this mood, it would soon become Wells’s problem, too.

Such was life as the eldest son.

Rhys, his youngest brother, would tell him he secretly loved this, being their father’s right-hand man, and while Wells tried never to give Rhys credit for anything if he could help it, he had to admit there was a time in his life when that had been . . . not entirely untrue.

It had been easy, after all, being the Favored Child. Rhys had made it his mission in life to irk their father, and Bowen, the middle brother, had always seemed to operate separately from all of them, an island unto himself. So yes, Wells had enjoyed the way his father’s stern gaze naturally fell on him when there was something to do, some responsibility to shoulder.

But after thirty-four years of it, the past thirteen spent running this dismally unsuccessful pub, Wells had to admit he was a bit tired of the whole dutiful son thing.

And yet . . .

Here he was, pouring his father whisky, waiting to hear what had to be done.

Christ, he was hopeless.

Simon sipped the second whisky more slowly, looking over at the fire before turning his face back to Wells. Shadows played along his severe bone structure, making him look more sinister than he was.

For a moment, Wells thought about lying again, insisting that it was the storm or maybe there was some important game on the telly—Goddess knew his father would have no idea if that was true or not—and that’s why there was no one bellied up to Wells’s bar.

Instead, he dropped the towel onto the bar with a wet slap, bracing both hands on either side of it. “Actually, given that you’ve shown up, this is a busy night.”

His father made that sound somewhere between a grunt and a huff, the noise that passed for a laugh for him. Wells had heard himself make it just the other day on the phone to Rhys, and he wasn’t sure which one of them had been the more horrified.

Simon lifted his glass in a sort of ironic toast, but given that Wells had not until this moment known that his father even understood the concept of irony, that was a bit alarming.

It had been his ancestors’ hope that building a pub in the spot would keep that magic strong, the land feeding off the energy of all the people who drank and laughed and fought and sang in a village pub, and in the early days, it had.

But now, no matter the daily spells Wells did, he could feel that little flame of magic slowly flickering out, a candle in a gale.

With a flick of his hand, Simon conjured up an oval of gray smoke that gradually grew bigger and clearer, resolving itself into something resembling a mirror.

Wells knew immediately he was looking at Graves Glen. He’d only been there once, the summer he’d taken the traditional classes at Penhaven College, but while that had been thirteen years ago, not much had changed. It was still a quaint little pocket of serenity tucked into the gentle blue mountains of Georgia with an old-fashioned main street running through its downtown, streetlights casting a soft glow over everything.

Something in Wells’s chest gave a rather painful kick looking at it. He’d only stayed in Graves Glen for a semester, just a handful of months, but the place had always stuck with him. He’d liked it there. Moreover, he’d liked himself there. In Graves Glen, the Penhallow name was a source of awe and interest, not fear. There, he’d actually been actively practicing his magic instead of just passively channeling it through this place. But his uncle Colin, the guardian of the pub up until then, had died, and it was important that a Penhallow witch be the keeper of the flame, as it were, and somehow years had gone by with him stuck in one place.

Wells shook off those melancholy thoughts, focusing on the picture in front of him.

It was late afternoon in Graves Glen now, so those streets were relatively busy, people enjoying the perfect, golden autumn day, and in the middle of it all, Wells spotted a bold shop window, a giant papier-mâché witch grinning at him as bright purple lights over her head spelled out . . .

Another flick of Simon’s hand, and the entire picture disappeared.

As far as puns went, Wells didn’t think that one was particularly odious, but since his father was already reaching for the bottle of whisky, pouring his own glass this time, Wells thought it might be best not to mention that.

Instead, he started to say, “Graves Glen—” but off of Simon’s look, quickly amended to the Welsh.

Simon gave Wells a look that said exactly what he thought about that, and Wells raised his hands in defense. “I’m just saying. We haven’t been driven out altogether.”

Snorting, Simon pushed his half-full glass aside. “Once your brother married that Jones woman, he became one of them. Make no mistake, boy, he has chosen their family over ours. The Penhallows are finished in Glynn Bedd just as we seem to be finished in Dweniniaid.”

He heaved another sigh, as outside thunder rumbled through the sky. If his father stayed in this mood, the whole bloody village would flood before too long.

It was almost unbearable, all of a sudden, thinking of spending days behind this bar while rain poured from the sky and no one walked in that door. Wells killed his time with reading up on spellcraft, strengthening the runes and spells put into this place to preserve the original spark of Penhallow magic, but there was only so much of that a man could do, really.

Wells thought again about that feeling he’d had when Simon had conjured up Graves Glen.

Not quite longing, but not far off, and suddenly, his heart began to beat harder, his mind racing, and the words seemed to slip out of his mouth before he even had time to think about them.