Chapter 6
“So I can only assume you’ve come here to ruin my life.”
It was later in the morning than Wells normally woke up, the effects of magical travel not as rough as jet lag but still noticeable, and he had just poured himself a very needed mug of tea, which he was now quite grateful for.
Taking a fortifying sip, he turned to face Rhys.
His youngest brother stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, hands in the pockets of a very nice coat, his customary half grin on his face but his eyes wary.
It had been almost a year since Wells had last seen Rhys, and there were changes there, but subtle ones. He seemed a little more comfortable in his skin, a little steadier. No doubt the work of Vivienne Jones, and Wells was grateful for that even if it was slightly surreal that Rhys might now be the most settled of all of them.
Bracing one hand on the counter behind him, Wells lifted the mug and drank again before answering. “Life Ruination of Youngest Brother is on the agenda, yes, but it’s at least ten steps down. You have time to prepare accordingly.”
Rhys snorted at that, moving more fully into the kitchen and leaning against the refrigerator. “Was step number one Annoy the Living Piss out of Gwyn Jones? Because you can definitely tick that one off, mate.”
Wells frowned, glancing back toward the dining room.
That had been . . . unexpected. She had been unexpected. He knew about Gwyn vaguely from Rhys, but he’d been unprepared for a tornado disguised as a beautiful woman, especially when his head was still muddled from travel.
There was no trace of her or her party in the house now. She’d cleaned up well before she’d left last night, but he had a feeling he’d still be finding stray bits of glitter and lavender in the rugs for quite some time. “No, that was an unfortunate side effect of the actual step one, which was Come Into My Family’s Fucking House and Not Find It Filled With Strangers.”
Rhys lifted one shoulder. “Funny thing is, if you’d made maybe a pre-step that involved, oh, I don’t know, giving me any sort of bloody heads-up that you were coming to town, all of this could have been avoided. You could’ve come in completely unbothered and lit a candle to Da’s picture or whatever it is you do when you arrive in a new place, and I would not have had my delightful wife woken up by a phone call that seemed to involve the words ‘high-handed’ and ‘complete asshole.’”
He threw Wells a wink. “That’s how I knew she was talking about you.”
Wells was thirty-four years old, so it was probably bad form to wonder if there was anything handy he could throw at his brother, but old habits died hard. He settled for flipping him a two-fingered salute with his free hand, and Rhys smirked before pushing himself off the fridge to stand in front of Wells, his arms folded.
“Seriously, Wells,” he said, and while Rhys was very rarely anything remotely resembling serious, Wells had to admit he looked it now. “Gwyn told Vivi you said you were staying for good. Why?”
“The pub was dying, and there didn’t seem much point in running it anymore. I wanted . . . I don’t know, a change of scenery, I suppose. Made sense to come back here.”
It wasn’t a lie even if it wasn’t the full truth of it, and for a long beat, Rhys just watched him.
Wells was alarmed to realize he had no idea what his brother was thinking. He was used to Rhys’s quips and comebacks, his jokes and deflections, but clearly the last year had changed him if he was actually weighing what he wanted to say.
And then what he said was, “You utter bastard.”
Wells blinked. “Beg pardon?”
“Da sent you here,” Rhys said now, pointing. “Because he couldn’t stand it that we no longer run this town. So now he has to make sure he has a foothold here, and Goddess knows it can’t be me. So he sends you, the favorite, to save the day.”
It stung a little even as Wells had to admit to himself that he could see why Rhys would jump to that conclusion. He was the loyal one, after all. The obedient one.
“Actually, it was my idea,” he told Rhys now, keeping his voice calm as he took another sip of tea.
Rhys tilted his head, his lips pressed together. “Your idea,” he repeated. “To leave Wales and come live in a small town in Georgia.”
“Yes,” Wells said, setting the mug back on the counter. “Believe it or not, I do occasionally think for myself, and I was tired of running a pub no one ever bothered to come into. Believe it or not, I also happen to be a fairly talented witch, and perhaps I wanted to use those skills. Perhaps I wanted to do a little bit more in my life. Perhaps—”
“Christ, are you going to start singing now?”
This time, Wells did throw something at his brother, but since it was only a teaspoon, it clattered harmlessly off the fridge as Rhys laughed, holding his hands up.
“Fair enough,” he said, and here was the Rhys Wells knew—slow to anger, quick to drop it. “But seriously, if you’re going to live here, can you try not to make my new family long for your head on a platter? I only just got Gwyn to start calling me by my name and not an insult.”
“Well, I wish that I’d known that last night. Ms. Jones and I could’ve bonded over the one thing we apparently have in common.”
Not that Wells actually thought that would’ve worked. Maybe he had been . . . well, not a prick but not at his best last night. But then that woman had seemed to radiate dislike for him the second he’d walked in the door, and he’d felt a bit back-footed about the whole thing. Strange women in his house, the cloying smell of lavender and rosemary mixed with vodka and fruit juice, the little pointy hats . . . it had been quite a lot to take in.
A reminder that this was not his family’s town anymore.
But that would change, and soon. Gwyn Jones could have her silly Halloween things, her American mall version of witchcraft. There was a space for him here, too, and he was going to carve it out.
Rhys frowned now, tilting his head to one side. “I did not realize you also had a thinky face, Wells,” he said, and Wells scowled.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Rhys shook his head, waving it off. “Never mind. So I take it you’re planning on living up here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” Rhys said, then gave a little shudder. “I sure as fuck don’t want to, and if I asked Vivi to, I’m pretty sure she’d divorce me. The Haunted Mansion is all yours.”
Wells wanted to object to that description, but he had to admit the house was a bit more . . . Gothic than he remembered.
Eldritch horror, Gwyn had called it last night, which Wells thought was overly harsh.
Still, he might want to do a bit of redecorating if he was going to make the place his.
“Good,” Wells said, then turned and placed his mug in the sink. “You live downtown, right? Above Gwyn’s shop?”
When Rhys nodded, Wells smiled and fought the urge to rub his hands together. “Excellent. I need a ride in that direction.”
Half an hour later, he found himself on Main Street, staring at the building he had seen there in the pub. It was indeed empty and, according to a sign in the window, available to rent.
It was a little down at the heel, the glass dirty, the awning sagging, but there was potential there. Wells could see it. And unlike most business owners, he literally had tricks up his sleeves.
There were plenty of people milling about, and the sky overhead was a bright blue with just a few puffy clouds drifting slowly across. A breeze ruffled the little orange and black flags already hung above the street, and in the distance, the mountains were just beginning to show hints of orange and red amongst all the green.
Wells felt his spirits lift just standing there.
This was it. Where he was supposed to be.
On his left hand, his father’s ring sat heavily, and he absentmindedly rubbed the silver band with his thumb before reaching into his pocket for his mobile to dial the number on the sign.
He’d just punched in the first number when there was a cackle from across the street.
Turning, he watched as what appeared to be a large mechanical witch, its head moving back and forth in jerky motions, emerged from the front door of Something Wicked.
It bumped and slid over the sidewalk, still cackling, and Wells spotted three people, one of whom had violently turquoise hair, attempting to navigate it into place.
Just behind them, her red hair blowing in the breeze, was Gwyn.
She was so focused on directing the other three where to put the witch that she didn’t notice him, which gave him a chance to study her.
Looking at her like this, without the film of irritation, magic-drunkenness, and exhaustion that had been clouding his mind last night, he realized just how pretty she was. Oh, he’d noticed it last night, but in a sort of distant way, a simple classification, really. This beautiful woman does not like me.
Now, though, she was smiling, laughing as the turquoise-haired girl launched into her own impression of the witch, robotic movements and all, and Wells found himself smiling, too.
Which, of course, was the moment Gwyn saw him.
That smile dropped off her face almost immediately as she shaded her eyes with one hand, clearly wondering what the hell he was doing in front of this building.
Well, Wells thought, turning away and continuing to dial, she’ll soon find out.