Rebel Witch Read online

  She smiles, her glossy lips shimmering in the light pouring through the stained-glass windows. “Looks like you aren’t getting rid of me so easy,” she says playfully. “I can’t wait to see you in action on the mission.”

  I should do it now, before we leave. I should push her into the first open room and fuck her brains out to get it out of her system—and mine. But even as the plan takes shape in my mind, I know I won’t follow through.

  Summer doesn’t mean anything to me. And while emotional investment was never a prerequisite before, suddenly the idea of having sex with some random woman—smoking hot as she may be—is in no way appealing.

  Something inside me has changed, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same again.

  Chapter Four

  Bryn

  The look on Calder’s face is all I need to know the news isn’t good. “Ninety minutes.”

  I glance at Taj to assure myself my outrage is justified. “How is that possible? There’s only one group ahead of us.” I gesture to the family of four sitting on the padded benches by the restaurant’s front window.

  Calder shakes his head. “They’re next. Everyone else on the waiting list decided to walk around town until their table’s ready.”

  Disappointment bubbles within me. This restaurant is the reason we stopped on our journey from Twin Rivers to the Liberation Front’s headquarters. According to Taj, we could have made it to the front by about midnight if we’d driven straight through. But Calder insisted we stop in the village of Wisdom because, according to him, eating at Appetizing As Heck is an experience I can’t miss.

  “How can the wait be that long?” I ask. “Is everyone in town eating here tonight?”

  Calder shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

  Taj lifts his chin. “They’ve got your number, yeah?”

  Calder nods. “The hostess said they’ll text me when our table’s ready.”

  Taj proffers the crook of his arm to me. “Then I say let’s explore Wisdom for a bit. Stretch our legs after all that time in the car?”

  My first instinct is to disagree, to insist our time will be better spent grabbing some fast food and getting back on the road. But Taj’s face is so comically adorable that my arguments die in my throat. I loop my hand around his arm. “I’d love to.”

  Calder holds the door open for us, and when we’re all on the sidewalk, I interlace my fingers with his so the three of us move as a unit up the street.

  The town is full of life, with people scurrying all around. Some venture in and out of shops; others stroll while pushing strollers or walking hand-in-hand with the one they love. According to Taj, Wisdom is like Twin Rivers in that almost everyone who lives here is a supernatural. But unlike Twin Rivers, the townsfolk here are more close-lipped about it. The few noms who live here are all supernatural-friendly, but the vibe of this place is simply different from that of Twin Rivers.

  When we round the corner, a large town square comes into view. Carts on wheels and temporary stages line the perimeter, and several stand in orderly rows within the square itself.

  “Now it makes sense,” Calder says. “They must be having a festival or something here. There are probably people visiting from out of town.” His brows draw together. “I’ll be back in a bit. I should make some calls.”

  Without further explanation, he kisses my cheek before heading back the way we came.

  “Do you think he’s going to tell them to take us off the wait list?” I ask.

  “Not sure,” Taj says. “But either way, I’m starving. There’s a deli just up there. Let’s pop in and see what they have in the way of snacks.”

  I bite my lower lip. I haven’t been hungry since this morning. Since Silas left. I know I should eat, but waiting another ninety minutes isn’t going to bother me. “I want to see what’s happening in the square.”

  Taj casts a wistful glance toward the deli. “Yeah, let’s go check it out.”

  I bump my shoulder into his upper arm. “Go. I’ll be fine. I won’t wander far. Besides,” I add, offering a grin, “I think we both know I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ve never doubted that,” he says, bringing his hand to the back of his head. “Pretty sure I’ve still got the lump here to prove it.”

  I shove him playfully and he laughs before leaning down to press a dizzying kiss to my lips.

  “Have fun exploring. I won’t be long.”

  I watch his tall, lithe form as he saunters down the sidewalk toward the deli. I love that he cares for me enough to put me ahead of him, but I’m glad he gives me the space to do the same.

  I glance to my right as I start toward the street, but before I can turn to the left, someone bumps my shoulder with enough force to jar me.

  “Sorry,” I say reflexively. All my years in captivity taught me things tend to go better when I preemptively accept responsibility for anything that goes wrong.

  The man who knocked into me grunts his response, but he doesn’t slow. As he reaches up to adjust the hood of his sweatshirt around his face, I glimpse a tattoo poking out from the wrists of his sleeve. Something about its shape strikes me as familiar, but I don’t have time to place it as he picks up speed down the sidewalk. Wherever he’s going, he clearly wants to get there fast.

  I pull my attention from him and check both ways before crossing the street. The kiosks and booths that looked so generic from the sidewalk begin taking on defining characteristics as I draw near. Hot dogs and nachos. Funnel cakes. Slushies. Squirt gun target practice. Knock-down-the-bottles. Popping balloons with darts. They’re setting up a carnival. By the looks of things, it won’t open tonight. No patrons mill about the stalls, and the only person in the square—besides me—who looks like they’re not setting something up is a girl of about seven with long brown curls who spins in circles as she makes large soap bubbles with a neon pink wand.

  I survey the vicinity, but no one seems to be paying special attention to the girl. Something inside me twists. I can’t count the number of hours I spent outside my house when I was younger, finding ways to amuse myself until I felt strong enough to go home to a mother who was blitzed out of her mind on euphorium.

  The girl spins on her heel so quickly that she loses her balance and pitches forward. While she manages to hold onto her wand, the tub with the bubble solution slips from her grip and falls onto the grass inches from my feet.

  Without thinking, I pick up the tube. “Here you go.”

  The little girl freezes, eying me warily. A faded memory floats to the forefront of my mind—something about “stranger danger” and not interacting with unknown people.

  The sticky, soapy solution slicks my palm and I realize most of the liquid spilled when she dropped the tube. Multiplication spells are pretty rudimentary—among the first I learned as a child, as there was never enough food in the house. The incantation bubbles to my lips before I can stop it, and in a flash, the plastic vessel refills with solution.

  The girl’s brown eyes widen. “You’re a witch?”

  “Yes.” I regret the word as soon as I speak it. Taj specifically said people in Wisdom don’t discuss the supernatural realm. But this isn’t people—this is a little girl.

  A small smile stretches her lips. “Me, too. Air. My bubbles are more fun when I can use my magic on them, but Mommy says not to do it in the square.”

  I glance around the vicinity again. “Is your mom around here?”

  “Why?” The girl narrows her eyes and scrunches her face in an almost comical way. “Are you going to try to kidnap me? Because I don’t care if you have puppies in your car, I’m not going with you. And if you try to snatch me, I’ll scream.”

  A chuckle escapes my lips. “I’m not going to snatch you. The opposite, actually. I want to make sure no one else does.”

  She studies me closely for a few more seconds before relaxing her features and holding out her hand for the plastic tube I in mine. As soon as it’s back in her possession, she dips her wand a
nd nods in the direction I came. “My mom’s over there, probably trying to see if the lavender lemonade people will give her a glass tonight, even though the festival doesn’t start until tomorrow.” She rolls her eyes, and the look is so over-the-top on such a small child that I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing again.

  “Is the lavender lemonade really good or something?”

  She lifts her shoulders before twirling to make a series of new bubbles. “I think it’s gross, but my mom says I’m the only one. Everyone else in town loves it.”

  I follow the trajectory of the largest bubble as it floats skyward. The iridescent surface flashes pale purple, turquoise, and pink as it ascends. “How about your dad? Does he love the lemonade too?”

  The girl stops spinning, her arms dropping to her sides. “My dad died.”

  Despite her matter-of-fact tone, the revelation is like a punch in the gut. Had I sounded the same way when I told people about my own father? Although my world was filled with pain after he passed away, at a certain point, a degree of numbness set in when I thought about him. When time didn’t grant my mom the same kind of relief, she sought it in euphorium.

  “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news, kiddo,” says a woman as she walks up beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. Her gaze is fixed on the little girl, who has resumed her bubble twirling. “The good news is I just spotted someone setting up the snow-cone stand you love.” The tall woman with a shock of bubblegum pink hair glances at me. “Connie, who’s your friend?”

  The girl stops long enough to lift her shoulders.

  “I’m Bryn,” I say, sticking out my hand. “I’m a sucker for bubbles.”

  The woman smiles and shakes my hand. “Ginger.”

  “She was making sure no one was going to kidnap me,” Connie says, dipping her wand.

  Ginger chuckles. “I pity any person who tries to snatch you.” She catches my eye. “Quite the spitfire, this one.”

  “Mom,” Connie whines, drawing out the syllable. “What’s the bad news?”

  “The lavender lemonade vendor was bought out by someone else,” Ginger says, her tone dripping with mock horror. She even presses her hands to her cheeks and drops her jaw for effect.

  “Yeah, Connie was telling me how the lemonade at this festival is legendary or something,” I say when the girl doesn’t bother to pause in her bubble-making.

  Ginger nods. “That it is. I’m just hoping that this L’s Lemonade will be half as good. I look forward to this stuff all year!”

  “I hope so, too.” Far from the words being an empty response, I find myself really meaning them. I’ve known this woman all of a minute, but already I like her. She has a vibrant spirit that makes me want to see her happy.

  For the first time since Connie said her father is dead, the weight that settled in my stomach lifts. Ginger isn’t my mother, and Connie isn’t destined to end up like me—sold into servitude so that my mom could get her next fix.

  A familiar form catches my eye and I glance up to see Taj strolling up the sidewalk across the street, finishing off what looks like a sandwich of some sort. I bid goodbye to Ginger and Connie before heading toward him.

  I can’t change my past, but all the pain I’ve suffered doesn’t have to color my future. For the first time ever, my life is in my own hands.

  Chapter Five

  Silas

  Stepping foot into Waywards is the closest I’ve ever felt to coming home.

  Not that I didn’t have an actual home once, but it was more like a house where I kept my meager belongings. While I’m sure there must have been a time when my parents didn’t disappear for months at a time when they were bound, I don’t remember it. The worst were the times they were both gone. And even though we lived in a neighborhood with several other daemon families who would look after me in those times, it never quite made up for their absence.

  Waywards has been my base camp since I was about sixteen. No one asks tough questions and there’s always a room above the bar available to crash in. My only complaint is the ever-present scent of copper that cuts above every other aroma. But I suppose it’s to be expected when half the bar’s clientele drinks blood.

  I make my way over the worn wooden floor to an empty spot at the bar. The man tending it catches my eye and lifts his chin in recognition. To my knowledge, there’s never been a day Jesse hasn’t stood behind this bar, surveying the room with keen violet eyes. He listens to everything, forgets nothing, and moves with the deliberateness of a man not to be crossed. Despite the fact that the only people who come here are vampires and daemons—the worst of the worst, according to most other supernaturals—there are no arguments here, no bar fights. Violence isn’t something Jesse tolerates, and no one here is stupid enough to anger the man who exudes an energy as old as time itself.

  “What’ll it be, Silas?” Jesse calls as he approaches, his shrewd gaze sweeping over me like a battlefield triage doctor checking for obvious wounds.

  I do my best not to shift under his attention. “Whiskey. And the pork sliders.”

  Jesse nods, grabbing a bottle of my preferred bourbon and a glass in a motion so fluid I almost don’t catch it. In a blink, he’s in front of me, pouring out three fingers of whiskey without checking my preference.

  Fuck, do I look that bad?

  “Sweet potato fries to go with your sliders?” Jesse asks, setting the glass down on a napkin in front of me. “And a room?”

  “Yes. For both.”

  Jesse gives only a nod before turning to relay my order to the kitchen. I almost call after him to ask if there’s a spot in the west hall available, but I stop myself. Like my other preferences, Jesse no doubt has this one filed away as well.

  I’ve sipped my way through half my whiskey when my meal arrives. The pork sliders here are my favorite comfort food, but today they do nothing to lessen the tightness in my chest.

  I made the right call. Everything I told Bryn about why I left is true. I have no idea who will bind me next. Maybe it’ll be someone who bought a random DNA sample—just enough hair or skin cells or whatever to enact the spell. But there’s a chance someone might seek me out specifically. Dozens of people have seen me with Bryn in the last couple weeks—not to mention Calder, Taj, and Poe. If someone has a beef with any of them, it’s not outside the realm of possibility for a person to bind me and make their first order for me to kill the people I’ve come to regard as friends. For all I know, whoever tried to bind me at the Temple of Theurgy could have had such a plan in mind.

  It’s safer for everyone if I’m as far away from them as possible.

  More to the point, it’s safer for me. I’ve never been in love before, but I can’t imagine it any different from what I feel for Bryn. We have a lot in common, she and I. We’ve both done terrible things because we didn’t have the option to say no. Neither one of us has been afforded the chance to build a life of our own making because our wills have been tethered to those of others. She could have let it make her bitter. No one could blame her if she came out on the other side wanting to burn the world to the ground for taking so much from her. But that’s not who she is. She looks past people’s sins to see the person beyond. That girl can look at me and see goodness, which is a miracle in itself.

  And I wish to all the spirits in all the realms that I could have stayed with her—even though she clearly doesn’t feel the same way for me as I do for her. In her book, I’m a friend—and that’s more than enough for me. Everyone in my life is transient. I’m surrounded by acquaintances. Even Jesse. He probably has dozens of factoids about my likes and dislikes stored in the vault of his mind, but that doesn’t make us friends.

  I finish my bourbon and another appears in its place as I’m polishing off my sweet potato fries—along with a key for room 204, which I know for a fact is in the west hall.

  Ordinarily, when I’m here I’ll spend some time shooting the breeze with the other daemons. We never talk about being bound; instead
, all the anecdotes are framed as if we stumbled into various scenarios by happenstance. It’s as close to normal as our kind gets, and it’s exhausting. I’m in no mood. Still, maybe it would be nice if I didn’t have to spend the night alone.

  Polishing off the second glass of whiskey, I turn on my stool and scan the activity in the room beyond. Once, when I was seventeen, I hooked up with a vampire because a couple daemons I was drinking with insisted it would be the greatest sex of my life. I ended up bringing a busty black-haired woman up to my room, but once her venom was coursing through my veins, I spent the night jerking off in the shower stall while she searched my belongings for valuables. I swore off vampires for life after that.

  But even though there are a half dozen sexy-as-hell, scantily clad daemons posing and preening and clearly waiting for someone to invite them for an evening romp, I can’t bring myself to approach one. Even if I brought one of these women to my room—hell, if I invited up the whole lot—I’d still feel just as alone as I do now. Maybe more.

  I slip off my stool and plot a course though the densely packed high top tables. As I slip around chairs and sneak past a knot of vampires slamming what appear to be shot glasses full of blood, the classic rock anthem blaring from the juke box fades and is replaced by a mid-tempo country song with a heavy snap track keeping the beat. I attempt to single out the melody, but it’s lost in a series of shouts from a nearby table.

  “What in the hell kind of shite is this?”

  The man’s voice sends an icy shiver down my spine. I’d recognize it anywhere. I heard it nearly every one of the two hundred and seventy-seven days I spent under Lillian Castle’s thrall.

  Oscar is one of the thirty or so vampires Lillian keeps around to do low-level dirty work. I guess since she started siphoning off the magic of unusually strong witches, she started to distance herself from the rest of her kind. Or perhaps some blood-suckers are too vile for even other vampires. When I was first bound, Oscar tried to make it sound like he was far more important in the organization than he really is. He even attempted to insert himself as some kind of supervisor or overseer between me and Lillian—something she quickly clarified was outside his job description. Oscar is so slimy, I wouldn’t be surprised to find him beneath an upturned rock, so his presence here at Waywards makes a thin sheen of sweat dampen my skin. This is my safe place. It’s not home, but it’s the closest thing to one I’ve got. But if someone like Oscar has started frequenting this place since the last time I stayed here, it might be time for me to try my luck elsewhere.