by D. G. Swank
“No, just a summons. They asked us to report to them tomorrow afternoon.”
I got the last button undone, then slipped off my coat.
“Well, see? No big deal.” I managed to keep a level tone, but my mind was racing. There was no way the council could know about the dead mage in our cemetery, not yet, but the timing was uncanny.
“How many times have we been summoned by the Small Council?” Celeste asked.
“Once,” I admitted. After our parents had died. They’d called a meeting to question our ability to continue our family legacy of protecting the Book of Sindal. After Celeste and the book were stolen, Phoebe and I had called a Protocol Thirteen, but that had been our doing. The council hadn’t even summoned us after Phoebe and Celeste had returned from their ordeal. The Protective Force had confiscated the book—i.e., Brandon had taken it away while Celeste gave him a death stare—and brought it to the Small Council.
So why did they want to see us now?
“Do you think they know?” Celeste asked in a tiny voice.
“How could they?” I asked, even though I was worried about the same thing. That worry intensified when I saw a guilty look float across Phoebe’s face. “Did you call Brandon?”
“No!” she insisted, though her guilt seemed even more pronounced.
“She hasn’t,” Celeste said. “She’s been with me the entire time, other than when she was in the shower.”
My eyes narrowed into slits. “What did you do, Phoebe?”
Tears filled her eyes as she turned to Celeste. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d figure it out.”
Celeste stared at her in disbelief.
“What are you talking about, Phoebe?” I asked in a cold tone. “What did you do?”
Tears streaked down her face, and the look in her eyes turned pleading and pitiful. “We have a connection.”
“A connection,” I said in a neutral tone. “What kind of connection?”
“Psychic. Like our coven bond.”
I sucked in a breath of surprise. “You formed a coven with Brandon Cassidy?”
The pain of her betrayal was like a punch in the gut.
“No!” Her face fell, and she sank back into the sofa cushions. “Maybe.”
“Which is it?” I asked, my tone so cold it could freeze water on contact. “You did or you didn’t?”
“Rowan, stop!” Celeste’s voice rose as she got to her feet. “Being mean to her isn’t going to help anything.”
“Why are you defending her? You’re the one she’s betrayed!”
“I didn’t betray you, CeCe!” Phoebe shouted. “I swear! It just…happened after we…”
“Had sex?” Celeste suggested.
Phoebe nodded, blushing furiously.
“Just happened,” I parroted in a hateful tone. “You didn’t think to use protection?” That was uncalled for, but I was beyond frustrated. I rued the day Brandon Cassidy had swaggered back into our lives.
“Rowan!” Celeste chided. “That isn’t helping anything.”
She was right. It wasn’t. “Let’s try to look at this logically,” I said, pacing toward them. “What exactly do you think he knows?”
Phoebe wrung her hands in her lap. “He knew something was wrong. He got frantic when I wouldn’t tell him anything. So I told him that someone had shown up looking for the book and we’d taken care of him.”
My stomach was so tight I wasn’t sure I’d ever eat again. “You didn’t tell him that the mage was dead?”
She shook her head. “No, but he may have sensed it anyway.”
A new thought hit me. “That was nearly two hours ago. Why didn’t he send the Protective Force to investigate?”
She flinched. “I don’t know.”
While that may have been a partial truth, there was more. “Is Brandon on his way?”
He’d become so protective of her, he nearly lost it when she’d stubbed a toe in the kitchen the other day. If he’d felt even a fraction of Phoebe’s terror after her near-kidnapping and the mage’s death…
“No.” Her fearful gaze met mine. “He hasn’t been himself today.”
“What’s that mean?” I pressed.
“He’s been blocking himself from me.”
Could Brandon be trying to ghost her? No. I’d seen them together. They were so touchy-feely it nearly made me gag. I would bet my limited edition KitchenAid mixer that he hadn’t been using her, which meant some other kind of trouble was afoot. “Then you have to do the same, Bee.” I made a chopping motion. “You shut it down.”
“He’s probably doing it to protect me.”
“And you’re protecting your sister. Shut it down.”
“Ro…” At first, I thought she was pleading with me to rescind my order, but I could see that she was terrified for Brandon.
I reached for her, and she got to her feet and collapsed into my chest.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered into her ear. “It’s probably like you said. He’s protecting you.”
She shook her head. “No. He’s different. His magic feels different. I’m scared his brother got to him.”
Great. That was all we needed. Brandon’s brother was Donall, as in Donall, leader of the Dark Set. I drew in a deep breath, held it, and then pushed it out. “The sister coven comes before all else, but we’ll find out what happened to him and make it right.”
“Really?” she asked in shock.
“You love him, and I want you to be happy, Bee.” I dropped my arms to my sides, feeling even more exhausted than I had after our adventure in the graveyard. I considered telling them about Officer Gillespie, but they already had plenty to worry about. “But if he figured out that we killed the mage, I don’t think he told anyone. If he had, they would have sent the Protective Force to take us into custody, not issued a summons for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Not we,” Celeste said quietly. “Me. I killed the mage.”
“We’re all in this together, CeCe,” I said frankly. “Just like Dad used to say. All for one.”
Her mouth twisted, but she didn’t say anything.
“If they don’t know about the dead mage, then why did they call the meeting?” Phoebe asked.
I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know, but I guess we’re about to find out.” I forced a smile. “Now I’m going to go make dinner, then clean up the kitchen. I’m still planning to record a YouTube episode, and I’d like to get to it sooner rather than later.”
Phoebe was still exhausted from having her power drained, and Celeste was worn out from the energy burst that had killed the mage. She was still distraught she’d used magic to take a life, but Phoebe and I had done our best to assure our baby sister that she’d had no choice. I knew it was something that would just take time.
They were both in bed by nine, which meant I got an early start on my video. I usually recorded them late at night so there weren’t any interruptions, but I was tired too.
The oven was preheating while I premeasured all the ingredients. I’d just finished adjusting the camera on its tripod when I heard a knock at the door.
My heart slammed against my rib cage, but I took a deep breath to calm down. A bad guy wouldn’t knock on the door—we’d had enough break-ins at this point to know firsthand—and we had so few actual visitors, the logical explanation was that Brandon had finally shown up. He had to be worried sick about Phoebe, and after two days apart, he was probably missing her like crazy. But after what she’d said about him acting strangely, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let him in.
I marched over to the door and flung it open, announcing, “Before you come in, we need to—”
But it wasn’t Brandon at the door. It was Officer Gillespie, still in his uniform and looking all official.
“We need to…?” he prodded with raised brows, the corners of his mouth tipping up.
I’d stood next to him on the road, but it had been dusk, and the low light had hidden some of his glory. Now, bathed
in the warm light from the living room, he was the sexiest man I’d ever seen. And he was on my front porch. He’d ditched his jacket, giving me a better view of what lay beneath, and what a view it was.
There wasn’t more than a pinch or two of visible fat on him. No, if he had any pudge at all, it was simply doing the job of rounding out his substantial chest, shoulders, arms, and legs. Good gods, this man was halfway to Hulk. Except his skin wasn’t even a little bit green, and his warm brown eyes, strong jaw, and dimpled cheek made him much, much more attractive. The cherry on top was the uniform—perfectly pressed and buttoned, badge shining. I swallowed, hard, trying to tamp down the attraction that had ignited within me like a wildfire, and dug for something intelligent to say. “Sorry, I thought you were my sister’s boyfriend. Can I help you, Officer?”
Can I help you to my bedroom, and out of your uniform?
Dear gods, what had gotten into me?
“I wanted to make sure you’d gotten home okay,” he said, curiosity shining in his eyes as he glanced past me.
“So you figured out a way to come to my house after all.”
Sincerity washed over his face. “I really did want to check on you, Ms. Whelan.” He stopped, as if to collect his thoughts, then added, “And I thought it best to warn you about something I discovered after we parted earlier.”
I held my breath. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Possibly, but not in the way you probably think.”
Maybe I was a fool, but I took a step back into the house. “You’re already here, so you might as well come on in.”
“Thanks.”
He walked inside, and even though the air had turned even colder, I was slow to close the door behind him. I still wasn’t sure inviting him inside had been a good idea, but he was already here. Too late to change my mind.
I shut the door and led him into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Officer?”
He paused, taking in my kitchen setup—the bowls on the counter, the measuring cups beside them, and then the camera on its tripod—but he didn’t say anything other than, “Sure. I’d love a cup. And call me Logan.”
I wasn’t sure sharing first names was a good idea. I grabbed a mug out of the cabinet. “How do you take your coffee, Officer Gillespie?”
“Black. And please call me Logan.” Suddenly, he was right behind me, and a ghost of a shiver ran down my spine. I spun around to face him. He raised an eyebrow in expectation, the corner of his mouth tipped into a crooked grin.
He wanted to know my first name, and I couldn’t think of a good reason not to tell him. I sighed, partly to mask the shakiness that I knew would come out in my voice. “Rowan.”
I wasn’t super thrilled about exchanging names with him. Even that small act felt intimate. Like we’d taken one step closer to a cliff.
“Nice to meet you, Rowan Whelan.” His smile spread, and his whole face lit up.
I was horrifically out of my depth. I knew nothing about law enforcement, but any fool could tell you to steer clear of the police after committing a crime. As much as I enjoyed looking at him, his presence in our home would likely lead to disaster.
“And what do you do, Rowan Whelan?” he asked, his gaze holding mine.
I could look into his eyes all day. But I shouldn’t. I broke eye contact, then realized I was still holding his empty mug in my hand. Grabbing the half-full coffee pot, I filled the cup. “I build websites and do a bit of tech writing. All freelance. I work from home.”
“The computer out in the nook must be yours. So you’re here all day, then?”
“All day, every day. Alone. Exactly the way I like it.” I held his gaze, hoping I got my message across. I didn’t need his intrusion, professionally or otherwise. Even though it was hard not to wonder whether those arms could pin me up against a wall.
Good gods. Where had that thought come from? My face flushed, flustering me so much that I handed him his mug and walked away. I found myself heading toward the computer, as though to provide evidence that I did indeed work there.
What the hell are you doing, Rowan?
He followed, meandering closer to my computer, which sent a strange sensation crawling over my skin. Nobody touched my computer. It was an unspoken rule between my sisters and me, bolstered by the fact that neither of them wanted or needed to use it. My computer desk looked out over the driveway, and with its two monitors angled on either side, it felt like my inner sanctum. My own little world.
Logan gave a slow nod and then, mercifully, turned on his heel and ambled into the living room. There was something about a man who was so massive carrying himself so unhurriedly through a space that wasn’t his. He oozed confidence, even in a stranger’s house.
He nodded again, executing another slow turn so that he was facing the kitchen, taking in the camera and the multiple bowls. I took several steps so that I was standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with him. It may have taken me ages to feel comfortable standing in front of a camera in my own kitchen, but I’d struggled through it and conquered my fears. I wouldn’t back down now. He was confident? Well, two could play that game.
We were no more than a couple of feet apart when he turned to me, his eyes sparkling with some emotion I couldn’t name, his mouth curving into a slow, but delighted, smile.
“Hey,” he said in surprise. “‘Work fast, eat slow’—that’s you.”
“That’s me,” I said, struggling to keep my breaths controlled and even. My heart had kicked into overdrive. “Words to—”
“—live by,” he finished with a short laugh. I laughed with him.
“You’ve seen my little side hobby, then?” I asked, suddenly feeling shy.
“It was the Le Creuset,” he said, pointing to the navy blue dish on the table. “You love that thing.”
“I do,” I acknowledged, bobbing my head. “It was a hand-me-down from my dad.”
“Le Creusets are never hand-me-downs,” he said. “They’re heirlooms.”
My eyes went wide. “Okay, so you’ve seen at least two episodes.”
I’d done an entire twelve-part series on the versatility of the Le Creuset casserole dish, covering everything from making caramelized onions to baking a cake.
“I’ve seen every episode.” The smile fell from his lips, and suddenly his eyes had a lock on mine—one he didn’t seem keen to release. “Every single one. You’re Ro, in the videos. Not Rowan.”
A few heartbeats of silence stretched between us, until I reminded myself to breathe.
“So you recognized the kitchen before me?” I managed to choke out.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Gotta be honest, I kind of hate myself for saying anything.”
“No, no. Don’t be sorry.” This had to be the weirdest sensation I’d ever experienced. Sure, I read the comments on my videos, so I knew that people watched them. Some fans even hosted cook-alongs with me, sort of like DIY dinner parties for them and their friends. I knew those people were real, and I had actually messaged with some of them. But I had never, ever met one in person. I let out a long, shaky breath, and looked at him. “So you’re a cook, then?”
He barked out a laugh. “No, I—I was looking for a recipe for something. I stumbled across one of your videos and… I don’t know… I was sort of captivated, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his neck as his face started to turn red. “I…uh…I’m sorry, I’m not usually—never—tongue-tied.” He grimaced. “It was your voice. I don’t usually watch your videos. I just listen.”
It took a second for his words to sink in. “So you queue up my cooking videos, but it’s not to learn how to cook things.”
“Nope.”
“You just want to listen to me?”
He looked even more embarrassed. “Yep.”
“Why?”
“It’s the only thing that…um… it’s just soothing. So when I’m having trouble sleeping…”
Oh… Oh. My eyes narrowed. “Is this some sort of
freak fetish thing?”
“No! God, no. I mean… I don’t think so. I just find your voice soothing.”
He no longer looked confident. His cheeks were bright red, and the color bled up to his temples. His eyes darted back and forth, searching mine. “I swear, it’s not weird. And I’ve learned a lot.”
“Maybe I should be the judge of whether a random police officer finding my voice boring enough to put him to sleep is weird.” Truthfully, it was a nice and most unexpected compliment. I smiled at him. “Thank you,” I said simply.
There was so much more I wanted to say, but I couldn’t sort it all out in my brain. Besides, I was supposed to get rid of Logan Gillespie as expediently as possible, not keep him around because I liked him.
Dammit. I did like him. All the more reason to get rid of him.
“You said you had something to tell me that could get me into trouble?” I prompted with a hint of impatience, then felt like a bitch. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me, but with him it did.
“We got a tip,” he said, holding my gaze, his embarrassment fading. “I’m not sure what to make of it.”
“Listen, Officer Gillespie,” I said, sensing that if there was ever a time to be super honest with him, it was now. “There’s a reason there’s no record of us ever getting into trouble with the Mount Vernon police. We’re quiet women who want a quiet life, yes, but we also take care of ourselves. If you know something about a threat to us or our property, I would appreciate you telling me so that my sisters and I can take precautions.”
His hesitation was brief, which I appreciated. “The barkeep from the Copper Giant called it in. There was a young man there this afternoon. Drank bourbon, neat,” he said with a wrinkled nose, like that was the most ridiculous thing about this whole interaction. “Asked about you and your sisters, your property. Seemed to know where it was but wanted to know if you ladies had a big fence or anything. Then he asked about any recent incidents up this way.”
I sucked in a breath.
“What did the bartender tell him?” I asked.
Our cover-up had already gone south. I’d hoped no one, magical or otherwise, would be able to connect us to the dead mage, but the bourbon drinker was almost certainly the man we’d just buried in our cemetery.
