CASSANDRA WILLOWSTONE
The bonfire burned bright and hot.
In a clearing deep in the forest, she stood alone on the dais, swaying to drumbeats. She wore a silky white robe, the material draped on my body.
Such a thin barrier between hiding and being seen.
Soon she would be naked.
The male drummers were on the right side, facing the bonfire, their shirtless bodies sweating as they used strong, calloused hands to create a driving rhythm.
She felt light-headed, and her flesh electrified. Above them purple and gray clouds gathered. Thunder boomed.
They arrived.
The brothers.
The triplets.
She knew them. Not now. Not here. Earlier.
Puppies?
Running in a field pouncing on each other. Barking and nipping.
Playing.
Her heart ached.
She lost something. No, everything.
But they were here.
They were hers.
Werewolves.
The drummers stilled, the last drumbeat echoing into the full-moon night. Not a single clan member standing on the other side of the flames made a sound. Only the crackling of burning wood interrupted the eerie silence.
Then a werewolf howled.
And another.
And one more.
Together the howls blended together.
Homecoming.
Cassandra Willowstone woke up, her heart racing, her breath labored. She sat up, her gaze drawn to the fluttering sheer curtains. Pale moonlight crept across the wood floors.
Before going to sleep, she'd opened her bedroom windows, hoping the gentle breeze, night calls of cicadas, and smells of the mint growing in the window box would lull her into nice dreams. And if not nice, then no dreams at all.
She sat up and slid her feet into her fuzzy slippers. She walked to the window, pushing aside the curtains and looking out into the back gardens.
The werewolves were coming.
The Moon King pack ruled all the packs on the continent. For the first time in a thousand years, triplet sons had been born to the alpha king. Now, they were of age to choose their mate.
And that was the talk of not only Garden Grove, but the whole supernatural world. Werewolf prophecy claimed that the brothers would share one Luna, and most shocking of all, their Luna would be a witch.
The search for this mysterious witch-mate had been ongoing.
Now, it was Garden Grove's turn to host the Moon King and his sons. Single witches had been preparing for weeks.
Cassandra had no time or energy for werewolf-mate hunts. She had practical worries. Goblins to wrangle. A menial job to work. A plan to implement so that the Willowstones still had a future in the town their family helped found.
In the distance, she heard the howling of wolves, and shivered.
Stop worrying, she thought. They're not here for you.
She shut the window and then climbed back into bed.
"No dreams," she muttered. "No dreams."
***|***|***|***|***
CASSANDRA WILLOWSTONE
Cassandra Willowstone pulled her car into a metered spot near the park's entrance and turned off the engine. She squeezed the steering wheel and tried to get herself settled. Sheesh. Her nerves were already tattered and she hadn't even left her car yet.
Okay, Cassandra. Deep breaths. She inhaled and exhaled a few times. She steeled herself for the inevitable hate-fest and then got out of her car. She crossed the street to the Jones Family Cleaners, swallowed the knot of dread lodged in her throat, and opened the door.
"What are you doing here?" asked Carol Jones from behind the counter as she walked inside.
The Jones family owned the only dry cleaning service in Garden Grove and she usually avoided the place like the plague, but she was here at Dorianna's behest.
She had to swallow her pride and her bitterness to deal with Carol. Carol not only belonged to the Garden Grove Coven, but she was one of the Council of Six that ran it. Carol had hated her mother, Delia Willowstone, before she used black magic to harm herself and her lover—Douglas Jones, the mayor of Garden Grove and Carol's husband.
She understood Carol's rancor. She was the daughter of the woman who'd murdered her spouse. But neither Carol nor anyone else it seemed could separate her from her mother's terrible act. So she paid the price from Mom's transgressions. Every. Single. Day.
"I don't serve Willowstones." The tone of Carol's voice suggested she'd rather eat slugs than speak to her. Cassie understood the sentiment because she felt the same way about talking to Carol.
"I know," she said smiling even though her lips protested the effort. "But I'm not here for me."
She put her purse on the counter and dug through it until she found the yellow pick-up ticket. She tried to hand it to Carol, but Carol reared back from the counter as though the little paper was covered in poison.
She was used to the contempt, especially from Carol, but no matter how many times she endured the obnoxious behavior of Carol and her ilk, her feelings still got hurt. She felt like shards of glass were embedded in her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
She heard the overhead bell tinkle as the door opened and a new customer arrived. Oh, great. Now she had a witness to her humiliation. Hurrah.
"Move aside," said Carol, her gaze cold. Carol looked past her and aimed a welcoming smile at whoever was behind her. "Good morning, sir! How may I help you?"
"Good morning," said a male voice that made goosebumps prickle on Cassie's skin. "No worries," he continued. "I'll wait my turn."
"She's not a customer." Carol glared at her. Her voice raised, she said, "I'm sorry, Cassandra, but I've told you before I won't give you any money. You'll just drink it away and end up in the gutter. Don't you get tired of waking up in alleyways smelling like booze and urine?"
Mortification heated her cheeks and she swallowed the shame crowding her throat. It's okay, she told herself. This is the last time Carol spews her hatred at you. When she was welcomed into the coven tonight, the woman wouldn't have to like her, but she would have to respect her.
Until then, however, she was dirt beneath Carol's shoes.
She put the ticket on the counter and pushed it toward Carol. "It's for Dorianna," she said. "She asked me to pick up her dress for tonight's gathering."
Carol's demeanor immediately changed from searing hatred to plain ol' snotty. "Well, why didn't you say that when you walked in?"
Carol grabbed the ticket, looked at it, and turned around to the electronic racks filled with plastic-wrapped clothing. She flipped a button and the racks began to circulate. Eventually, Carol found the long white dress with its delicate green stitching.
The plastic covering the frock crinkled as Carol took it off the rack and handed it to her. "Thirty dollars," Carol said.
She gaped at Carol. "Thirty dollars?"
"It's ten for the dress," Carol said, her smile thin. "And twenty for the pick-up fee."
"Wow," said the man behind her. "That's steep."
Carol offered the customer a smile so warm you could melt chocolate on it. "Oh, don't worry, sir. That fee is only charged to certain customers who have, unfortunately, proven untrustworthy."
Carol returned her gaze to her. "You can give me thirty dollars … or you can tell Dorianna you couldn't pick up the dress." Carol gave her a sharp, thin smile. "What's it gonna be, Cassandra?"