Wolf, Willow, Witch (The Gideon Testaments Book 2), page 3
Tehlor could tolerate curious teenagers and their fascination with spirit boards. She certainly took pity on people desperate for spiritual comfort. But elitist Tesla-driving housewives who crowed about warrior poses and turmeric lattes? Yeah, those customers could choke.
“This place is darling,” one of them said, feigning a surprised gasp.
The other didn’t look at Tehlor, but blurted, “Do you carry Frankincense?”
Tehlor tilted her head. “We do.”
The second woman, the blonde, unzipped her coat, revealing a simple white blouse and a gold crucifix around her neck. She granted Tehlor a quick glance, flicking her gaze around the red runes tattooed on her knuckles, traveling higher, lingering on the raindrop-shaped tunnels punched through Tehlor’s stretched earlobes. The woman raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“You’re standing in front of it,” Tehlor said.
The brunette gasped again, like a child at an amusement park, and shuffled toward the incense display.
As the pair huddled together in the corner and poked at the shelves, whispering hurriedly, Tehlor took the labradorite to the cash-wrap and calculated her employee discount on her phone. Expensive but doable. She jotted a note on her rolling tab—lab cab $63—and placed the jewel in a fabric pouch. She had a setting with a bale and clasp at home. With a bit of honey, blood, cord, and—
“Excuse me.”
Tehlor shifted her eyes away from the counter, staring at the two women. Up close, she noticed balm crusted in the corner of the blonde’s lips and a cheeky silver bracelet that spelled ‘saved’ on the brunette’s wrist.
“Do you accept community flyers?”
“No,” Tehlor said, dragging the word out. Moon Strike Nursery publicly displayed community flyers in the front window, but she scrunched her nose and shook her head anyway. “Why? What’s your mission, ladies?”
“We’re spreading the word about a joyous event,” the brunette exclaimed. Her blue eyes widened, and she smiled.
“Well, I love joy.” Laughter flared in her throat. She traded her attention between the two. “Is there a new church in town?”
“Not exactly new,” the blonde said, curt and cold. “We’re hosting an event next month. Worship, song, praise, healing. You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”
Tehlor hummed, considering.
“I’m Amy.” The brunette stuck her hand out.
Tehlor glanced at Amy’s palm and picked up Gunnhild, wielding the rat like pepper spray. “I’m Tehlor. This is Gunnhild.”
Amy jerked away and held her hand tightly to her chest. “Oh my God, gosh—well… Well, hello. Aren’t you…” She swallowed hard, grimacing. “…cute.”
“I have a curious soul,” Tehlor teased, lips splitting for a toothy grin. “And we could all use a little healing, right?”
“Some more than others,” the blonde said. She hadn’t introduced herself, but when she set her credit card on the counter the name stamped on the front said: Rose Whitman.
Tehlor ran the card and handed it back to her. Saccharine sarcasm filled her voice. “Oh, I couldn’t agree more.”
Chapter three
Lincoln better like noodles .
Tehlor carried a plastic bag stocked with udon, stir-fry, and tempura into the townhouse. She kicked the front door shut behind her and blew a piece of hair out of her face, tracking snow through the hallway into the living room. She halted in front of the kitchen counter. Lincoln Stone draped across her couch, wearing her ex-boyfriend’s old sweats and nothing else. He turned away from a Marvel movie playing on her cheap flatscreen and twitched his snout, sniffing the air.
Half of her hadn’t expected him to stay. The other half knew he had nowhere else to go. Her lips quirked.
“Japanese,” she said, shaking the bag. “Cheap but good.”
He nodded and adjusted on the couch, pulling his feet onto the cushion.
Tehlor fished Gunnhild out of her coat pocket and set her down, then placed the plastic bag on the counter. The labradorite fit snugly in her bra. She kept the stone tucked away as she popped the plastic top off their individual takeout bowls, and let the quiet stretch, waiting for Lincoln to rise from the couch, or ask her something, or make a demand. She’d been awake for too long. Adrenaline ran close to the surface, jostled loose under her chilly skin. She pulled a bottle of sriracha out of the fridge and watched Lincoln stretch his fingers toward Gunnhild, clucking softly at her. Honestly, she wasn’t sure if she had the fortitude to wrestle together the spell she’d promised.
I have to try, at least, she thought, warming for a brief, bright second. We could both use a little normalcy.
“Food.” She nudged a steaming bowl toward him. “You’re not, like, vegan, right? Or Keto or whatever?”
“I was dead this morning,” he said, matter-of-factly. He stood and crossed the room, snatching a pair of chopsticks from inside the bag.
She lifted a brow and dunked a tempura-fried carrot into her soup. “Fair. Favorite color.”
“We’re not doin’ that.” He set his elbows on the counter.
They stared at each other—Lincoln’s canine eyes, Tehlor’s sleepy gaze—until she tilted her head expectantly.
Finally, he relented. “Black.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Red.”
“Mine’s turquoise. Armie Hammer, Ivanka Trump, a wild raccoon. Fuck, marry, kill.”
Lincoln chewed slowly. “Fuck Armie Hammer, kill the Trump princess, marry the raccoon.”
“Really?” Tehlor scoffed, surprised. “The Hammer guy might legitimately try to eat you.”
“Try being the keyword. When did you start practicing?”
Six, she almost said, until she realized he meant magic. “When I was in high school. You?”
“Same, I guess. I didn’t take it seriously until I saw it for the first time. Until I met Bishop.”
“Makes sense. Think they’ll freak out when they find out you’re back?”
Lincoln’s eyes fell to the counter. He slurped an egg noodle and wormed his chopsticks through the broth, stirring veggies and tender meat. “I doubt they’ll stick around long enough to give a shit. The Zach Bagans stand-in they brought home doesn’t live here, so…” He trailed off, interrupted by Tehlor’s loud laughter. She snorted and giggled, shielding her ugly grin with her palm. He laughed a little, too. “What?”
“Colin,” she barked out, cackling. “Zach Bagans stand-in.” She sniffled and pointed her chopsticks at him. “I didn’t expect you to be funny. You know, with the scowling and growling. Figured you were a hard ass.”
“It’s not like there’s much Bishop can do about it, anyway,” Lincoln tested.
Tehlor met his gaze. He didn’t look particularly worried, but he was waiting for something. Confirmation. Assurance, maybe. She almost gave it to him. Almost leaned across the counter and snarled don’t worry, honey. You’re mine.
She filled a glass with tap water. “I don’t know why they’d waste their time.”
“Did you figure out a cloaking spell?”
Her focus narrowed to the stone beneath her blouse. “Yeah. Hope you’re a jewelry guy.”
“Ring or necklace?”
“Either. Pick.”
“Necklace,” he said, feeling across the stubborn gold wedding band.
She wanted to ask why he bothered keeping it, but she already knew the answer. It was the same reason she’d built a makeshift studio upstairs. Some past lives were impossible to kill.
“I could make it a collar.” She flashed a teasing grin.
Lincoln’s snout twitched into a snarl, and he lowered his ears.
She laughed, slurring around another mouthful of tempura. “Kidding, man. Chill out.”
Tehlor set her thumb against the bottom of the labradorite and pressed the jewel into an empty setting, allowing a layer of glue to bond the sterling to the stone. They’d finished eating an hour ago. After Lincoln had collected the trash, he’d asked to see the material she’d chosen for the charm, and she’d thought well, fuck, might as well get it over with. Spell work wasn’t a chore, per se, but tethering a reality-distorting spell to an inanimate object twelve hours after reanimating a corpse was a lot like mainlining chlorine after a night of cocaine and cheap whiskey. She turned the stone over in her palm, assessing how the leather cord looped through the bale.
“What’s next?” Lincoln asked. He loomed behind her, sending hot breath coasting across her cheek.
She batted at the air. “Don’t pant on me. I need a bit of your blood, honey, some alcohol, and a…” She paused, glancing around the living room before she twirled and searched the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and pulled a fresh pillar candle from behind some canned soup. “Yeah, this. C’mon.”
Lincoln followed her into the small first-floor bathroom. She hadn’t realized how broad he was until he propped his shoulder against the doorframe, watching her down the slope of his nose. Like that, with her belly full, and her body begging for sleep, Tehlor lit the wick with an incense match, hit the switch on the wall, and arranged the labradorite necklace around the base of the candle. She opened her palm, asking for his hand.
“Don’t freak out,” she murmured and lifted his hand to her mouth. When he tried to tug away, she seized his wrist, holding him still. “No tools for transmutation spells. You should know that.”
He wiggled his nose. “Get on with it.”
Tehlor brought his thumb to her lips and placed the digit between her teeth. A knife would’ve been easier, but the spell needed to stick, and magic was a bitch, sometimes. If she incorporated her body and used herself as the instrument, then she had a better chance of accomplishing what she’d set out to do.
She held his gaze and bit. He flinched, cursing under his breath. Blood tinged her tongue, coppery and different. Like burnt logs, almost. When she pulled away, warm liquid smeared her bottom lip. Power resembled pheromones; everyone had a unique flavor. But Lincoln motherfuckin’ Stone… He tasted off. Scarred. Defying death by way of brutality, lust, passion—deep, unyielding want—had left him smoky and well-worn.
That taste was a warning.
“See? Easy,” she mumbled.
Lincoln huffed. He stood a foot taller than her, breathing slow and deep.
“Face the mirror and picture what you remember of yourself. Hold it in your mind.” She guided his bloody fingertip to the face of the stone necklace. “It doesn’t have to be an exact memory. You can imagine what you wanted for yourself, what you liked about yourself, but don’t get crazy with it, all right? It’s a cloaking spell, not a reassembly ritual. You’ve already been remade twice. We can’t keep screwing with your bone structure.”
“So, this isn’t a permanent fix?” He shifted to stand in front of the mirror, crowding her between the vanity and the wall.
“Carrying a spell around isn’t exactly easy, so you’ll need to take breaks. Wear the necklace during the day, take it off at night. Ready?”
Lincoln flicked his gaze from Tehlor to his reflection and gave a curt nod.
Tehlor emptied her mind, focusing solely on the mirror. The spell wasn’t difficult. It rippled through her like cool water, pulsing from the center of her forehead into each fingertip, delivered with a gentle tap to the face of the labradorite. She lingered in the murky head fog, reaching for any loose ends, chasing out any leftover magic, and swaying on her feet. Her mouth moved around a familiar prayer. What flies there, what fares there. She rooted her devotion to the Vanir, speaking strength and steadiness into the scaffolding of the spell.
Her voice was whispery and gentle, gusting from her, “Freya, be gracious.” Spoken as a conclusion, sent skidding into the bathroom at the tail end of the ritual’s completion.
When she opened her eyes, Lincoln Stone blinked at his shaky reflection. It remained blurry, like the surface of a lake, until Tehlor fastened the chain around his throat. The labradorite rested between his clavicles, and all at once, his wolfish head was replaced by beige skin, tightly cropped ashen hair, and stern eyes—one brown, the other blue—situated above sturdy, handsome cheeks. He felt across his jaw and ear, turning one way then the other.
Tehlor gripped the counter, steadying herself against a bout of dizziness.
“See,” she said, sighing, “easy-peasy.”
Magic sizzled in the air. She clung to consciousness, watching Lincoln straighten before he shifted his gaze to her. Something eerie and unsettling moved within him. It pushed against the frayed knot her spirit had created when she’d brought him back, tangling themselves into a single, abnormal organism. His gentleness was gone. The guarded, curious guy she’d fished out of Bishop’s basement melted into a confident, magically emboldened dickhead. Every woman knew that feeling, the suddenness of becoming prey.
Fuck.
Before she could dart into the hall, Lincoln wrapped his hand around her throat and gripped her by the jaw, slamming her against the wall.
“You fuckin’ player,” she hissed, scrabbling for his wrist.
He gripped her face with one hand, squeezing hard. “You really thought I’d be your servant? Please.” He cooed the last word. His breath ran hot across her mouth. “You’re a cocky little witch, I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll skin you alive—”
Laughter boomed through the bathroom. He lifted her higher. She stood on her tiptoes, gasping, trying to summon the smallest bit of magic. None came. She was spent. Her heartbeat quickened and she thrashed in his grip, sending a frustrated noise through gritted teeth.
You knew this would happen, she scolded herself. You ignored your intuition. You did the fucking thing. Here’s your goddamn punishment.
“No wonder Bishop put you out of your misery,” she spat.
Lincoln’s triumphant grin fractured but didn’t fall. He dug his fingers into her cheeks and leaned closer, fitting his lips against her ear. “We’re even, you fucking heretic.” Each word stung. Every syllable chewed at her. “You brought me back; I let you live. Come near me again and I’ll gut you like a pig. Understood?”
“Taking notes from your ex, huh?” Tehlor met his furious gaze. Rage burned behind her eyes. “You’ll regret this.”
Lincoln tossed her carelessly. The back of Tehlor’s head smacked the wall and she slipped on the tile, smacking her knee against the toilet. She crumbled to the floor and tried to catch her breath. His footsteps thumped in the hallway. Fabric rustled. The front door opened and slammed shut, and the sound of his boots crunching through snow faded.
Motherfucker.
Gunnhild hopped across the living room. The concerned rat nosed at Tehlor’s ankle, then her calf, before she crawled onto her thigh and squeaked.
“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” Tehlor said. She let her eyes slip shut and blew out a breath.
Throbbing pain bloomed at the base of her skull. Magic, depleted. Energy, gone.
Völva slighted by her own vorðr.
She summoned enough strength to scoop Gunnhild up and get to her feet, tracing the candlelight’s aura around her ghostly reflection. Slight and bird-boned. Willowy and unrefined. So many people had decided so many things about her over the course of her life. Her dance instructor once told her she moved like a hawk rather than a swan. Too quick; too vicious. An old boyfriend had shaped the word small into a compliment. Swooned over her small lips, small breasts, small smile, and small appetite, gift-wrapping each comment as if she’d earned them, even though she’d derived those very same traits simply to please him. A rival ballerina called had her sweet once, mistaking her meticulous poise for mousy camaraderie. Witches in silly faux-circles had called her gifted and gentle—an empath, even—as she sat cross-legged at a full-moon party, casing their purses for something to steal.
Many people had decided on Tehlor Nilsen. Crafted a personality for her, assumed her past, predicted her future.
But Lincoln Stone was the first person with enough audacity to trick her.
Chapter four
Over the course of three days, a storm barreled down from the mountains and swept through Gideon, quieting into a flurry on the fourth night. Snow heaped atop cars, piled in driveways, and left the town silent. Winter did that, somehow. Crept in, held on.
After a mid-morning snowplow cruised through her neighborhood, Tehlor managed to motor through the empty, icy streets and check on the nursery. The last seventy-two hours had been restorative. She’d slept, soaked in a salt bath, washed her bedsheets, meditated, and held her palm above a burning candle, knowing Lincoln Stone would burn, too.
Magic slithered through her, awake and reinvigorated. After she’d turned on the misters in the greenhouse and shoveled the staircase in front of the shop, she stood behind the counter, dangling a diamond-shaped pendulum above an iPad. A map of Gideon filled the screen. Tehlor held the image of Lincoln in her mind and closed her eyes, waiting for intuition to seep into her fingertips. A spark flared, warming her hand, and the pendulum clattered, landing on Staghorn Way.
“Of fucking course,” she mused, shaking out her hand. “Limping back home like a kicked dog.”
Pretending she hadn’t noticed his power was a balm to her ego, but Tehlor knew what he was capable of. She’d felt it unspool—his dark, deceptive magic—and knew she’d have to rely on wits rather than brute strength to get him back. Even then, there was a high probability she wouldn’t succeed. She flattened her palms on the counter and stared at the map.
Hel had given her a gift, granted her a guardian, and Tehlor had been too prideful, or stupid, or ambitious to give a shit about the consequences.
But Lincoln was still her responsibility, whether either of them liked it or not. The gods watched, always, and Tehlor couldn’t afford to become another basic bitch in the Nine Worlds.
