Page 3 of Little Witch

"When do they not?" I shrugged, sliding the tray of cinnamon rolls in beside the muffins. "But no. It's not that. I just feel off this morning. Bad dreams."

His grin faded a fraction, and for a second I thought he might actually push. Then he reached out instead, tucked a loose pink strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering half a second too long against my jaw. "Dreams have a way of telling us things we're not ready to hear," he said. "Especially here."

"Comforting." I frowned. "Who doesn't want their terrors coming to life?"

"I never said comforting." His mouth curved. "Careful, though, little witch. Whatever's calling you out there — it's patient. And patient things always win eventually."

Then, because he was Orias and incapable of leaving a moment sitting heavy for more than five seconds, he stole a third cinnamon roll and sauntered off toward the front of the shop, whistling something far too cheerful for a conversation about a haunted forest wanting to eat me alive.

I watched him go, skin still warm where he'd touched it, and told myself very firmly that my heart wasn't doing something complicated about a man with a demon's eyes and his brother's face.

It was unfair, really. Handsome men should not have been allowed to have identical twins.

Least of all ones who kissed you then left town.

The door chimed, and soon the bakery filled with the usual morning rush. Familiar faces drifted in and out — Mrs Hartley picking up her usual ginger cookies, a few teens from the high school grabbing muffins on the way to class, and Mr Carson, a vampire who always insisted on two black coffees, no sugar, followed by the sweetest slice of cake we had that morning, which he only ever seemed to enjoy the smell of.

Vampires didn't eat human food. They survived on blood — donated, willing, or otherwise. That never stopped Mr Carson from coming in every morning for the same order he'd had since my great-grandfather ran this place. I used to wonder what he did with the cake and the coffee after he left. Eventually I stopped asking, and just let him have his strange, melancholic little ritual.

With all of it, the bakery still felt like a sanctuary most days. But today, even with the steady stream of customers and Orias's laugh carrying from somewhere near the register, I still couldn't shake the sense that something was off. The whispers from the forest tugged at the edges of my thoughts, pulling me back toward the dream every time I let my guard down.

Into the magic. The lights.

That rush of something exhilarating I couldn't put a name to.

A few hours later, in a rare lull, I found myself drawn to the window. Soft golden light bathed the street, the trees swaying like they moved to some rhythm only they could hear. Beyond the rooftops, I could just make out the edge of the Whispering Pines — dark and inviting, twisted branches beckoning like hands just eager to reach out and throttle me.

For as long as I could remember, those woods had been a source of fascination and fear in equal measure. The ones who ventured in were usually magic themselves, chasing something I could never quite understand. Or they were teenagers, drunk and daring, hunting a story to tell later.

None of the humans who went deep enough ever came back the same. They always said they felt different. Off. I used to think that was just story dressing. Now I wasn't so sure.

Now I wondered if there was a reason humans came back wrong. A reason none of them ever touched a single leaf of that forest again.

A reason why most of them killed themselves. Or died in odd ways. Or... or just vanished.

Like my dad.

Like Orias and his twins older brother.

I watched the treeline a while longer, until the wind picked up and swirled leaves into little eddies on the street outside. It was strong enough to slip through the cracked door, catching my hair and tangling the mass of pink, sending my fringe sideways.

And in the distance, carried on the breeze, I could've sworn I heard it again.

A whisper.

Amber.

I blinked and stepped back from the window, the noise of the bakery closing in around me all at once. My arms prickled with a sudden chill, even though the room was warm.

I was being ridiculous. It had just been a dream.

A nonsense dream. A nothing dream. A thing that meant nothing at all.

But even as I went back to work, trying to convince myself it was nothing but make-believe, the pull of the forest didn't loosen its grip. And somewhere underneath it all, I knew it was only a matter of time before I found myself standing beneath those trees.

In the middle of the woods that swore they knew my name.

In the same place my father was last seen alive.