Page 25 of The Witch’s Daughter

I could eat. My wolf licked her chops.

I took another step back. It could’ve been my exhaustion or the fact that I’d volunteered to come here in the first place or the magic thrumming through the air, but I felt bolder than I had in ages.

And I had an idea.

“Actually, meat sounds good. Would you mind standing in line while I poke my head around?” I smiled sweetly.

“Don’t…” Jaxon frowned. “Don’t you want to pick out what you’d like?”

“I’ll be right back.” I kept inching backwards. “Or you could just grab me something spicy?”

Please… Please…

Jaxon’s eyes darkened, but he nodded.

I didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

The crowd thinned further away from the food stands, but there were still plenty of witches and warlocks moving in and out of the vendor tents. All the scents—bodies, incense, and cooking smoke—had my wolf’s nose twitching.

There are… so many.

I know! I almost squealed.

What I thought would be a nightmare was really a colorful kaleidoscope of magic wielders from everywhere. Women in long skirts sat sprawled on the grass near the unburnt bonfire structure, forming a patchwork quilted picnic blanket among them.

Nearby, a group of musicians strummed lazily under the late afternoon sun. Bubbles danced in the air as magical little children ran through the crowd, and laughter mixed with vendors calling their wares. Shoppers stepped into tents, admiring crystals and tinctures and little carved ornaments.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I took it all in.

Hair color as varied as my own weaved through the crowd. Young and old, male and female, human and a few other wolves, mingled with a common purpose.

And I didn’t know a single other person, which meant they might not have heard of me either.

I could blend in here. Disappear. Relax in anonymity. I could shop to my heart’s content. Be surrounded by others like me, who’d maybe dealt with what I was dealing with. Their magic called, begging to be embraced and welcomed.

I could get lost in it.

But first, I wanted to check out the market.

A pair of malachite stone earrings were calling my name, but a flash of something shiny drew my attention.

A silver bangle on a wrist. The swish of long skirts. Beads on graying braids clinked together as the woman weaved between two stalls.

My heart stopped.

No. It’s not her. It can’t be.

Time seemed to slow as the colors from the festival blurred.

“Gram?” I whispered.

The woman disappeared behind the canvas flap of a tent. Time came rushing back at full speed, along with the rapid beating of my heart.

“Gram!” This was crazy. I’d helped bury her body. I knew she was gone, but some part of me—the not-broken part that still believed in magic—had hope.

My feet were running before my brain caught up. “Gram!” I called again, louder this time as I hurried through the maze of stalls. I stopped to open the canvas flap I swore she’d gone underneath.

You saw her too, right?