Page 62 of Rogue Witch

Blade grunts a laugh. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? That was one of the times Leilah sneaked out of The Academy—the first time, actually, during her first week here. Turns out Matthias was there—along with a Thol’guk.”

“Who sent the demon?” I ask.

“We haven’t figured that out yet,” Blade says.

“Christ,” I mutter. “You all have a little soap opera going in here.”

“Nothing so dramatic as that,” Blade says with amusement.

“Shit always happens when Ciarah reappears in our lives,” Raith says.

“You seem to have forgotten who she is.” Ethan’s tone is gentle. “She’s saved us more than once.”

A soft light enters Blade’s eyes. “Remember when that dhampir tracked us all the way from Romania and caught Caleb and Raith in our cabin on the Warsaw Vienna Railway? She was a tricky one, that dhampir. I had no idea she hid a short sword beneath her greatcoat. I would still like to know what spell she used to incapacitate you two. You’re bloody lucky Ciarah returned to the cabin when she did.” Blade shakes his head. “I wish I could have seen her kill that bitch. Ciarah is magnificent when she’s fighting.” His eyes darken. “And when she’s making love.”

“We all know that Ciarah can take care of herself,” Raith says with asperity.

“And us,” Ethan says.

“She’s caused her share of trouble for us,” Raith snaps.

Blade lifts a brow. “One of these days, she’s going to remember our past lives, and you will have to ask her why she put that knife through your heart.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

LEILAH

Something in the way I walk feels…off. I look down and frown at my short, red, flared skirt. I never wear skirts. The shoes, however, are pretty damn cool. Three-inch heels, teardrop shape, tapered heel with t-straps in red suede. The kind of shoes one would expect to see on a woman twisting her hips on the dancefloor to the beat of Latin music.

“Nova,” a woman with an accent—Spanish, I realize—calls to me.

As I turn, I breathe in the scents of baking bread, sugar, cinnamon, chocolate, and other indefinable sweets. I’m in a bakery, one of my all-time favorite stores. A woman, maybe forty-five years of age, stands in a doorway at the back of the store where an oven as tall as me commands the rear wall. She’s beautiful in a regal sort of way, with dark hair swept up onto her head and a hint of gray at her widow’s peak. Dark brown eyes in a face of beautiful brown skin. The merest hint of crows feet crinkle the corners of her eyes and faint smile lines extend from each side of her mouth. There’s something familiar about her that I can’t place.

“Nova,” she says, “bring the two lower trays from the case, please.”

I frown. She lifts her brows and looks to my left. I follow her gaze to a display case filled with beautiful sweets, everything from eclairs to cream filled pastries, cookies, cakes, and more.

“Nova.”

I look back at her.

“Bring the two bottom trays, please. I have a batch of marzipan cookies that are ready.”

“Uh, sure.” I take a faltering step forward. The voice coming out of my mouth vibrates in my chest in a way that my voice doesn’t.

The woman frowns. “Is something wrong?”

I shake my head, then hurry around behind the case, and pull out the two bottom trays, which are about a quarter full. I start toward the kitchen. I glimpse myself in a small decorative mirror on the right wall, stop, and take a step backward to get a better look. The young woman staring back at me has long, wavy, raven hair, dark eyes and olive skin that almost glows. She’s at least four inches shorter than me and stacked like Sophia Loren.

“Nova,” the woman calls.

I hurry to the back where she’s pulled a tray of rolls from the oven. The scent of fresh baked bread envelopes me like a warm blanket. I set the trays on the counter to the left of three dozen colorful marzipan cookies. The woman sets the hot baking sheets on a stainless steel counter that faces the oven.

“Ah, thank you, carino. Now please—”

A bell tinkles in the front of the store.

“Go help that customer, will you?” the woman says.