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As with lots of witch lines, the ranks had thinned over time, the dangers of their lifestyle taking its toll. When you lived to fight demons and protect humankind from otherworldly threats, you courted death more often than not. It was the reason most witch families traditionally placed importance on having many children—with the risks being what they were, only bloodlines with higher birth rates survived.
The dynamic of this was plainly visible in quite a few families in the community, among them the MacKennas and the Murrays. Merle and her sister Maeve came from the long, once-strong line of MacKenna witches and were the only surviving witches of their family, with Maeve recently magically severed from the bloodline. Merle’s pregnancy meant the MacKenna line would likely have a future, but the weighty responsibility to protect and nurture that future lay on Merle’s shoulders alone…an indescribably heavy burden.
And the Murrays… The only surviving witches of the family were Hazel and Rose. Lily had been severed from the bloodline when an insane dukhokrad had turned her into a demon, and any children she and her mate, Alek, would have would be demons as well. Hazel’s older sister, Isabel, had been killed in self-defense—by Merle—during a nasty fight after Merle found out Isabel had ordered Maeve to be kidnapped and tortured to harvest her magic. Isabel’s three daughters had all been murdered by demons over the years, and no other branches of the family had survived.
If Rose had died during her captivity in Faerie, the Murray bloodline would have perished along with her—Hazel wouldn’t have rushed to have more kids at her age just to keep the family alive. Especially not without a man in the picture. She’d already raised two children without much help from her late husband—who’d left all the nitty-gritty of caretaking to her, being it wiping little butts and noses, or running errands for school, or managing pubescent defiance—and she’d rather stick a fork in her eye than have to deal with that amount of work alone again.
Now that Rose was in the picture, the future of the family depended on her, which—same as with Merle—was an unfair burden for one person to carry. And if Rose didn’t even want children…
Hazel paused, closed her eyes, and heaved a sigh. “Too many things on my mind,” she whispered to herself. No wonder she barely ever slept. How could she find peace when her brain was in a state of constant worry and overthinking?
Are you always awake at this hour? Tallak’s taunting question from earlier echoed in her thoughts, and he didn’t even know how close to home he’d hit. The way she’d snapped at him for it showed just how caught she’d felt.
Funny, though, how he’d pointed out something her own kids had never even seemed to notice, even when they lived at home, and even before Hazel had to take on extra patrols due to the Draconians being put on house arrest.
As she trekked upstairs, her thoughts returned to Tallak’s suggestion of how they should spend a night together. Preposterous. Infuriating. That was what it was. Definitely not intriguing. And no, certain parts of her did not tingle at the idea, and her brain should absolutely not try to imagine what an entire night with Tallak would be like. In a bed. Without restraint.
Well, maybe there could be restraints…
“Quit it!” She shook her head as if to clear it of these wayward thoughts—and spotted a shape sneaking into the hallway from the other staircase at the opposite end of the house.
Hazel stilled, hand flexing and ready to throw a spell. The wards hadn’t activated, which meant this shouldn’t be an unwelcome intruder, and yet her entire nervous system had gone into alert mode, prepared for a fight.
The shape—of slight, feminine build, as much as she could discern in the dark—moved closer, on tiptoes, it seemed, and Hazel’s hand relaxed when she finally made out her features.
“Rose,” she said quietly.
Her daughter flinched and whirled around, her hand on the door to her room. Her raven hair hung loose around her shoulders, a bit tangled as if wind-whipped, or mussed up by running. Dressed in skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a tight jacket, she fidgeted, rubbed at her nose, and avoided Hazel’s eyes.
“I didn’t know you were out.” The comment fell from Hazel’s mouth before she could bite her tongue.
Rose was twenty-seven, an adult by all means, and she could very well come and go as she pleased, especially seeing as Hazel had been out at this hour herself. She had no right to judge here, and the tightness in her chest and the queasy feeling in her stomach weren’t a justification to pry.
“I did not want to wake you,” Rose mumbled, her words tinged with her Fae accent.
She’d made incredible progress learning English in the past seven months—motivated, no doubt, by the fact that she’d always need Isa or Tallak around to interpret for her unless she learned fast—and studied upwards of ten hours each day to the point where she was now fluent in simple conversations. Her accent, however, stayed, and would likely never vanish completely. Given that Fae was her native language, her pronunciation was infused with melodious softness, and she rolled the r’s similar to how speakers of Romance languages did.
Hazel examined Rose’s appearance—was that blood on her boots? Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t— “Where have you been?”
A fluid shrug, her eyes still averted. “Out.”
“With friends?”
She tried so hard not to interrogate her like an unruly teenager, but, dagnabbit, in many ways Rose just wasn’t as mature as other adults her age. She’d spent the better part of her young life locked up with fae who’d manipulated and used her, and she’d missed out on so many experiences teenagers and college-age kids had that helped them navigate the world.
Rose made a sort-of-affirmative sound and scratched at her chin.
“That’s nice.” Hazel resisted the urge to reach out to her, to take her hand. Rose didn’t like physical affection, and Hazel regularly ignored her maternal need to pull her daughter into a hug in order to respect Rose’s wishes.
She’ll come around one day, Lily always said. Just give her time.
Gods knew she tried.
Just as she tried to forge a connection to this daughter she barely knew, to build bridges over what seemed to be a desert filled with thorn bushes. In the months Rose had been home, she hadn’t really opened up, and the conversations Hazel and she had rarely went deeper than nice pleasantries—even with Isa there to interpret more difficult sentences. And the more Hazel tried, the more Rose would withdraw. When prodded, she’d emotionally curl up into herself like an armadillo.
Still, Hazel couldn’t help wanting more. Not just for Rose to talk to her, but also to let her into her life. Was it too much to ask that a mother know whom her daughter spent her time with? Who her friends were—friends she never mentioned or brought home? Was it unreasonable to want to make sure she surrounded herself with good people who treated her right?
“Where did you go with your friends?” Again, the question slipped out before Hazel could think better.
