Aisha Colewright built her nightly spell around the stable housing a dozen Arabians. The horses whickered in response to the feel of her magic bathing them with protection. She raised them and sold them, just like her mother and grandmother had done before her. Many of her customers came from other countries, but she always insisted they show up at her ranch before she agreed to let them purchase any of her stock. Nothing like meeting someone up close and personal to assess if they’d provide an acceptable home for her darlings.

Satisfied nothing would disturb her babies through the night, she started across the expanse of yard between the barn and the house. The evening was cold and clear, the sky shot with millions of stars. She wrapped her arms around herself and stopped, gazing at the wonder scattered above. She’d always wanted to fly, but contrary to urban myths about witches and their broomsticks, flight wasn’t part of any witch’s supernatural bag of tricks.

A crackle of magic jigged across the blackness, and she cocked her head to one side wondering what spawned it. Stillwater was home to a hodgepodge of magical types, but most of them didn’t hold all that much power. Plus, it wasn’t the kind of thing that ever entered polite conversation. Humans still held a clear majority in her small town—everywhere else as well—and an unspoken code among those like her was to downplay any and all paranormal abilities.

She curved her mouth into a grimace. Damn, what a difference a hundred years made. Her grandmother had been in great demand as both a healer and matchmaker. Her love charms worked, and people paid handsomely for them. Aisha worked her magic with her breeding stock under the proverbial table. Only she knew why her babies were so special, bred for both endurance and speed.

Shaking her head, she covered the remainder of the flagstone path with its runic carvings and let herself inside the house. The scents of sage and hemlock met her nostrils, and she hurried to her small altar. Tonight was the third—and last—night of her ritual. Feeling foolish, she lit a red candle scented with mint and anise and shut her eyes.

Bright the Flame.

Bright the Fire.

Red is the color of my heart’s desire.

Aisha repeated the incantation three times, visualizing Liam behind her closed lids. Liam with his curling copper locks, emerald-green eyes, and lanky, broad-shouldered build. That man had an ass on him that was to die for. High and tight and well-muscled. She’d lusted after him for months, but flirting hadn’t gained her more than a quick smile before he strode off to attend to something.

“Yeah, nothing normal did the trick,” she muttered, “so here I am, sunk into my witchy ways.”

She opened her eyes and rolled them. So far as she knew, Liam kept to himself. Maybe he preferred boys, but she didn’t think so. Gay men activated a certain frequency of her magic, and he came through as hetero, pure and simple. With a final recitation of her spell, this time in Gaelic, she blew out the candle. The die was cast. No red-blooded male should be able to resist her after that incantation, and she’d find out tomorrow if she’d done any good.

Or the next day. In theory, Liam should move heaven and earth to chase her down, but she had a feeling things might not play out quite that way. Mostly because, he might not be human.

She’d caught glimpses of what may have been magic clinging to him, but it could have been wishful thinking on her part. Aisha strode through the downstairs of her modest home. One large room, it consisted of many floor-to-ceiling bookshelves jammed with magical tomes and scrolls. One end of the downstairs contained an old Wedgewood cookstove, a fridge, and a generous pantry overflowing with dried herbs and home-canned bounty from her garden. The other end held leather furniture and a battered oaken table with four chairs in need of repair. She had electricity but preferred candlelight or kerosene lanterns. A ladder led to the loft where she slept. A lean-to off the kitchen held an old clawfoot bathtub, a commode, and a sink. The bathroom was an add-on since this house had been built over a hundred years before. A combination of spit, elbow grease, and magic kept it standing.

Nothing fancy, but it was comfortable. More importantly, it was hers. No mortgage. No one to answer to. She’d inherited the ranch house, along with the horses, from her mother, who’d taken over from her grandma. Witchiness was passed through women, from one to the next in line. Male children sometimes had power, but never the good kind. Most were weak as yesterday’s used-up dishwater and abandoned what magic they had long before hitting adulthood.

At least they didn’t have her problems blending in with humankind. For all practical intents and purposes, they were human.

Not so for the small percentage of male witches born with destructive magic. At least their proclivities were obvious almost from birth. Warlocks kept to themselves, living in a hidden compound somewhere north of the Arctic Circle. She’d asked a lot of questions, but that was as close as she’d come to an answer about them or their secret society. She assumed someone ferried them to the northlands—and made certain they remained there—but how that happened was anyone’s guess.

She poured herself a glass of homemade elderberry brandy and settled into a creased-leather easy chair, pulling an afghan across her lap. Soft and creamy, the woolen folds tucked around her, cradling her body. Her grannie had knitted that afghan, and she missed her.

Aisha sipped the brandy, enjoying the burst of summer brilliance the berry concoction created in her mouth. Crafted with magic like everything else around her, the liquor reminded her of family and love, hearth and home. She blew out a sad breath. Living with humans, trying to blend in, cost a whole lot. Her grannie and mom were still very much alive, but not anywhere close. Not aging normally—never mind not dying for several hundred years—carried a stiff price. She hadn’t faced moving on. Not yet, but the day would come eventually just like it did for all witches.

She tightened her grip on the glass and then set it on a nearby table before she shattered the hand-blown crystal. Before she could leave Stillwater and join her witch family, she had to produce a child. Someone who could pick up the banner and care for the horses that were part and parcel of her birthright. Aisha drew breath all the way to the bottom of her lungs before blowing it out.

Her spell to lure Liam was admittedly self-serving, but she had to have sex to create a child. No guarantees her offspring would be female, either. So she might have to go through more than one pregnancy. Everything had to happen over the next few years too. She’d spent her life in Stillwater, which meant everyone in town knew she was north of thirty. Pregnancies happened to women in their thirties but were damned rare after that.

What if Liam was magical, and her spell backfired? Some combinations weren’t good bets, and she’d jumped blindly down Alice’s rabbit hole when she set her sights on him.

Aisha slogged more brandy down, nearly draining the glass. Fortified, she lurched to her feet and returned to the small altar where she practiced magic. What she was about to do wasn’t precisely forbidden, but nor was it first-line magic.

She switched the red candle for an ivory pillar fragrant with pine, lit it, and chanted, swaying with her words. The air around her developed an electric charge, prickling her skin and drying the saliva in her mouth to sharp clods of mucus. She straightened, staring at the shimmering, glowing space in front of her.

As she expected, her grandmother came into view. Silver hair cascaded to her knees, and she focused shrewd hazel eyes on Aisha. Eyes uncannily like her own. Victoria Colewright crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Well? This best be good, granddaughter. Have you gotten yourself into a right mess and can’t find your way back out again?”

Aisha stood straighter. “You might say that. I cast one of your love charms, but I didn’t do much research ahead of time, and—”

Victoria didn’t wait for her to finish. “You want me to give you a rundown on the one you have your eye on?”

“Something like that.” Aisha kept her gaze trained on the apparition floating in the air a few feet away. It was good to see her grandmother. All crust and bluster, but with a no-nonsense approach that appealed to Aisha’s sensibilities. Now wasn’t the time to appear cowed or deferential.

“Well.” Victoria crooked two gnarled fingers. “My mind reading skills aren’t all that sharp in my astral form. I need a name.”

Feeling foolish, Aisha swallowed hard, a neat trick as dry as her mouth was. “Of course. It’s Liam Fiontan. He’s—”

“Ha! I know that one. You may have bitten off a wee bit more than you bargained for, granddaughter. You say you’ve finished the casting?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Why didn’t you summon me sooner, for once in your life?”

“Because you always give me nine kinds of hell for not solving my own problems. Grannie. You have to say more than that.” Aisha smothered annoyance tinged with apprehension. What had she signed on for?

Victoria narrowed her eyes and angled her head to one side, regarding Aisha. After a pause so long, Aisha wanted to reach through her spell and shake her grandmother, Victoria said, “No. I don’t have to say another word. And I’m not going to. You got yourself into this. I trust you’ll find a way out.”

Anger rushed through her in a white-hot tide. Before she got hold of her temper, Aisha made a dive for her grandmother’s projection, clawing at the air. Her leap was stellar, but she landed belly first on the dusty floorboards, wind knocked out of her.

“None of that, my dear.” With a finger shake followed by a snort, Victoria vanished in a shower of silvery sparks.

“Goddamn you!” Aisha rolled to a sit and shook her fists at air still glistening with leftover magic. Her heart pounded hard, and she panted, working to draw air into lungs that felt as if a five-hundred-pound giant perched on her chest.

A strident meow followed by scratches at the kitchen door drove her to her feet and across the room. Of course, the cat would want in. It had belonged to her grandmother originally and would have sensed the old witch’s presence.

“Hold on,” Aisha called and yanked the door open.

Hector strode in, tail held high. Coal black and at least twenty pounds, he was large as cats went. He glanced her way with odd eyes, one blue, one green, and growled as only a pissed-off tomcat could.

“Yes. She was here,” Aisha agreed.

Mrroowww. Swish. Swish.

“I’m sure if she’d stayed longer, she’d have hunted you down.” Aisha tried for a reassuring note even though this wasn’t a cat who craved anything normal.

Hector strode to his empty dish and glared daggers at her.

Now didn’t seem the time to remind him of the rich mouse population roaming the ranch. She grabbed a sack of kitty chow and poured some into his dish. Hector focused on his food, ignoring her now that she’d done as he wished.

Of all the creatures to end up immortal, or damned close to it, why’d Grannie choose the bloody, fucking cat?

Aisha knew better than to voice thoughts like that aloud. If any animal understood human speech, it was Hector. Giving him a wide berth, she plopped back into the leather chair she’d vacated earlier. Her grandmother knew Liam by name, which might mean one of the many books in this house held information.

“Yeah, but I’d at least need a starting place,” she muttered. If her charm worked, it would happen fast. She wouldn’t have months to cull through her witchy library hunting for clues to Liam’s identity.

Enlightenment arrived in an untidy rush; she slapped her forehead, annoyed by what a dolt she’d been. She was making this far more difficult than need be. She could simply ask him who he was, what type of magic he possessed.

Worst thing that would happen is he’d decide she was a few cards short of a deck—before the charm took over and he screwed her silly.

The more she thought about a direct approach, the better she liked it. If he sought her out, as she expected he would, she’d swathe them in spells and mention her grannie knew him. Maybe it would be sufficient to loosen his tongue. She’d have to disclose her magical pedigree, but now that she knew he was some iteration of magic wielder too, perhaps it wasn’t as big a risk as all that.

She looked longingly at the brandy bottle, but it wasn’t a good idea. She needed her wits about her, not a fuzzy brain. With all the finesse of a left-end tackle, Hector flew over one of her shoulders and catapulted into her lap, digging his claws in to stabilize his landing.

“Ouch!” Aisha focused a quick jab of power at the cat’s razor-sharp claws. He hissed but otherwise ignored her efforts to displace him. It was rare for Hector to demand anything of her beyond food. Usually, she was good at picking information out of animal minds, but his had always been closed to her probing.

Aisha began in a logical spot. “You miss her, huh?”

A deep, rolling meow burst from the cat.

“Yeah, I’d love it if she and Mom were still here.” Aisha took a chance and stroked his head. Normally, attempts on her part to mollify him ended up with him either biting her hand or taking a swipe at her eyes.

Unbelievably, Hector leaned into her touch. After one more plaintive meow, he switched to purring. Aisha’s mouth fell open. The cat had never warmed to her mother or her. After Victoria had faked her death and moved to points unknown, Aisha had caught her mother grumbling about the cat many times. When she’d asked why they didn’t find another family for the unruly feline, her mother’s tart reply skirted the issue. Aisha’s take-home message had been that magical creatures picked their abodes, not the reverse.

“What’s all this about?” Aisha kept her question light, conversational, and kept stroking the cat.

A series of disjointed sounds blatted through her head.

“Whoa. Are you trying to talk with me?” She scratched under Hector’s chin, not expecting an answer. She communicated telepathically with the horses, a magical undertaking that began before they were born. It was why her horses were so special. They listened to her, trusted her, and for the most part followed her direction.

In that regard, the large tomcat sitting in her lap had almost nothing in common with her Arabians. No listening. No trust. And most assuredly no direction following.

Hector purred louder, the rumble soothing and thrilling at the same time. She’d always loved animals, from the laciest butterfly to dolphins and elephants. One of her dreams was to travel to Africa and see if any of the big cats or monkeys or other game animals would offer her a peek into their minds.

Discordant notes rioted through her head again. Aisha switched to telepathy to provide a template for the cat. “Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hector skinned his upper lip back, showing yellowed fangs. She stroked his head, but he shook her off. Relieved and disappointed by turns that the cat she’d known all the years of her life was back, she raised her hands, palms outward. “I’m ready whenever you are, Hec.”

“Victoria witch here.” The cat’s words were garbled, but easy enough to understand.

“Yes,” Aisha agreed, blown away her gambit worked, and the cat was actually talking to her. “My grandmother was here, but you already knew that.”

“Why not here now?”

How to answer that? “It’s my fault. I became angry when she refused to answer a question.”

Hector extended his claws, kneading her thigh. “Bring her back. Now.”

Heat trickled down her leg. Blood from the cat’s claws. “I’d love to,” she replied, “but Victoria does what she pleases, not what I want.” Aisha steadied herself, prepared for another, more vicious onslaught from Hector’s claws. It didn’t come.

Instead, he hopped off her lap and sat facing her, tail curved around his front feet in the way of cats. His gaze skewered her; Aisha made an effort to hold her mind open, so he’d know she wasn’t hiding anything. Pinpricks of primitive magic poked behind her eyes as the cat probed her mind. They weren’t quite as bad as his claws had been.

Time dribbled past. Aisha quirked her mouth into half a smile. “Are we done for tonight?”

Hector leapt into the air, executed a one-eighty, and stalked toward the front door. Aisha sent a beam of power to open it, and the cat sauntered into the night. Interesting that it could talk, but it was a creature of magic, which meant it might well have other talents she didn’t appreciate—or know about.

“Yeah. Because I never looked for them.”

Maybe Victoria had left it to spy first on her mother and then on her. That might explain why Hector was so out of sorts…

Aisha slumped against the worn chair. The concept of the cat as some sort of arcane spy was beyond ridiculous. Her thighs ached from kitty-imposed cuts and scrapes. She marshaled healing magic, sending it to her injured spots, while replaying the conversation with her grandmother. The old woman had seemed more amused than worried, which probably meant Liam didn’t pose a threat. If he did, Victoria would still be here, or more likely, she’d be pounding truth into Liam, and that truth would include never laying so much as a finger on her granddaughter.

Or else.

Aisha had heard plenty of “or elses” from her grannie. She’d never wanted to dig any deeper. If Victoria was spun out enough about something to issue a threat, it was time to sit up and take notice, not write it off as idle posturing.

She missed Victoria, and her mother, Charlotte. More than that, she missed being part of a family. Witches packed up in covens, or they had a century or two ago. Not anymore. Concealing your status as a magical being got in the way of belonging to covens or any other magical societies. Her mind pedaled in circles that went nowhere, and she recognized a familiar spot. One where it made sense to cut bait and stop trying to force order out of anything.

Tomorrow was soon enough. Today was done—if she was smart enough to accept it and shut off her brain.

Weariness washed over her in waves. She stumbled to the kitchen sink and cupped her hands beneath the flow of water, sluicing it over her face. She gave her teeth a lick and a promise with her willow wand toothbrush and climbed the ladder to the loft. After stopping at the bootjack long enough to lever her feet out of her boots, she crossed the open beam loft to the same featherbed her mother and grandmother had slept in.

She’d been born in this bed, as had her mother. The power of her family, of the Colewrights, rose around her as she lay down. Usually, she lit a candle and read a bit. Not tonight. Closing eyes that felt hot and filled with grit, she plumped a down pillow beneath her head. A kaleidoscope of forms and colors danced behind her lids. Cats. Horses. Dragons.

The last drew a soft snort from between her lips. Even she, magical as she was, knew dragons hadn’t been seen for centuries. Too damned bad. She’d have loved to lay eyes on one before they vanished from the face of the earth. Rumors had spread fast and furious among the witches of yore, but no one disputed dragons were well and truly gone, having left Earth for somewhere they could fly free.

“Free,” she muttered. “I’m so far from free, I may as well wear shackles.”

Not that she didn’t love her horses, but she was chained at the ankles to this ranch as surely as if she wore manacles. Normally, it didn’t bother her, but tonight she wanted more. Craved a world where she wasn’t knee-deep in horseshit and horsey connivery every single day. Far from subtle, horses were dogged, rarely giving ground until they got what they wanted. It was one trait they shared with the cat.

“Watch what you ask for,” an inner voice whispered.

A chill slid down Aisha’s spine just before sleep whisked her away.