Howl (Witches & Warlocks Book 4) (4 page)

I push through the door to her office and find nothing. All of Daya’s stuff is gone. Not even one single box of crayon vomit left over for her to come pick up. All that’s left is a desk and a chair. There’s not even one scrap of anything from the new occupant of the office.

For all intents and purposes, I’m alone. The vampires are sure to want me dead, and there’s no one in charge around here to help keep me safe. I lean on Daya’s old desk and try to figure out just what I’m going to do.

Chapter Four

After a few moments of deep breathing, I calm down quite a bit. I’m not so sure that werewolf actually would go to the vampires, and if he did? What evidence does he have? Just a bunch of hearsay.

That being said, I think the safest place for me to be right now is Windsor Manor. Let’s just say that he actually
does
go to the vampires and they actually
do
believe him, it’s not like they’re going to charge in here and demand the witches hand me over. And if the vampires did do something that stupid, the witches would protect me. Sure, it doesn’t look like there’s anyone in charge right now, but that doesn’t mean there really isn’t anyone in charge. I’m sure that as soon as Daya hears even the tiniest little bit about the problem, she’ll be here to help me out.

I take a minute and wander the vacant room, run my fingers along the edge of the smooth desk, the new focal point of the room. It’s funny, with all the color that used to reside in here, I never had a chance to appreciate what a fine quality desk this is. What gorgeous bookshelves those are. What a fantastic view the room has. I take in all the details, as much as I can, and focus on them until I truly feel calm again.

I’m safe here. And I have a job to do. A whole library filled with more books than I’ll ever get through in my lifetime need me to shift through them, and I’m going to do my best to make a big dent in them today. I’m actually excited to discover more about my family and the history of the witches.

I wander into the library and gasp at shelves upon shelves of books. The vaulted ceiling. The hushed quiet. Hours pass with me wrapped in the musty smell of old books and polished wood, I open tome after tome, lose myself in the story of witches and vampires and werewolves. There was a time when we were all united. All the supernatural creatures ruled by one person. The Overseer.

This person ruled for three decades, grooming the next Overseer along the way. Each new Overseer was from a different species. As the witch Overseer retired, a wolf took its place. And then a vampire took the place of the wolf. And a witch took over for the vamp. And so on and so forth until a particularly feisty vampire got tired of waiting for her turn and ended up splitting off from the grand Supernatural Union. There were summits and fighting and death and more summits, but that feisty little vampire never did get back in line. She was too happy ruling over the vampires and making trouble for the witches and the weres. Mostly, just for the witches.

That feisty little vampire died just last week.

Because she was Lucy and I killed her.

I don’t even know what to make of that information. A quick check of the dates in the book just boggles my mind. The Great Splintering happened in 1794. Lucy ruled the vamps for over two hundred years before I just came along and killed her. I let that little bit of knowledge just swoop on in and sit all heavy on my shoulders for a minute.

So. Not only did I manage to take out the highly revered vampire leader who helped them secede from the Supernatural Union in the Great Splintering, but now there’s this big vicious rumor that I can make vampires human again. Take away all their powers and make them vulnerable and easy to kill. This doesn’t bode well for me at all.

I suddenly regret my big house by the woods. Far away from the city with no neighbors to hear me scream.

This is all the more reason to find my family tree. To understand my roots so I can grow even stronger. More badass. I push aside the big old history book, but not until I make sure to mark my place with a bit of magic. I’m gonna need to come back to that one.

Witches keep extensive notes on family trees and the genealogy of our species. There are large books, all organized by dates, that simply list every witch ever born along with their parents and their family names. Then, there are shelves and shelves of books, detailing the lineage of each family name. It doesn’t take me long to find the book listing my birth. I flip through the pages until I get to my birthday.

There it is. Zoe Tate. Born to Tara Archer and Malichi Dalton.

I run my fingers over the unfamiliar patterns of my birth parents’ names. I whisper them, letting the syllables roll off my tongue, unnerved be the big ball of nothing I feel. You’d think I’d feel
something
seeing our names listed together like that. Right?

As easy as it was finding the book listing my birth, it’s nowhere near as easy locating the books with the family names. There’s a strange sorting system that I clearly don’t understand. After scouring through book after book, blowing dust off spines to read words long forgotten, I finally locate the books on the Archers in the far reaches of the library. I wipe my hands on my pants, tired of them feeling dirty after dealing with all the dust, and slide the book marked
Archer 1950-2000
off the shelf.

Thankfully, this book is significantly less dusty than its nearby neighbors, probably because it’s one of the newest editions. Rather than wandering back to my table to read the book, I sit cross legged on the floor and open the book in my lap. Finally, as I thumb through the pages at the beginning, the story of my ancestors, I start to feel that little thrum of excitement.

Each page has a list of names and abilities. Notable events like births and marriages. Affairs and trysts. Deaths and tragedies. The lists draw a picture for me about who the Archers were. Good people. Doctors and healers. Teachers and mentors.  They loved deeply and, for the most part, stayed true to the ones they loved. I get excited as I turn each page, get closer and closer to the years where my mother might have been born. It feels like I’m about to meet her.

I grab the next page between my thumb and forefinger, ready to turn it over and keep reading. Something feels off, like there’s too much space between the pages. And that’s because there is. Someone’s torn the next several pages out. I can see the ragged edges near the spine, taunting me with their tattered paper fingers.

I flip past the missing pages, hoping despite the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’ll find my mom’s name in the pages that are left. Or, if I can’t find her name, maybe I’ll find my own, maybe even with a few clues as to who my mom was or what I can do or hell, anything that might start answering some of the questions around me.

Or course, I just find a list of different Archers. People who are somehow related to me, but who’s to say how considering the very pages that would explain it to me are gone. My mind’s going a million miles an hour. I mean, what are the chances that of all the pages in the Archer book, the ones that outline my life, are missing? Part of me is busy hoping that’s coincidence, but let’s be honest here. More than likely, this has nothing to do with coincidence and everything to do with bad news for Zoe.

I slide the book back on the shelf and wander around, looking for the Dalton books. I finally find them, dustless and pristine. Leather binding lovingly cared for. I scan the books, looking for the one with the appropriate date and know the minute I slide it off the shelf that I’m not gonna like what I find. There’s too much play between the covers, an odd squishiness in the pages. I don’t even have to open it to discover the missing pages, I can see the gap just by turning the book on its side.

I open it anyway. Flip through the pages prior to my father’s existence. Run my finger along the rough edges of torn paper.

I’m feeling something now. Before? Just knowing their names? That was just knowledge. But now? Being so close to unraveling the mystery of who I am and where I come from and then finding out that someone has stolen it from me? There’s frustration and disappointment. And behind that is anger.

Because there’s no way it’s a coincidence that pages just happen to be missing in both the Archer and Dalton lineage, and those pages just happen to be the ones that cover the years where my parents came into existence. When I came into existence.

Why?

Why would someone work so hard to keep all of this a secret?

I mean, maybe, back when Daya’s work at the ranch was undercover, when her desire to breed the Trinity was supposed to be hidden, maybe it made sense for these pages to be hidden. Except, Daya herself admitted to being the one who let Lucy know about my existence. So wouldn’t having my lineage and history easily accessible make better sense? You know, in case Lucy goes hunting, she ends up finding information that corroborates what Daya’s told her?

I close the Dalton book without reading even a single name. Slide it back into its place. Run my finger down the spine. Press my forehead against the bookshelf.

When will I get to the bottom of all this conspiracy? When will all the secrets be uncovered so I can just be me, a genetically unusual witch with extra-special powers and a vampire sized bullseye on my back?

It’s time to get ready to meet Noah. With a sigh, I wander back through the maze-like library until I find my table, books covering every visible surface, a haphazard quilt of information and history. I close each one, stack them up and put them back in their proper place. You know when all the conspiracies around me will come to an end? When I understand enough about what we are and where I come from. When I know the history of the supernatural world as clearly as I know my own personal history.

I laugh a little, the sound echoing around the vaulted ceilings. Seeing as how I clearly don’t know my own personal history all that well, maybe I should aim a little higher. My hand lingers on the last book as I place it back in its rightful place. If knowledge is what I seek, why in the world am I wasting time
not
going after more of it? Noah would understand, right? I could just take all these books back to my table, shoot him a little text, beg off for the evening, and start devouring as many books as I can.

I’m not gonna lie, I struggle with that decision for longer than I care to admit. But finally, I leave the books on the shelf, gather my stuff, and head out of the library. I fully subscribe to the whole ‘do unto others’ deal. How would I feel if Noah cancelled our plans for anything other than death?

I shudder.

You know what? Considering how close both of us have come to dying in the last couple weeks, let’s not invite trouble. But, I mean, I’d be crushed if he canceled our plans and didn’t have a super pressing reason. These books have been here for years and will be here for years to come. There’s no rush other than my extreme desire to figure out what the hell people are still trying to hide about me.

I wander out of the library and towards the front door and the hallways of Windsor are oddly deserted. The Manor’s always been bigger than it needed to be. With only a handful of witches and warlocks needing interventions in their transition at any given time, there’s been more space than people every time I’ve been here. But today? There’s like, no one anywhere. My footsteps echo down the long hallway, clicking away in the rafters, setting my teeth on edge and stirring up the butterflies in my stomach.

I wrap my arms tight around my middle, terrible thoughts dancing around in my head, and my magic all ready to go just in case something happens. And, with my super imagination all kicked into gear, that something can be anything from plague, to fire drill, to Mr. Crazy waiting for me in the shadows, to an army of vampires capturing every witch and holding them hostage in exchange for my head.

Muffled laughter reaches down the hallway towards me, and as I reach the front door I discover that everyone is in the front room, the common room, watching a movie. They’re laughing and passing snacks around. Totally fine and not at all vampire hostages. I chide myself for being so worried and press through the front door into the cold.

Chapter Five

Noah and I decide to have a simple dinner at his apartment. Well, he suggests it and I jump all over it because, well, I don’t feel like being out in public right now, what with the possible deal where the vampires want me dead. But just because we’re not going out, doesn’t mean I don't take my time getting ready for him.

I shower and shave and primp and spritz. And then, after all that, I use a little magic on my hair and makeup and smile at my reflection in the mirror. I slide into my best jeans, the ones that make my legs look long and my butt look great. Pair them with a long sweater and a necklace.

I keep checking outside my window for footprints in the snow. Keep reminding myself that it’s still daylight and the vampires wouldn’t be out yet. I realize that I’m being a little unreasonable and need to calm down. I’m perfectly safe out here. And I’m a witch, for heaven’s sake! If I’m not safe, I’m totally capable of taking care of whatever’s out there.

Still, I have to swallow hard around fear and find myself checking my surroundings with extra care as I lock my door behind me. And the relief I feel at getting in my car and pulling out of the driveway? That’s just gonna have to stop. Not gonna fly. I chose this place because I love it. There’s no way I’m going to let anyone or anything ruin that for me. As soon as I get home, I’m going to put some wards up and give the place a thorough magical once over. If there’s anything to be scared of, I’ll find it then.

Feeling better about myself for having some semblance of a plan, I turn on the radio, snuggle into my seat heater, and sing just a little too loud on my way to Noah’s. By the time I pull in next to him, I’m in a full blown good mood. And by the time I’m knocking on his door, I’m nearly giddy.