Page 1 of Love Summoned

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“Come on, baby.” I tap the dashboard of my car as it clunks and sputters along the barely lit street, willing it to push just a little further.

“That piece of shit will get us killed one day, mark my words.” Sloane’s gritty rasp comes through my phone’s speaker, the faint hum of her motorcycle accompanying it.

“She doesn’t mean it,” I soothe, talking to my Mustang as if it were a living, breathing thing. Considering our cat embodies the soul of our grandfather, and this car has been in the Hewitt family for sixty years, I’m not putting it past a long-gone relative to have figured out some spell or charm that allowed them to live on through the classic, red beauty.

“Yes, I do.” My sister has zero patience for my car. She might be a mechanic, but after we almost got our asses handed to us by a demon a few months ago because my car failed as a reliable getaway, she’s been holding a grudge.

As if on cue, my car delivers a final gurgling cry before it dies completely. It has just enough juice to allow me to slip into a parking spot along a string of closed stores, their lights out for the night.

My phone says we’re only a few minutes away from the motel I was aiming for. We should be able to walk the rest of the distance with our bags and sort out my car in the morning. Sloane stashed an emergency bag of tools and parts in the trunk after the last time it broke down.

Sleep is the priority right now.

Not that I’m too bothered by the late hour; I haven’t slept properly in weeks. My powers have been on the fritz too.

Normally, my premonitions will show me a street name or landmark, and even a time that revealed a witch or human who needed our help, but for the last few weeks, all I’ve been seeing is a dagger. Not particularly groundbreaking; I have at least twelve daggers in my personal arsenal, none of which match the one from my dreams. Since they started, I haven’t had a single other premonition.

My sister and I, along with our aunt, are certain that solving the riddle behind my dreams will help whatever is blocking my other psychic magic. The only problem is that these dreams are giving me nothing of substance to work with.

At first, I wrote it off as a normal dream, but after they persisted, I realized I was meant to take notice. It was yesterday at work, restocking the shelves at our apothecary with hemlock when I finally had a new vision—the dagger, and a store sign that read Hemlock Vinyl.

The second my vision released its hold on me, I ran to the computer and looked up the name. It was a record store in Hemlock, New Hampshire, a little over an hour from our house in Salem.

Aunt Celeste offered to watch the store over the weekend so Sloane and I could drive up and check the place out, hoping it would inspire more clues.

Along with being our late mother’s best friend, and a pseudo-aunt, Celeste is also our guide. Every coven has one. She helps nurture young witches to their full potential.

A tap on my window startles me from my thoughts. My sister stares back at me with a curious pinch of her brows. Her dark hair is braided off her face and hanging low over one shoulder, her helmet tucked under her arm.

Gravel crunches under my boot when my foot hits the road as I step out of my car. Crisp night air wraps around me, mixed with the faint smell of woodsmoke and sugary apples.

“I called the motel,” she says. “They’ve got one room free. Double bed.”

Double bed? With two women over five-foot-eight, that may be too close.

“I guess it’ll do for one night.” I lift a shoulder as I round the car and grab our overnight bags from the trunk. “We can check in the morning for other vacancies.”

I’m slinging the strap over my shoulder when I notice a sign on the sidewalk placed outside the entrance of an alley. Akonyte Kitchen and Inn. A faint murmur of voices comes from the same direction.

“Let’s check that out.” I point my chin to the sign, and Sloane’s green eyes follow.

“They better have the biggest, greasiest burger.” She’s already moving, tying her flannel shirt around her waist. The tuberose and pentacle inked on her shoulder catches between the intermittent light of the streetlamps.

The pretty hand-drawn flowers on the chalkboard sign draw my eyes as I pass. Wait a minute—Akonyte. “Sloane. Wolves,” I hiss, running to catch her.

Sloane stops, spinning on her heel, one arm bracing across my stomach, the other summoning a dagger in her hand quicker than lightning. “Where?”

“Not here.” I point back to the sign. “Aconite. It’s another name for wolfsbane.”

Sloane holsters the dagger in a discreet pocket of her jeans. “Wouldn’t that mean the owner is warding off werewolves?”

“Or it’s a code for werewolves to know it’s safe.”

“Hiding in plain sight?” she asks, and I nod. We move slower, cautious as we poke our heads around the corner of the building on the main street.

A soft, yellow glow spills from an open door just inside the alley. Sloane’s fingers twitch at her side, tiny pink veins of light rippling between them as her force field magic hovers at the surface.