A Werewolf, A Vampire, and A Fae Walk Into A Bar (Book 1 of The Last Witch Series) novel Chapter 45

Don’t move.

Darius’ final command makes me hold my breath and my eyes go wide. The reaction is not lost on my mother.

“What is it, Bernie?” She leans in, inspecting me, clearly on high alert. I don’t know if she senses something, or if she’s just constantly on edge because she lives in a secret society in the woods.

“I’m… I’m afraid, mom.” I decide not to mention the voice in my head, because I still don’t know who to trust. The only thing I can think to do is keep this conversation going and hope the truth appears in big, flashing, neon lights.

“I’m afraid of everyone. Including you.”

Probably not what a mom wants to hear from her daughter, but she takes it in stride.

“Of course you are. I lied to you and broke your trust, and I don’t expect to fix that just by showing my face. I only hope you take it better than Joe did when he saw Betty.”

And the hits just keep on coming.

“Betty? His wife who died from cancer, whose funeral I went to?” I mean, has anyone ever actually died? And like… stayed dead?

Mom nods. “She’s here. She’s a witch.”

As shocking as that is, I’m more heartbroken for Joe.

“And Joe found out?”

“About her, and about Alex,” my mom says. “Betty worked for years on a spell that would bring her son’s mind back, and it was finally a success. But the deception and the loss--and the knowledge that his wife was a witch, it was too much for Joe.”

Of course it was. Sweet old man stopped caring about anything except beer these last two years, and to then find out he didn’t have to go through that agony? That his wife chose to leave him? No matter what her reasoning, that’s a pill not a lot of people could swallow without choking.

“Why?” I ask. “Why’d she have to leave, or pretend to die?”

My mother looks into the distance, searching for the words that might make me understand. Open-minded as I’m trying to be, I doubt she’ll find them.

“It’s too much to explain in one conversation, Sunshine. That might sound like a cop-out, but there’s a long history of witches that makes everything--”

“Yeah, I know the history,” I interrupt.

“Well,” she says, doubt heavy in her voice, “you know the history as told by the races that have been killing us for generations.”

It’s a fair point, though it’s not like Darius, Zev and Rune minced words. None of them painted the treatment of witches in a flattering light. God, how is it that it feels like everyone on both sides of this argument is telling the truth and lying to me at the same time?

I want to ask more questions, about Betty, Alex, Mom--shit, I haven’t even thought to ask about the father I never met, who was almost undoubtedly a minotaur or talking fish. However, all questions will have to wait, as a deep red glow ignites in the sky above us, accompanied by a low, bone-rattling hum.

Every member of The Order is on guard, and my mom is out of her chair the moment it happens.

“Where’s the breach?” she yells to no one in particular. “Are they inside the field?”

A younger woman who I don’t recognize runs over, her fiery red hair flying behind as her hood falls to her back. She speaks with some sort of accent, one I can’t place except to say the girl ain’t from Mass.

“Someone crossed the river basin,” she explains, her words rushed and breath short. “Non human. Three.”

My hopes rise as I realize all three Sexies are coming for me, but they fall just as quickly. Are they coming for me and my baby, or just my baby?

“Arm yourselves and take your posts!” my mother yells, transitioning from chill witch mom to intimidating general in an instant. “There’s a vampire in the woods, so don’t show any hesitation.”

She turns on me, suspicion clouding her eyes. “Bernie, what’s your relationship with these men?”

“What? You know more about them than I do, you’ve been--”

“No,” she cuts me off, searching for specifics. “I know they’ve stolen your trust, but have they taken your heart? Have you slept with them?”

This feels way too much like I’m a teenager coming home from the drive-in movies, and I don’t really know what to make of it.

“No,” I answer defensively but truthfully.

“Any acts of passion? Any connection that’s more than skin deep?”

Her insistence seems strange, but the pointed questioning does make me think more clearly.