Her sister had reappeared from the dead. At least, that’s how Claire saw it. Entering her apartment, she stared at the one chair she owned, through vacant eyes. Looking around, but not seeing anything, she shuddered as a single tear slipped down her face. Sagging against the door, she pressed her knuckles to her middle, fighting back the tears of hope that swam before her. She couldn’t believe Morgan might actually be heading home, or even be there now—at this very moment.

And that both excited—and terrified her.

Morgan shouldn’t go back there—not alone.

Hands and legs shaking, she tried to push away from the door. Perhaps she was more than a bit scared to believe. After all, Morgan disappeared over ten years, before. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago. Though their aunt searched for her for many years, dragging Claire along with her, on and off for the first of those, they’d never found her.

Considering Claire and Morgan were not her children, but her nieces, their aunt Jacelyn had been decent to spend many good years of her life watching out for them. After their mother was killed, she’d loved them as her own. Loved them deeply, Claire had little doubt about that.

Now, perhaps their prayers had been answered.

Claire glanced around at her bare apartment but saw nothing, unable to believe how quickly this one thing, Morgan’s returning home, could transform her life—literally overnight.

Years before, Morgan’s disappearance seemed like any other abduction of a child. Yet, this one came at the hands of old magick. Magick, that four young children shouldn’t have been playing with, in the first place. And, in this case, Morgan’s father who’d taken Morgan away out of anger for the trauma Morgan suffered, because of the magick they’d done that day. Still—who could blame him?

Morgan’s terrified mind locked her memories away—wiped them clean, and out of rebellion against the will, their mother had drawn up to protect her girls in trying to prevent him from coming near them, they’d unwittingly given him the ammunition he’d needed to do just that.

At some point, her aunt Jacelyn figured Morgan’s father wouldn’t harm her, and that helped—but it didn’t give them a whole lot of peace since—although they could be fairly sure Morgan’s father wouldn’t hurt her, she wasn’t with them either, so there wasn’t a way of knowing for sure. Nor could they be sure that she hadn’t suffered any illnesses or been in any accidents.

Exhausted, Claire crossed the room like a zombie, stepping into the spare room to open the closet and dig into the back to pull out her suitcase. Hauling it back to her room, she laid it on the bed and unzipped it, flipping open the cover.

They had no way of knowing that Morgan was okay, so Claire periodically scoured the web for obituaries—for years. Even then, they couldn’t be sure. After all, Morgan’s father could have changed Morgan’s name….

As the years passed, with no word about Morgan, their aunt settled down and even got married. Claire settled down, too, and went to college—all this without hearing one word from Morgan.

Then, a few weeks ago, their Grams passed, and just like that—Morgan reappeared.

Claire crossed over to get her laptop off her dresser-top and set it on the bed, then sat down, her hands shaking.

Not now.

Claire pressed her fist against her middle, willing the nausea away. With determination, she opened the lid, getting online to buy a ticket back to Denver. She didn’t care what else went on—she’d think about that later. Right now, she was going back to Ravenwood. She needed to see Morgan’s face, know this was real…. She wouldn’t live another moment away from her. So, next, Claire found a company and arranged for her things to be shipped home, as well.

She looked up, tucking her dark, chestnut hair around her ears. Now, how to say goodbye to Collin.

Claire knew good things didn’t come along, every day, and when something did—she knew she shouldn’t be quick to throw it away, but, lately, she’d been making a lot of excuses for staying. She had to admit, Collin had a lot going for him, but he seemed forever promising her a better life—a better future—and he didn’t appear to stick to any of his promises.

Claire wanted more than dreams. She knew that with hard work, she could turn her dreams into reality, and if she was willing to do that work—she could live anything she dreamed. Still, building a future with a guy who couldn’t seem to get past the dreaming part made her leery.

When she’d printed out the paper with the information on her ticket, she closed the lid of her laptop, leaning over to set it in her wallet, staring at it. She knew their relationship seemed to have reached an impasse—and Claire didn’t want to wake, one day, to find herself stuck in a quagmire of broken promises—and excuses.

She went to her dresser and pulled out all the clothes, one drawer at a time, setting them on the bed. She pulled the suitcase closer to her, folding a thick sweater, tossing it into the bag in her haste, having no patience for anything that held her up from getting home.

They say when one door closes, another opens. She sighed, amazed at how the doors knew to open when she needed them most. Finished with the clothes from her dresser, she pulled the clothes out of her closet, grabbing a handful at a time. Laying the whole group on her bed, she began pulling each piece off the hangers, folding and putting them in her suitcase.

As she closed her suitcase—her hands shook. She looked around, reminding herself that she’d already hired someone to pack her place. She wouldn’t have to take the time to do that. Not right now. She just needed what she couldn’t get by without, and she needed to get going, get to the airport, return to Ravenwood. Morgan shouldn’t be there alone.

Morgan was alive—and home—but she was in more danger, now, than ever.

Nothing prepared her for the excitement—and the fear that followed swiftly in its wake. She wouldn’t ask Collin to move across the country, just because she had to go. Besides, she wouldn’t subject him to the danger, they’d all be in, now. She’d just have to hope he wouldn’t hate her for choosing her family, over him. She knew she shouldn’t take off and leave him—but they’d found Morgan…

Now, Claire was getting on a plane, departing for Denver, then taking a car to Red Bluff—and away from Collin—for good.

Claire stared at the suitcase she’d packed. She wanted her sister back, more than anything in the world. If she’d been less selfish, she’d never want this life for Morgan, never want her to come back to this war.

Yet, she couldn’t pretend. She needed her—and not just as her sister.

Even with the danger, Claire couldn’t help but smile, every time she stopped to realize—Morgan had found her way back to them. She could hardly contain her anticipation, long enough to make sure she got the things she needed. She just wanted to hurry and get on the next plane.

The Goddess’s call sounded within her, stronger than ever. It moved deep within Claire’s heart. Nothing could stop the Goddesses’ return, not even the shadow. Her grandmother taught Claire what she’d need for this battle—even if she’d refused to prepare her for Dante, himself.

Her Grams had gotten Claire ready for gathering the Daughters of the Circle. The Church ran the Goddesses’ off, hundreds of years, before. Now, it was time for Her return.

The time was close. Closer than ever….

Claire pressed the lid of the suitcase down with her knee, zipping it closed. She could only hope she hadn’t packed it so full that it would be over the weight limit. She took a large, shoulder bag out of her closet. She emptied the bag out on the bed, heading for the bathroom. She took one look at all the stuff she needed to pack, giving a little of huff of frustration. In the end, she settled for holding the bag open with her left hand, sweeping everything off the counter with one swipe of her right arm, dumping it all into the bag, at once. Satisfied, she smiled. She opened the medicine cabinet, pretty much doing the same thing.

She looked around. She had enough stuff, for now. She didn’t want to waste any more time. She wanted to get going. Exhilaration poured through her veins, lighting her way like a bright, colorful lamp. She could hardly wait. If she missed anything important, she’d just have to buy it, but no more packing. She put her bag over her shoulder, walked over and grabbed her suitcase, heading for the door.

She hailed a cab, threw her bags in the trunk, sliding into the back seat. She watched out the cab window as the city, she’d come to know as home, flashed by her. Sniffing, she realized she didn’t have a lot of feeling for what she left behind. She guessed that was telling.

As a sister, Claire wanted Morgan to remain ignorant of the danger—stay safe. But as a Daughter of the Circle, Claire knew Morgan existed for this. For that matter, so did the rest of their little group. They would call the Daughters to serve as the gatekeepers to bridge their worlds.

Something caused their parents, and the coven, their mother was a part of, to keep the fact they were born witches from them, but even that couldn’t stop the path they’d been put on.

Claire couldn’t help but wonder what this reunion would mean for her and her sister—and their friends. Instinctively, she sensed they were in for a massive transformation. It certainly would be a dangerous one—when the shadow realized they’d returned. She just had to hope this wouldn’t bring about their destruction.

Well, Morgan had returned, so there had to be something good about it, too. However, their separation had served to keep them safe. Now, all that would change.

She watched out the window as the cab drove through the rainy streets, sending water splashing up towards some pedestrians as the yellow car headed to the airport.

Claire never could get her aunt to tell her about their witchy background, but that hadn’t kept her sister, or her, and their friends, from figuring it out. The truth came out when they were mere teens, and she’d gone to Ravenwood to visit her Grams. Since Claire was nocturnal, she’d gotten up in the middle of the night to explore the creaking of the overhead floor, which was supposed to have been closed off for storage of old furniture and things, and to keep the large manor warmer in the winter months and cooler in the summer.

That night, she’d found her Grams in the attic, and she’d managed to get her grandmother to tell her the truth about their ancestry.

The cab pulled up to the curb at the airport, and Claire shook herself out of her memories, paid the driver, opening the door and sliding out of the back seat. He popped the trunk’s lid, went to the rear of the car and pulled out her suitcase, then bag, from the trunk. She put her wallet back inside her bag, placed her bag on her shoulder, yanking out the handle out on her suitcase, turning it and pulling it on its built-in wheels behind her as she entered the airport.

She went to the check-in counter, then went to the self-check machine and pulled out her wallet to retrieve the paper she needed to get her ticket. She stared at the screen on the ticket kiosks. She was heading home—but her grandmother wouldn’t be there.

She finished pushing the buttons, and pulled the ticket from the slot, staring at the city on the ticket. It said, Denver. This made losing her Grams too real. Her grandmother was gone.

Claire’s eyes filled with tears, but she smiled through them. Her Grams hadn’t had a choice to finally tell her what she wanted to know, when she’d first found Claire in the attic—considering Claire stared at the shelves, and shelves, containing jars of herbs, mortars, pestles, candles and huge selections of stones, crystals, among all the other things Claire had seen in the attic, that night. She’d turned this way and that, stunned, stammering something about how her mother could have possibly hidden such a thing from them—while her grandmother tried to explain.

Chuckling, Claire checked in her bag and headed for security, got in line and stood there, seeing the people around her, but not seeing.

There had been some amusing things about that night, but her grandmother was visibly upset, too, when she told Claire about Dante. When she admitted to Claire about what happened to her mother—and further admitted to her that the warlock, Dante, apparently killed their mother in their last battle, with him. Though, she still wouldn’t tell her about Dante, himself. She’d stammered all of this to Claire as Claire stared in horror, listening to her try and explain their choices in attempting to protect the girls from him.

Shaking herself out of her memories, again, Claire put her bag on the conveyor belt, walked through the security check-in, picked up her bag on the other end, and went to find her gate.

Her Grams never told her one more thing more about Dante, after that night. It still didn’t make sense to Claire. How was she supposed to protect the rest of their group, against an enemy she didn’t know a thing about? But, that night, her grandmother seemed terrified to tell her as much as she had. She’d been shaken and pale. Claire had finally backed off to soothe her grandmother’s fear.

Still, Claire hadn’t stopped there. Oh, no.

Though unsuccessful, she’d tried, again, and again, anytime she’d visited her Grams. Yet she’d only managed to get her Grams to teach her witchcraft. She’d never budged about Dante. She’d refused to instruct Claire in defeating him, wouldn’t hear about going after him.

And when she’d died—she’d left Claire alone—believing Dante would come looking for them—with no way to stop him….

 

Ravenwood in Red Bluff, Colorado—Present Day

 

She didn’t know what possessed her to drop everything and come here when she’d received that letter. She’d turned down her first lucrative chance at a good career to do so, one that promised to showcase her photography.

For what? For this?

Blowing a little puff of air and gripping the wheel with her left hand, Morgan turned down the radio with her right before returning her concentration back to driving her old, powder-blue convertible Volkswagen Beetle, straight down Main Street in the sleepy little town of her childhood home.

At twenty-four, this was the first time she’d come back here. No one blamed her when she’d said she needed to go. After all, a few short days ago, she hadn’t even known this town existed, hadn’t remembered any of this—before that manila envelope arrived.

That one note changed everything.

Though early in the evening, few people braved the rainy weather of the limited number of streets running through the small town of Red Bluff. She didn’t expect to find anyone out-and-about in this wet, anyway, or the dwindling light of the setting sun.

She hated the quiet.

Quiet reminded her that she’d been set adrift—all over again.

For the briefest moment, Morgan closed her eyes against the burning of unshed tears. How could everyone be locked away behind the doors of their homes by eight, anyway? She bit down on her lip, dashing at the tear that broke free and slipped down her cheek. Well, hell, maybe she wanted to see people out-and-about—so she didn’t have to feel so alone.

Yeah, well, she hadn’t wanted to come here, either.

She bit her lip for a second time, harder this time. Everything in her life seemed to work together, almost to the point as to conspire against her to bring her to this precise spot, at this exact moment, practically shoving her down this road.

She hadn’t come willingly. She’d practically come kicking and screaming.

Morgan rounded the corner at the old stone church and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, pulling to a stop at the curb in front of the large, old house.

She glanced toward the back of her car at her open suitcase, her belongings strewn all over the back seat. She shivered, craning her head to stare out the windshield, trying to take in the enormous, slate-gray stone mansion they called Ravenwood, from where she’d parked the car near the drive. How had this huge, though magnificent, yet, scary, old place managed to get built in this quiet little town, anyway?

Right now, she’d give anything to have one friend to come inside with her.

If the six-foot high stone and wrought-iron fence, with the intimidating, wrought-iron gate bordering the property, gave her second and third thoughts about going in there, the dark windows staring back at her, watching her, pretty much did it for her.

She glanced up at the attic window and tore her gaze away, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Maybe the attic didn’t send her running—but the overly-large Gargoyle statue, on the other side of the gate, almost did.

Had she really played here as a child?

She gawked at the statue, now, her mouth open. Nothing she’d imagined or remember prepared her for this. She’d done everything she could think of to deal with this old house, without having to come back here, when the letter told her that she and her sister inherited her grandmother’s property, and she couldn’t wait to fix and sell it so she could leave.

Gaping at the old manor, Morgan shivered another time, then sighed. Back then, there’d been friends. She sensed it—felt it.

She sighed.

So, shouldn’t she want to stay? Shouldn’t she want to find out what memories lay locked up here? It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go, nor anywhere she belonged. Didn’t have anyone to go back to, even if there’d been a home she’d left behind, which there wasn’t.

Morgan frowned. Home? She peered at the mansion, biting her lip, again, but couldn’t drum up any desire to give this place a chance. She closed her eyes as the first fingers of lightning snaked the sky, opening them, once more, to peer at the old house through the tears she fought to keep at bay.

She shivered, yet again. How could she live here? Who would want to call this old place home?

Endless holes filled her memory bank, but what little she remembered—since the letter—wasn’t promising. She stared out the rain-covered windshield at the old house she would call her home, for however long it took to put things in order so she could sell it. She shook her head, unsure of how she’d even manage that—when she couldn’t drag herself out of her car to spend one night there, now.

Memories stirred, although she tried to pull her mind away from the dark, yawning hole, luring her in on wispy threads, tugging her firmly toward the edge. Though, she’d only recently started to remember this stuff from her past, now she tapped into old memories, like they’d happened only yesterday.

Morgan trembled as a single tear slipped down her cheek. Happier times played through her mind, like an old theater, with tattered films, of children’s laughter and footsteps, sounding along darkened hallways. They ran giggling, while music played from somewhere down the stairs, singing, come and find us grandma as they stole through the kitchen, snagging hot, gooey, chocolate-chip cookies, from fresh out of the oven, moist and crumbling in their tiny hands.

Morgan reached for the door-handle of her old beetle, hesitating. She froze, caught by the memories that played on, sharp within her mind. Vivid memories of chocolate as she bit into the cookie, staring at her hands, licking the melted chips from her fingers, from where she and her sister stopped to hide beneath the stairs.

Their laughter had given them away….

The town nearly suffocated them with their pity, telling them how sorry they were, saying stuff like poor little things—such a tragedy….

Morgan shuddered as tears lay damp on her cheeks, withdrawing sharply with sick dread from her dark thoughts. She wasn’t ready to go there….

She frowned, staring at the darkened windows of Ravenwood Manor, windows that seemed to watch her, as if waiting to see what she would do. Windows, framed in the same old, gray stone of the house—so large, it seemed more like a mansion. The windows were the eyes of the soul, they said. Well, if that were true, the windows were the eyes of this manor’s soul. The house, itself, taking on a life of its own—watching her—watching it. Remembering the family she hadn’t known existed—and the love….

How could she have forgotten the love?

Their aunt, their mother’s sister, raised her and her sister, but even with her patience, and gentle ways, Morgan realized their grandmother was their saving grace, always smiling, always baking—and still finding time to play fun little games with them….

Visions flashed before her. Morgan saw her grandmother, before her, like it was yesterday, laughing, pretending to look beneath the bed—taking her time to ferret them out from where they hid.

Frowning, Morgan gazed at the old house, broken and overrun with weeds. Had such beautiful memories really happened in this haunted-looking, old house? She pulled away from the pain, that remembering her grandmother seemed to cause her. Caught up, instead, by something else….

Such an amazing aroma…. How odd. She eyed the grounds around the old, gray house. Could she possibly remember smells?

Shaking her head, Morgan closed her eyes, for the briefest of moments, catching the scent of her grandmother’s house, the aroma filling every corner of her senses. She caught another whiff of the fresh baked chocolate-chip cookies that they’d been so quick to steal, but she remembered other smells, as well. Fragrances of spices and fresh-cut flowers….

Her grams used herbs and spices for much more than just cooking, and although she’d placed the fresh-cut flowers in shiny, glass vases throughout the house, that hadn’t been the only reason she’d raised her beautiful gardens.

Sadness swamped Morgan, and for a long moment she choked down the pain, her throat closing around the lump left behind.

What an odd notion. Why did her memories stir up such sorrow—and fear?

Her gaze traveled to the shady, attic windows. For a long moment, she strangled on her breath, staring at the broken middle window, flanked by beautiful, ornate stained-glass windows in a Triquetra Pattern. She’d wondered about that attic, even as a child.

She stopped short, at that. Had she? She’d only started remembering these missing pieces of her life, a few short days ago. Perhaps, she’d made up what she now remembered?

She shook her head. No. She hadn’t made up this old, gray house. Because, here it stood, just like she’d been remembering, these past few days—from the moment she read that letter….

Her gaze moved over the once, well-tended gardens her grandmother loved so much. Now, perennials went to bed beneath the late summer skies, mixed with weeds. Grey clumps of grass grew in patches on the bare dirt, between the stone walkway.

Sighing, she looked back up at the old mansion. It was then her mind registered the two broken windows on the first floor. Alarmed, she scanned the house, another time. There was another broken on the second story. Scowling, she tightened her grip on the door handle. She’d been counting on sleeping here.

Frustrated, now, she fought back against her despair. Well, no hope for it. She had nowhere else to stay. She’d used the little money she had to get here. Now, she’d just have to get her butt out of the car—and find somewhere in that old house to sleep.

Dread crawled up her spine. Apprehension caused her to peek at Ravenwood Manor, one more time, but she couldn’t put it off any longer.

Her thoughts snagged. She’d rather sleep in the car, any day of the week….

She shook her head. “Out of the question,” she said, out loud. It would be cool when the sun finished going to bed in this sleepy, mountain town. She didn’t have the gas to waste to run the car.

Grabbing her camera, her one treasured possession, from the seat next to her, she forced herself to open the door. The hinges squeaked loudly in protest. That one sound made in the dusky yard, as though warning the house, itself, that she now headed its way. Well, she’d better get in there before she was forced to feel her way around in the dark.

That got her attention. Fear propelled her forward as she crossed through the great gate, near the much larger one, protecting the drive. She’d worry about opening the magnificent, wrought-iron gate to put her car in the drive later—perhaps tomorrow. Right now, she stumbled along the walk, toward the door, doing her best not to glance at the gargoyle statue, now that she’d made up her mind, lest the damn thing destroyed any will she had left….

Reaching the wide porch, she climbed the massive, ornate stairs. Her hands shook, trying to find the key, she’d put on the keyring, for the house. At the door, she rushed to open it, fumbling to fit the key into the lock. After several long breaths, she finally managed to get the door open.

She tried the lights, sagged with relief to see the electric company had at least done as she requested, and turned on her power—though the old busy-body, on the other end of the phone, tried to tell her she didn’t want to live in that old haunted house….

The old woman should have minded her own business, but she’d been right. Morgan glanced around. Why would she want to?

As her thoughts snagged on those old, attic windows—a shiver tingled her skin, skimming the base of her spine. “Don’t you dare think about that now,” she scolded out loud. She stepped further into the house, then immediately locked the door behind her. “Nothing like locking yourself in—when you should be locking yourself out,” she said through clenched teeth, swallowing past her dry throat.

She scanned the front room and chose a heavy candlestick, testing it. Feeling more courageous, now, with her weapon, she stepped further into the house.

Dust-covers lay over the furniture, and dust layered the shelves in cobwebs. Sketchy memories told her that the first floor held the kitchen, dining room, and several other  types of rooms, but all the bedrooms sat on the second floor. She followed the echoes, rising from hidden memories of the past, of children’s laughter, from the wide, ornate stairway and the promise of protection, beyond. But Morgan had one goal in mind.

To lock herself in one of those rooms, till daylight.

She crept up the stairs—listening hard for all the creaks and groans. Stiff with fright, she made her way into the first bedroom, she came across, not letting her gaze linger, too long, on the door leading to that freaking attic, closing out the memories that fought to flood through her mind….

Memories of a huge, old ornate-looking book, that once sat on an equally old overly-large, round, claw-foot table…. She stopped just inside the doorway—frozen.

They shouldn’t be coming back here.

They’d been like a ball of energy—a ball of power. And that ball of power had scattered to the wind—when she disappeared….

Morgan strangled on her breath. Where had that come from? She fell through the bedroom door, in her rush to get inside. Scrambling to her feet, she flipped on the light, closing and locking the door behind her….

Dragging in huge gulps of air, she turned to face the room. For several long moments she stood that way, paralyzed with fear. Finally, she forced her terrified limbs to move. First, to make sure she was alone in this room. Second, to find something to wedge against the door.

She did the first in short order. Still not feeling safe, she did so more thoroughly, a second time—and a third. Then, she dragged a heavy, antique chair across the hardwood floor, wedging it against the door.

Satisfied no one else could get through the door, without breaking it down, she began to straighten up the room. Each room held a bathroom. Relieved to find they’d turned on the water for her, as well, she made quick use of some.

She’d had to get someone to turn it on, from outside. Somehow, she’d known they’d have shut it off, to keep the pipes from freezing with the upcoming fall and winter.

Lastly, she shook out the bedding, looking around at the grand, old room.

The manor held beautiful, antique highboys, and this dresser had an equally decorative, antique mirror. The bed boasted four large, carved posts. The bed, itself, massive. Though it smelled musty, the dust cover saved it from being beyond help—and the chest, at the end of the bed, still held bedding.

Exhausted, she tumbled onto the soft haven, it offered, falling asleep almost as quickly as her head hit the pillow, dreaming, once more, of the boy who’d climbed his way into her every waking thought—ever since she first opened that letter….