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….

Daughters of the Circle, Book One, Shadows in Ravenwood has been released!

TARA

Tara looked up and stared at the ceiling as she heard another creak of the floorboard above. She smiled. She didn’t have to guess who had snuck up to the attic, again, in the dusky skies of the night.

It would be Claire.

She’d followed her up there, the first night they’d gotten back. She done so every night since. And even as she lay there, arguing with herself, telling herself she wasn’t going to get any sleep this way, she had a feeling she’d do so again tonight.

She wondered if they’d get to use that wonderful, old attic now—they were all back. Now—they were the witches, who were supposed to protect this particular gateway. Would they be the ones stirring the herbs in one of several of the huge, old cauldrons Murcia had stocked there?

She hoped so—and not for the first time. That attic was a witch’s dream, come true. She’d wanted to take it home with her from the first moment she’d laid eyes on it as a child. She’d often spoken of it to her own Grams—telling her someday she wanted a house with a witch’s magickal room like that, of her own like that.

Murcia had been one of the coven leaders in this tiny little town, although none of them had known that when they were children. Tara still hadn’t told Claire that her own Grams had disagreed with the parent’s decision to try and protect their children, by keeping them in the dark—believing they could keep Dante from finding them. Believing, in their fear, that blinding their children to the real danger they were in, had been the only choice left open to them—to protect them from the warlock they hadn’t been able to defeat.

So, unfortunately, it had taken many years before Claire and Tara had learned the truth of their birthright as a witch. Tara had learned the truth of it from Claire, who’d learned it from her Grandma Murcia. Those left of their group had been in their mid-teens by then. They’d long lost Morgan. And since Morgan had been missing for all that time, she’d never known that truth—until now.

Tara hadn’t found out about her own Grams until the other day. She supposed she would have to talk to Claire about that—perhaps even tonight if she couldn’t manage to get herself to go to sleep again.

She turned, to stare up at the ceiling as Claire moved across the floor above. One board had never been fixed. The girls had giggled about this—once they had been allowed up there. Tara had deliberately taken this bedroom then—as she’d done so now—so she could know whenever someone went to the attic.

She didn’t know how—but she knew the knowledge they sought lay somewhere in that great, old room.

She lay there, puzzling out the coven’s thinking. Though their families had decided to keep the knowledge, that they had been born witches, from them. Murcia had said they’d done so to protect them. Tara still didn’t get how that logic worked. To Tara, it had seemed like a bunch of messed up ideas, not making a lot of sense.

How could a bunch of adults—most of whom she considered to have some common sense—have lost that common sense, when it came to training their children about magick. Claire’s grandmother, Murcia, had said that they were trying to protect them, since they had an enemy who sought to take the sisters from them.

The coven had figured, if the children didn’t know what they were—didn’t know about the world of magick—they’d somehow keep them safe from Dante. They’d decided that if they couldn’t prevent him from coming after their children—perhaps he wouldn’t pay them any mind, since he’d always been drawn to powerful magick. And if he did know they were still there, then perhaps he wouldn’t bother with their children—if they took no part in the magickal world.

Apparently, their big argument, for making such a harrowing mistake, had all centered on the notion, if the children didn’t grow up fighting him, he wouldn’t pay attention to them—but if they went up against him—he would never quit.

Tara’s gaze narrowed on the ceiling above. Something about the coven’s logic bothered her. Were their family members—and coven members, really that stupid? Or—we’re her and her sister-friends, now, missing something here?

But what? He wouldn’t stop. Not until they were all dead.

As it stood, he hadn’t succeeded in getting his hands on Morgan as a child, but only through a fluke. She’d disappeared. At first, the coven had been frantic—thinking it had been him, but then, someone had assured them he still lurked in the shadows—looking for her.

Tara still didn’t know who would have known. And the last time she and Claire had talked to her Grandma Murcia—she’d been determined he’d stop at nothing to get his hands on either, or both, of the sisters.

Tara frowned. Something didn’t make sense.

At first, she hadn’t understood why. Sure she and the sisters could do some amazing things with magick—even untrained—yet the coven had figured out what the kids were up to—and Claire and Tara had quickly figured out why the warlock wanted to get his hands on them, before they could wield their full power. When they were older, it would be much, much more difficult.

But why not train them?

She turned over, for the hundredth time, still trying to get comfortable.

“Oh, to heck with it,” she said out loud to no one in particular. She got up and pulled on her robe and slippers. She might as well go and help Claire.

She snuck up to the attic, but Claire had already left, so she quietly went back down the stairs and made her way to Claire’s bedroom, lightly tapping on the door. She saw Claire’s head fly up as she cracked it open. Claire smiled and waved her in.

“Find anything?”

Claire shook her head. “Did you know they kept two separate, Book of Shadows?” she said, eyeing Tara in frustration. “Would someone please explain to me why they went to such trouble to keep us in the dark?” She set one, she was holding, next to Tara, as she sat down on the other end of the bed. “Even when I thought Grams was being real with me—when she was training me to call the Daughters of the Circle—she still wasn’t being straight with me.”

Tara stared at her. “Why tell you that you were supposed to call the Daughters—and not tell you how to beat your greatest enemy? Do you think she was trying to keep you busy doing something—keep you out of harm’s way, so to speak?”

Claire thrust her hand through her hair, blowing a harsh breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. The more I learn—the more I realize we still don’t know a damn thing.”

“What do you have to do to call these Daughters?” Tara asked.

Claire grinned. “You are one of these Daughters,” she said. “So am I, Morgan, Sophia….”

Tara’s brows shot up. “When did you plan to tell us about this?”

Claire shrugged. “There hasn’t been a lot of time, between dealing with this old manor, and trying to figure out who’s trying to stop us.”

Tara eyed her. “Well—it seems I have something of my own to tell you too.”

Claire’s brows shot up at this.

Tara frowned. “My Grams is part of that coven.”

Claire’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wow—they kept that a secret didn’t they.”

“And,” she said, smiling, “you haven’t heard the best part.” She paused, causing Claire to waive her hands at her, like bring it on, excited now.

“She disagreed with them—and is willing to teach us everything she knows.”

Claire’s face split into a grin. “And you waited a whole week to tell me that.”

Tara laughed. “It’s been a very busy week,” she mimicked.

Claire swatted at her. “Do you think she’d start coming over, right away?”

Tara nodded, then frowned at her. “What exactly are we supposed to do, about calling these Daughters?”

Claire stared down at her hands, then eyed her, her gaze serious now. “We have to figure out who the rest of these Daughters are, first. Perhaps your Grams can help us there, too.”

Tara nodded. She’d figured that much out already. “And then, what?”

Claire looked down at the Book of Shadows. “Then, we call the Goddesses home, in a more physical way than we have been for the last few hundred years. This will be more like the Isle of Avalon.”

Tara’s brow shot up, and she smiled. “Will we pull this place back into the mist too?”

Claire giggled at her, and she clucked her tongue at her. “You’ll see. When it happens, you’ll see.” Then, she shrugged. “But, yes. We’ll have to pull it back through the veil,” she said. “We couldn’t keep it in the open, for the humans to see, could we?”

Tara recognized the truth in that. It didn’t matter how far they'd come. It wasn’t near far enough for something like this. People still showed a tremendous fear of things they didn’t understand.

“Why do you suppose, I didn’t realize my own Grams was a witch?” Tara said, looking down at the pattern on the quilt covering the bed. “I feel pretty stupid.”

Claire laughed. “We use to try to figure out if everyone in town was in that coven,” she said, laughing. “Remember?” She frowned, now. “It doesn’t surprise me that we didn’t know.”

Tara nodded, picking at a loose thread. “But—we should have. She’s my blood. I had gotten my power from somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Claire said, softly. “But—no offense—but your Grams?” She chuckled again.

Tara grinned now, too. “Yeah,” she said, laughing. “I see your point. She’s always acted so—well—straight laced.”

Claire nodded. “I never suspected she’d do something, like join a coven.”

Tara shook her head. She still had a hard time believing it.

After a moment, Tara gazed up at Claire. “You’re going to have to tell Morgan about the attic, Claire,” Tara said. “You can’t hide it from her, anymore.” She gave Claire a hard look, saw tears come to Claire’s eyes. “Don’t you think, everyone’s been kept in the dark long enough? Didn’t you hate that people kept the truth from us—even if they did it to protect us?”

Claire stared at her for a moment, as she seemed to think on this. Finally, she nodded.

Tara smiled. “Good,” she said. “Besides, we’re going to need to share every speck of information, we each remember—no matter how insignificant—if we’re going to figure this out.”

Claire beamed at her. “When did you go and get so wise?” She teased.

Tara giggled. “When you went and got so powerful,” she countered.

Then, Claire looked up and stared behind her. She felt someone enter the room—and that someone, now, stood directly behind her. Tara felt caught in mud, as she turned, to see what had caused Claire to go white as chalk.

And then, she saw him.

The two women sat there, staring at the same Gargoyle creature who’d caused them to get split up as kids. He watched Claire—gazed straight into her eyes—his own midnight blue, deep with some unnamed emotion.

He turned, and, in a flash, he’d gone.

She stared at the space where he’d just been. They’d been afraid of him. What happened, that day, when they’d been kids, had altered the course of their lives. They’d been terrified—she’d been terrified. Now—well—now she didn’t know what to think, and Claire had a look of complete confusion.

Tara nearly smiled. She imagined her friend couldn’t figure out how she could be attracted to the same winged male, who’d put her in a coma….

She stared at Claire—saw Claire swallow and shake her head, then shrug. She let out a breath, she hadn’t known she’d been holding, glancing out the window. Claire liked the Gargoyle.

Oh, well, she thought, happy for her.

Claire wanted him to come back, Tara could see it, plainly in her sister-friend’s green eyes.

Claire wanted him to explain himself. She didn’t blame her. She wanted the same thing.

How could she want such a thing, from him? He’d scared them, badly, as young, barely teenage. And Morgan had lost her memory because of it—and somehow, Claire had ended up in that coma.

Tara winced, somehow things always seemed to get all fuzzy, whenever she thought about—what had happened that afternoon.

Perhaps—the time had come to ask the Gargoyle, himself….

She turned her head, staring at Claire, as she gazed out the window, into the dark. Tara folded her arms around her waist. They were back in Ravenwood—and so, it would seem, was the beast. They’d come full circle—she realized—and nothing in their lives would be the same.