he remembers about the stuff that happened here with Rhianna. Not to mention trying to figure out if he really witnessed a loup-garou transforming.”
“That does sound smart.” Chandler eyed the wine bottle, weighed the idea of having a glass, and decided against it. “I wish I’d met the journalist that night and stopped Rhianna before she cast the spell on him. I can’t believe I missed everything.”
“Rhianna probably went out of her way to keep you in the dark.”
“I suppose.” She still felt awful about not noticing what was going on right under her nose. “How much damage do you think her magic did to him?”
“Something’s wrong with him for sure. He stumbles over his words as if he can’t get his thoughts to come together. If Brooklyn hadn’t told me that he was fine before Rhianna’s spell and worse as it went on, I’d assume he was recovering from aphasia.”
An ache pulled at the back of Chandler’s throat. A few years ago, when her adoptive mom had the stroke that put her in the High Council’s palliative care infirmary, she’d suffered from aphasia. It had been heart-wrenching to watch such a dynamic woman struggle to form even a single word.
The glass-and-steel industrial doors that formed the back wall of the living room glided open. Devlin and the journalist strolled in, shadowed by Gar’s broad-shouldered outline.
Though Chandler hadn’t met the journalist before, she had seen him on TV. It had been a rebroadcast of him ranting to a reporter that witchcraft was responsible for a club fire and a ton of crazy incidents around the city. He’d come across as irrational, but he’d been a hundred percent right about everything. At the time, she’d registered only that he was a slim, determined black man in his mid to late twenties with haphazardly chopped-off hair. Now, in real life, his loose-jointed stride and crazy hair made her think of Ichabod Crane from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” The fact that he wore slightly twisted librarian-style glasses only added to the unconventional vibe.
Chandler pressed her lips together to hide an amused smile. If she were to create a sculpture of him, she’d start with pipes from a child’s swing set for his long legs and wild curls of dark chain for his hair. She wasn’t sure what she’d use for his lips. He had beautiful lips.
She clenched her hands, squeezing them tight to stop the sculpture from coming to life in her head. She couldn’t afford to let his quirky appeal convince her he was harmless. He was dangerous. If they couldn’t convince him he was wrong about everything he’d witnessed and keep him quiet, the High Council would rescind the reprieve they’d given the coven. The Circle would once again be accused of being responsible for breaches in the witching world’s anonymity. For sure, they’d get disbanded. Worse than that, the Council could even have the members’ abilities to work magic removed. Their sacred objects and all their assets could be seized, including the complex. They could lose everything.
The journalist’s gaze zeroed in on her. He smiled broadly, hesitated as if gathering his thoughts, then spoke in a tone that was measured but as warm as earth in summertime. “You—are Chandler Parrish?”
She extended her hand as he walked up to her. “You’re Lionel, right?”
“Lionel Parker.” He took her hand, his long fingers wrapping hers in an earnest grip. “I am—a huge fan. Your sculptures are remarkable.”
“Thank you.” She kept hold of his hand and met his gaze full-on, buying herself time to assess his energy. He had a creative fire, kindness, empathy… His energy warped, wringing so tight she couldn’t read it anymore. Whatever spell Rhianna had worked on him, it was powerful, multilayered, and fiercely debilitating. It was a miracle that Lionel was able to hold a somewhat normal conversation, let alone survive day to day with an upheaval like that going on inside him. How brilliant had he been before the spell?
As bright as the light from a welding torch, her instincts whispered.
His smile widened and his lips parted. A spark twinkled in the depths of his dark eyes.
Chandler released his hand as fast as if it were a greased cobra. Heat flushed up her cheeks. She knew that twinkle. He’d mistaken her lingering touch for romantic interest, and he wasn’t rejecting it. She wouldn’t have been as certain or taken aback, except she rarely saw that spark in a man’s eyes. Women, yes—though she had no interest beyond friendship with them.
Gar cleared his throat. “Well, Lionel, what do you say we drop the pretenses and get to the point of this visit?”
Chandler moved away from Lionel, retreating to stand behind the coffee table with Chloe. It made sense to let Gar lead the conversation. Lionel didn’t know it, but Gar was more than just a tough-looking guy in worn jeans and a camo baseball cap. He worked as a special investigator for the High Council of Witches. In fact, the coven had first met Gar when he’d been sent to assess them for possible disbandment after Lionel’s rant on TV—not to mention that the Circle had awakened Merlin’s Shade while under Rhianna’s influence, and in turn the Shade had brought a bunch of her flying monkey sculptures to life. The important thing was, when push came to shove, Gar had proven to be the Circle’s staunch ally.
Lionel’s voice quieted. “I—I am not fond of games. I would prefer to get to the point.”
Gar glanced toward Chandler and Chloe. “When we were touring the teahouse, Lionel admitted he isn’t certain he saw a loup-garou.”
“He thinks he might have seen a dog,” Devlin added.
Lionel straightened to his full height, a good several inches over six feet. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with care. “That is not right. I said I wasn’t sure I saw a person transform into a loup-garou. But I did see a person—a street performer, posing as a statue of The Thinker—change into a wolflike animal. Um—I know shapeshifters and magic are real. I am not mistaken. And you all know it.”
“What makes you so sure?” Chloe said, before Lionel could take a breath.
Chandler hated the idea of ganging up on anyone. She’d told Peregrine a million times that bullying was wrong. But browbeating Lionel into thinking things like magic, powerful witches, and shifters didn’t exist was vital for the coven’s welfare, and for Lionel’s safety, too. Why did he have to be so determined to expose them? For that matter, what made him so willing to believe things other people dismissed as unreal?
She narrowed her eyes and took over the badgering where Chloe had left off. “Did you get a photograph of this street performer changing? A video? What proof do you have that it wasn’t just part of the performer’s act?”
Lionel’s voice went as taut as brass strings on a harp. “Why—why are all of you so interested in convincing me that I am wrong?” His gaze darted around the room. “Where—where is your high priestess? I expected to talk to her.”
Chloe stepped toward him, skirting the coffee table. “First of all, let me clarify that we aren’t the Grimm’s fairy tale coven you’re imagining.” She gave him a second to mull that over. “That said, I’m the coven’s high priestess.” It wasn’t a lie. Chloe had agreed to temporarily take the position after they discovered Athena’s murder.
“Bullshit.” Lionel raised his hand, showing his wrist. The outline of a barely healed cut stood out against his skin. “The real high priestess slashed my wrist with a dagger. She took my blood. She chopped off my hair and cut my fingernails. She cast a spell on me. In this room.” He shoved his misshapen glasses up
