Chapter 329 The Witch’s Den

Emilia’s POV

Upstairs, I raided my closet and pulled on the designer pieces Mila had bought me. For good measure, I borrowed the Hermès she kept in her dressing room.

Eve watched the whole production with mounting disbelief. “Emmy. Are you absolutely certain about this outfit?”

I checked myself in the mirror, head to toe. Every stitch screamed money.

“Yes. Definitely.” I even slid into a pair of Louboutins with heels tall enough to be a liability. “Eve, would you let me enjoy being a millionaire’s wife for one afternoon? I so rarely get to weaponize it.”

Eve sighed, but I could feel her amusement humming.

I slid into the back of the Rolls and gave the driver the address off the card. Naturally, I’d brought along the two bodyguards Sebastian had arranged, a pair of gamma warriors who stood damn near seven feet tall.

We cut across the city, and when we finally rolled to a stop, I climbed out and tipped my head back.

A high-rise. Sleek glass, marble lobby, security desk, the works. Not a crooked cottage or a cauldron in sight.

I peeled off my limited-edition sunglasses and let out a low whistle.

“Well,” I told Eve, starting toward the revolving doors, “nobody warned me witches had gone corporate.”

And I walked inside.

The elevator doors slid open onto a floor that gleamed like the inside of a jewelry box. My two gamma bodyguards flanked me as I stepped out, and the redhead behind the reception desk shot up so fast her chair rolled back and smacked the wall.

“Ma’am, you can’t just walk in here.”

I knew that voice. Crisp, bored, dripping with attitude. The very same one that had hung up on me not two hours ago.

“Oh, but I can,” I said sweetly. “I’m Emilia Taylor. I rang you earlier to book an appointment. Perhaps you remember? You were charming.”

Freckles, copper curls, a face made for smiling. A pity, then, that she’d wasted all that cuteness being rude to me.

“I already told you.” Her chin lifted. “We’re fully booked.”

I tilted my head, letting my voice drop into something colder, richer, unmistakably the tone of a woman who signed checks for a living. “So Hexworks turns paying clients away at the door now? Business must be booming. Someone should tell your accountant.”

Her eyes flicked past me to the two mountains in suits at my back. “We don’t serve walk-ins. And we definitely don’t serve—” she leaned in, dropping to a hiss, “—werewolves.”

The word came out like a slur she was afraid the walls might overhear.

“Oh, really?” I smiled with all my teeth. “And how do you feel about serving dollars?”

I gave the guards a small nod. They set two cases on the desk and flipped the latches in unison. Stacks of crisp, banded cash winked up at her under the recessed lighting.

The girl’s mouth dropped open. She looked like she’d never seen that many zeroes outside of a movie.

I hadn’t come in blind. On the drive over I’d pulled up Hexworks online, a slick little consultancy, all soft branding and vague promises, and forwarded the whole thing to Fynn to dig into.

Every company has cracks if you know where to press. And Fynn had reported back within the hour: the coven was drowning. A financial hole deep enough to swallow that pretty marble lobby whole.

Three lawsuits pending, two clients dead under working they’d botched, and a landlord two months from changing the locks. So much for soft branding.

The redhead’s voice shrank to nothing. She mumbled something and bolted for the back.

She returned a minute later towing a woman in her forties. Brown hair scraped into a severe knot, tall, whittled down to sinew, wrapped in a tailored charcoal suit. This one ran the place. You could tell by the way the air rearranged itself around her.

“Good afternoon. I’m Vesper Crane.” She extended a cool hand. “Miss Taylor. What can Hexworks do for you?”

“I don’t believe I have an appointment,” I said, pouring on the false regret.

“Not to worry. I’ll see to you personally.” She turned. “Nina, take Miss Taylor’s men downstairs for coffee.”

“They can’t come in?” I asked.

“I’m afraid we have rules, Miss Taylor. Letting them through the front door at all was a lapse on Nina’s part.” She said it without so much as glancing at the girl, who flushed scarlet.

I sent a mind-link to the guards. “Go on. If anything feels wrong, I’ll call.”

“Yes, Luna.” They dipped their heads and followed the redhead into the elevator.

Vesper led me down a hushed corridor into her office, and this was where the corporate polish finally cracked. A crystal ball sat on a stand by the window. Bundles of dried herbs hung from a beam, breathing out something green and bittersweet. A worn tarot deck fanned across the desk, and one shelf sagged under the weight of leather-bound books that looked older than the building itself.

On the wall behind her hung a black iron sigil I didn’t recognize, all barbed lines and broken circles. Eve went taut the second I looked at it.

“Now this,” Eve murmured,” is more like what I pictured. And Emmy, that mark on the wall? Whatever it is, it isn’t the friendly kind.”

I’d barely settled into the chair before Vesper fixed me with a long look. “Tell me. What is your connection to the Hollowthorn covens?”

I blinked. “The what?”

“The Hollowthorn line.” She studied me like a specimen under glass. “You carry witch blood. Old blood. I can smell it under the wolf.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that name,” I admitted.

She sat back, faintly amused. “The Hollowthorn witches. Recluses. They cling to the old ways, ancient magic, no patience for the modern world. And their loathing of werewolves makes my own coven look positively neighborly by comparison.”

Her brow arched. “Which is what makes you such a curiosity. A witch-wolf halfblood. I didn’t think your mother’s kind ever mixed with fur.”