“Cranky ole Benny?” He sat down across from me and dropped a pile of books and papers between us, resting his elbows over the table. Nodding, I stretched back against the booth, thinking he was mistaking me for another Fallon Morgan. No one ever willingly sat with me before. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You see,” he tilted his head and lifted a finger, “that man is a legend.”
My brow arched. “Is that so?” I asked, and the guy nodded. “How do you know my name?”
“Word gets around. I’m Milo, by the way. Where did you come in from? New York?” He lifted off his newsboy hat to reveal soft-brown, side-swept hair, naturally curling at the ends. The guy was slender with honey-brown, soulful eyes and a million stories to tell in his smile.
I lifted my head a smidge. “Why you say New York?”
“You stick out like a sore thumb,” his finger moved in a circular pattern in the air over my wardrobe, “with all your fancy clothes going on here.”
I bit my lip, looking down at my boxy silk blouse, which was the cheapest thing I owned, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, San Antonio,” I corrected, looking back at him.
“Mhm … Never would’ve guessed.”
An elderly lady approached our booth, a long braid of gray hair hanging off one shoulder. She shrieked with her hand over her mouth. For a moment longer, she stared at me with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Oh-my-word. Yah Benny’s granddaughtah.” The sweet-faced waitress laughed without belief. “I’d hug yah, but I don’t wanna freak yah out.” Her eyes steered to Milo. “Milo Andrews, give tha girl some room, would yah? Can she be heyah more than five seconds without the paparazzi swarmin’?”
Grinning, I waved away the intrusion. “He’s fine. It’s a nice change for once, talking to someone who doesn’t have a stick up their ass.”
“Oh, Benny?” She clicked her tongue. “Don’t let that man fool yah, he’s gotta heart somewhere … Deep, deep, in there.”
Milo flashed me a side-eye and a crooked smile. “Mina Mae and Benny go way back if you know what I mean.” He wiggled his brows.
Mina slapped Milo upside the head. “Don’t be spreadin’ rumors, boy.”
“Hey, now … a good reporter only states the facts,” Milo said in defense with his palms up in front of him.
Mina shook her head, returning her eyes to me with a pen pressing against a notepad. “Whatarya havin’, dear?”
Milo was quick to speak up, “Two submarines and two coffees. Let me treat the outsider.”
Mina closed the pad and dropped it with the pencil inside her apron. “Fallon Morgan is no flatlander.” With certainty and a single nod, she took off in the opposite direction.
“That lady scares me sometimes,” Milo admitted, watching her walk away. “But she makes a mean submarine.”
After breakfast, Milo convinced me to go with him on a stroll through town square, which was ironically shaped like a circle. Side by side, we walked the herringbone-patterned pavers, Milo standing at six feet and carrying the pile of books between his arm and hip. I kept up with his long strides as he went on about Weeping Hollow and the residents who lived here.
“We don’t get many flatlanders. Ya know, people from away. And forget about trying to get information about the outside world. This town is trapped in time. The founders made it that way, cutting us off, protecting us from societal manipulation. We only know what we know from the flatlanders, and if by some miracle ya find an internet connection.” When we reached a crossing, he paused to face me. “There’s no point in trying to use your cell. Your only hope is at The Bean, but be careful what you’re looking into because someone’s always watching.”
Milo turned his eyes away and resumed walking. “Weeping Hollow is off the grid and ran by the two covens. And you’re a Morgan and a Grimaldi, so that makes you extremely important around here. It’s only a matter of time…”
Without looking, Milo took a step off the curb and walked across the street to the other side. I looked both ways before catching up to him as quickly as I could in my black ankle boots. “Matter of time for what?”
He halted and whipped around to face me in the middle of the road. “For your initiation, of course.” He had said it matter-of-factly, as if it was a stupid question and I should have known this all along. His brows pressed together as he scanned over my confused expression. “You don’t know?”
I threw my palms up at my sides. “Know what?”
Milo continued his stride, his smile just as baffled as he shook his pointer finger in the air. “It’s all making sense, the reason Tobias Morgan took you away.” He was more talking to himself than to me, but the mention of my father stole all my attention. “Two witch covens caught in a tangled web, but the Grimaldi’s and Morgan’s.”
“Witches?” The balls of my feet burned in my boots, and I gripped his bicep to slow him down. “Talk English.”
He paused, shifting his body toward me, his tweed cap casting a shadow over half his face. “Yeah, your mother, Freya Grimaldi, is from Norse Woods Coven.” He pointed toward the woods. “The Norse woods is like the waste lands, where the lower-class is from. But your father?” Milo’s finger steered toward the sea. “He was from Sacred Sea Coven. They're the upper class who control the east, all the way up to Crescent Beach. You just drove into a town feud your father started before he left.” Milo patted the top of my head. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to join Sacred Sea where you belong.”
Witches. Milo continued up the sidewalk, leaving me behind with a blank stare.
His mention of witches transported me back to Marietta’s unique behavior, like when she used to lock herself in the attic at the strangest times, whispers spilling down the steep wooden steps, her tangible storytelling about the gods and goddesses of Weeping Hollow. I thought they were all just bedtime stories—midnight tales.
Norse Woods and Sacred Sea, I hadn’t heard those names in so long.
But there was no way Dad could have been a part of a coven. Tobias Morgan had been in the Air Force, a man who served God’s country, brave and loyal until he died in war after I’d turned fifteen.
And yet, Weeping Hollow was real. Could all the stories be real too? Had Dad chosen Marietta, my nanny, bringing her from this town to Texas to take care of me for a reason?
“Hey,” I called out, catching up to Milo, who was ten feet ahead. “But I’m not a witch. I’m just here to take care of Benny, see that he gets better. What if I don’t want to be a part of any of … that?”
Milo’s pace slowed, but he never met my gaze. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know, but nothing good can come of it. You belong with Sacred Sea.” Milo’s brown eyes dipped down to my wary ones, then his features softened. “It’s a lot to take in. Let’s just forget I said anything for now. I know a place that’ll help with Benny’s cough.”
The dense clouds, drab and jaded, slid over the skies above town square as we stopped in front of a fall-decorated storefront. Blackwell Apothecary was written on a swaying black sign jetting out from the brick above us. Up the cracked steps toward the door, antique lanterns, pumpkins, gourds, and pinecones lined the way and fanned out in front of the grid-style windows on each side.