Chapter 8

I arrived outside the address Theron had given me half an hour after leaving the Millers, my mind still racing with what they had told me. I’m glad I’ve arranged this meeting with Theron, he was more than just a work colleague, he was like  a brother to me and I trusted his judgment implicitly. His thoughts on this case would be invaluable. As I walk up to the door, I take in the house, it is exactly as I’d pictured the Council provided accommodation would be: a rather unassuming two-story building, its brickwork a muted grey, the windows neatly framed but devoid of any decorative flourishes. There was no grand porch, no manicured gardens beyond a patch of slightly overgrown lawn. Simple, functional, almost unremarkable. Nothing fancy, indeed. But then, The Council never 'splashed out' on such things. Their resources were meticulously allocated, funnelled into intelligence, operations, and research�"never into ostentatious displays of wealth or status. 

I knocked on the door and Theron answered it pulling me into a hug. It wasn't just a friendly embrace; it was an anchor. I clung to him, inhaling the familiar scent,  a faint, comforting aftershave that always seemed to cling to him.

"How are you?" His voice was a low rumble against my ear, laced with a gentle tenderness.

How was I? The question hung in the air, a cruel mockery of my inner turmoil. How did I begin to explain the raw grief from the sudden, unthinkable void left by my parents' death? And then, on top of that crushing weight, the searing guilt of last night, the memory of Matt's shattered expression, the way his eyes had gone dull and lifeless when I uttered those final, damning words. My emotions were a tempest, a maelstrom of sorrow, regret, exhaustion, and a terrifying, bone-deep numbness.

"I'm fine," I heard myself say, the lie slipping out automatically, a well-worn shield I always deployed when the truth felt too heavy to bear. My voice sounded thin, utterly unconvincing even to my own ears.

Theron pulled back just enough to look at me, his gaze piercing and full of an unspoken understanding. There was no judgment, only a deep, empathetic sadness that mirrored my own. He didn't press, didn't demand more. Instead, he just squeezed my shoulder gently. "Remember," he said, his voice softer now, "I'm always only a phone call away. No matter what."

He turned, guiding me deeper into the house. He led me into what I guessed was meant to be the sitting room, though 'room' felt like a generous description. It was more of an alcove, dominated by a faded, slightly lumpy two-seater sofa covered in a threadbare throw. In front of it, serving as the sole piece of furniture beyond the couch, was an overturned wooden crate, likely salvaged from a market stall, its rough surface bearing faint, lingering scents of forgotten vegetables.

A genuine chuckle escaped me. "I like what you've done with the place," I commented, my smile a fragile thing that didn't quite reach my eyes, but was a smile nonetheless.

"We weren't planning on being here for long," he replied, his voice a low rumble, carrying the weight of unspoken complications. "However, things have changed."

"Ah," I drawled, crossing my arms and letting an old, familiar dynamic resurface. "The assignment that finally has you out of your depth." My tone was deliberately light, a teasing barb aimed at his perpetually overconfident nature, but it held a flicker of genuine concern beneath its surface.

"He's always out of his depth," a dry, crisp voice cut in from the doorway, and Caela stepped into the room. She moved with an almost predatory grace, her gaze sharp and assessing. For a moment, her eyes, the colour of deep moss, held mine with their characteristic cool intensity before the barest softening occurred. "It's good to see you, Annabelle."

My own fragile smile finally transformed into something genuine, something that reached the corners of my eyes and warmed them. "It's good to see you too, Caela," I responded, my voice softer than before. In that moment, a wave of familiar relief washed over me. It was good to see that some things, some anchors in the swirling chaos of our lives, never truly changed. Caela, with her tightly woven defenses and sharp edges, could come across as standoffish, even cold, to those who didn't know her. But once you managed to navigate her formidable exterior, you discovered a fierce, unyielding core �" one of the most loyal and dependable people you could ever hope to meet, a fact that had saved my skin more times than I cared to count.

“It’s good to see you too, why don’t you tell me about your assignment”

“All in good time” Caela said, “first I’ll go make some tea, I think I have some of Millie’s Camomile tea somewhere”

I heard her rummaging round in the kitchen almost immediately, a clatter of ceramic and a jingle of spoons echoing through the open doorway. "You know," I called out, leaning back and resting my head against the sofa, "normal tea would do. I get to drink Millie’s tea every day” .Millie’s herbal concoctions were legendary for their... unique properties, and I wan’t surprised that Caela had some.

A moment of silence, then her voice, laced with amusement and a touch of something else �" concern, perhaps �" echoed back from the kitchen. "It’s not for you, it's for Thoren. He’s going to need it while explaining his assignment. Honestly, I have never seen him so tightly wound." I glanced at Thoren, who was meticulously picking at a loose thread on the cushion, avoiding my gaze. Caela wasn't wrong. His usual calm composure was entirely absent, replaced by a nervous energy that vibrated even across the quiet room. Whatever this 'assignment' was, it had clearly got its hooks in him deep.

Caela reappeared from the back, balancing a well-worn wooden tray. The soft clink of ceramic preceded her, followed by the comforting scent of steeping tea. On the tray sat a sturdy, slightly dented enamel teapot and a handful of cups that had clearly seen better, or at least less eventful, days. Each one proudly exhibited its own unique collection of nicks and cracks.

“Thought I’d dig out the best china,” she announced, a warm, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her gaze flickered between the mismatched array and us, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “It’s not often we have guests, after all.”

The corners of my mouth twitched, then widened into a genuine laugh as my eyes fell upon the motley collection of chipped edges and faded glazes. Theron, actually let out a soft huff of air that was unmistakably a suppressed chuckle. His gaze, too, settled on the well-loved crockery, and then, almost unbelievably, a slow, tentative smile began to spread across his face �" a genuine, unforced expression that seemed to surprise even him. As if a physical weight had been lifted, I watched his broad shoulders visibly relax, the tension that had been hunched there melting away.

“So” I began “are you ever going to tell me what your assignment is about an why its got you all out of sorts”

Theron sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken burdens. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy dark hair, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder, as if the answer lay just out of reach in the swirling patterns of the steam from his own untouched tea. “The Council sent me here because Ezra and Sienna were here,” he finally said, the emphasis on the past tense heavy with implication. “They moved to the area a few months back. Sienna, ever the opportunist, joined a local coven, while Ezra, with his usual knack for gathering strays, set up a rather unconventional coven of teenagers from the local high school.”

Sienna was Theron’s Dad Samuel’s first wife, Samuel had left her when he discovered just how deeply embedded she was with Kaia, and subsequently married Theron’s mum, Alena. Ezra was born 6 months after Samuel and Sienna’s tumultuous breakup, making him a year older older than Theron. The words were a physical weight, pressing down on the history I knew, and the unspeakable act that followed. Sienna was the very reason that Theron grew up without his parents. She was so consumed by a rage that when Samuel left her and found happiness with someone else that she unleashed the dreaded Leturn spell �" a spell leaves death and destruction in its wake, leaving the landscape scarred and can wipe out a coven overnight. on them and their Coven. They vanished without a trace the very night Sienna cast the spell, leaving a ten-year-old Theron with Sky’s mum, his Aunt, who had done her best to fill the gaping hole his parents’ absence had left. He’d had no contact with them since, burdened by the crushing uncertainty of whether they were even alive. 

“Okay, wait,” I interrupted, the single word sharp with a sudden, urgent need for clarity. “You said ‘were’ as in past tense. If they’re not here anymore, why are you?” My voice dropped, pressing, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle.

Theron finally met my gaze, his eyes shadowed, reflecting a deeper, more recent stress. “That’s where it gets complicated,” he admitted, his shoulders tensing. “It turns out one of the girls in the coven Ezra set up is actually a blood witch. We have no idea how; her family is definitely human. No magic anywhere in their lineage. I have been tasked by the Council with tutoring her until she is able to control her powers.” He spoke the last part rather stiffly, his jaw clenched, and I could feel the prickle of unease. There was definitely something more going on here than what he had told me, a layer of truth he was deliberately obscuring.

“And Theron is stuck hanging out with a group of teenagers who should have no idea that magic even exists.” Caela said, a wry smile playing on her lips. Theron rolled his eyes, but a fraction of the tension seemed to ease from his shoulders.

At that point there was a knock at the door, Theron tensed, his shoulders drawing up imperceptibly, and he began to shift forward on the plush sofa, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. But before he could even gather himself to rise, Caela, with a swift, almost ethereal grace, was already on her feet. “I’ll get it,” she announced, her voice calm, a slight, knowing smile playing on her lips as she glanced between Theron and me.

I looked between them, a frown creasing my brow. I was definitely missing something crucial in this unspoken dynamic. Curiosity piqued, I cast out my senses, reaching beyond the physical walls of the house, letting my semses touch upon the energy signature of whoever stood on the other side of the door. The instant my senses connected, a powerful, undeniable thrum magic, vibrant and raw, pulsed back at me. This wasn't just a witch; this was a very powerful witch. I guess she must be the blood witch we were just talking about.

The soft murmur of Caela’s voice drifted back from the hallway, distinct and welcoming. “Come in, Sofia,” she said, her tone warm and familiar. “Theron is in the sitting room, talking with a fellow Arithor, but I’m sure they won’t mind taking a moment to speak with you.”

A moment later, Caela re-entered, leading in a teenage girl who looked no older than seventeen or eighteen. She had long, dark brown hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders and wide, expressive brown eyes that seemed to take in everything with a hesitant curiosity. She was pretty in an understated way, dressed simply in jeans and a comfortable sweater, possessing a natural beauty that didn’t require embellishment. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as if trying to make herself smaller.

“This is Annabelle,” Caela introduced, gesturing towards me with a gentle sweep of her hand. “Annabelle, this is Sofia.”

“Hello, Sofia,” I said, standing to offer my hand, my voice softening as I noted the slight tremor that ran through her. Her discomfort with my presence was palpableHer gaze flickered, darting between me and Theron, before reluctantly settling on my outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you?” I added, phrasing it as a question, hoping to put her at ease.

“Hi,” she replied shyly, her voice barely above a whisper as her fingers briefly brushed mine in a quick, uncertain shake. “I don’t want to disturb you, but I was hoping to speak with Theron. I need to reschedule our lesson for tomorrow; my mother has asked I’m home for dinner.”

Before I could even suggest that family commitments were perfectly valid, Theron’s voice, sharp and laced with an unexpected sternness, cut across the quiet room. “Shirking your responsibilities by not attending your lessons will not help you gain control over your powers, Sofia. You need to be more committed.” His tone held a lecturing quality, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that seemed almost disproportionate to the request.

Sofia’s eyes flashed, her shy demeanor replaced by a raw, frustrated defensiveness. “You think I don’t know that, Theron, after everything that happened with Ezra? I am acutely aware of how unprepared I am to walk in your world and the dangers it involves. I’m not shirking my responsibilities; I am trying to juggle two different worlds that are completely at odds!” Her voice rose, thick with emotion, hinting at a recent trauma.

Before Theron could retaliate, a fresh wave of irritation tightening his jaw, I spoke up, my voice calm but firm. “Sofia is right, Theron. Family time is important. Your studies, while crucial, can wait while you try to heal the wounds that have opened up in your family.” My gaze shifted from Sofia to Theron, and for a long moment, I paused, truly seeing the way he was looking at her. It wasn't just a teacher’s concern, or even a mentor’s exasperation. It was something far deeper, far more primal. I opened my senses again, focusing specifically on Theron and Sofia, and there it was�"a shimmering, undeniable thread, a soulmate bond, vibrant and resonant, running between them.

The puzzle of his uncharacteristic rigidity and possessiveness, his attitude, his intense reaction to her simple request, all made perfect, if complicated, sense. “Theron,” I said, my voice softening as I placed my hand gently on his arm, a silent plea in my touch. He looked at me, his eyes still holding that strange intensity, but a flicker of self-awareness began to dawn. “I would give anything to be able to heal the wounds with my own parents, to have that time back,” I continued, my voice low and earnest, recalling the painful loss of my own parents. “And I know you feel the same way about your own family. The lesson can be rescheduled. It’s not the end of the world.” I looked into his eyes, imploring him to understand, to let go of whatever fear was driving his reaction.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, a characteristic gesture of internal debate, and the rigidity in his shoulders finally eased. “Of course it can,” he said, his voice now much softer, contrite. “I’m sorry, Sofia. I forget you have other commitments, other responsibilities beyond magic. We can reschedule for tomorrow night, if that works better for you.”

Sofia looked between us, a flicker of surprise and gratitude in her eyes, before replying, “Thank you.”

I stepped away from Theron, moving closer to Sofia. I reached into my pocket, pulling out a business card I always kept on me. “Here,” I said, offering it to her. “This has my contact details on it. If you ever need to talk to someone, or just have questions, please give me a call. I live in Whitside, but I’m happy to answer anything you have. I can’t imagine how hard the last few weeks have been for you, finding out you're a witch, and obviously something significant happened between you and Ezra that has affected how you and your family view our people. I hope that in time you will come to see that Ezra and Sienna are among a small minority whose actions do not represent all of us.”

Sofia looked at the card for a long moment, then slowly took it, her fingers brushing mine. She carefully tucked it into her pocket. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” she said, a genuine, if still tentative, smile gracing her lips. “I best go. I have some school assignments to finish.” With that, she turned and, with a final, quick nod to Theron and me, swiftly left the room.

“I’m so happy for you,” I began, my voice gentle but firm. “Truly, Theron. But you have to promise me something: Don’t screw this up. I know you think you need to watch over her every move, but you have to give her some space. She will come to you when she is ready. Trust me on this.”

I sighed, “I don’t know the full extent of what happened between her and Ezra, but it is clear she is struggling with her emotions. Her world has been shattered, not just by Ezra, but by the very revelation of what we are. She didn’t grow up in our world, Theron. The rules, the magic, the sheer overwhelming presence of it all is alien to her. And her connection to you, this primal need to be near you, to trust you, to be yours in a way she probably can’t even comprehend yet, will be profoundly confusing for her.”

Theron’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping violently in his cheek. His hands fisted at his sides, as if physically restraining himself from tearing something apart with his bare hands. The words were ripped from him, laced with a raw fury that barely simmered beneath the surface. “He made her fall in love with him then tried to kill her and steal her power,” he ground out, each syllable a jagged shard of ice. “He manipulated her, twisted her emotions until she was a pawn in his game. I know she needs space,” he acknowledged with a tight nod, though his gaze was distant, fixed on some unseen horizon where danger surely lurked, “but she also needs protection and guidance. She’s vulnerable, and I can’t just leave her to navigate this alone.”

My smile softened, though my voice remained firm, cutting through his defensiveness. “I am not denying that, Theron. She absolutely needs both. But if you keep up the way you are �" hovering, pushing, demanding answers or closeness she isn’t ready for �" you will end up pushing her away entirely. You’ll become just another overwhelming source, another force she feels she needs to escape.”

I paused, letting that sink in before delivering the blunt truth. “At least I understand why you are so out of depth, trying to navigate these delicate emotional waters. You’re a formidable Arithor Theron, but navigating the intricate dance of a wounded heart, especially one new to our kind… that’s not exactly listed among your many talents. You’re not exactly known for your social skills, are you?”

Theron flinched, a rare flicker of discomfort crossing his usually impassive features, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He hated being called out, but even he couldn't deny the truth of my words. “Let me know if you want me to talk to her. After everything Ben put me through I might be able to relate to her in a way noe one else can.”

“Thanks Anna” replied Theron quietly.