Free Fiery Nights by Lisa Carlisle Page A

I’ve been trying to find out for years.”
    We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Are
you the only ones who are, you know, like you?”
    “What do you mean, Maya? Are there other witches?”
    I nodded. Witches seemed an odd word to use, especially for
the hot guy next to me.
    “Yes, there are others. Not as many as there once were, but
we’re still around. In fact—”
    He stopped and didn’t continue so I prodded. “In fact what?”
    “Never mind.”
    Now when people say things like never mind , it just
makes me all the more curious. Don’t start a sentence unless you’re going to
finish it, I say.
    “No, please continue,” I said politely, even though I was
itching to know the truth and wanted to just shout Tell me now! “You
were going to tell me something.”
    He hesitated before he spoke again. “I was just going to say
how I thought you might be like us. Maybe your family or something. Because I
can definitely sense something different about you. Why else would I see you in
a light?”
    “Sorry, Tristan. I’m not a witch.”
     
    We drove past the touristy witch attractions and on along
the Atlantic, and then took a left onto a quiet residential street. We drove
for a few more minutes until we reached a Tudor house with a historical marker
on it. Even though it was a modest New England size, not ostentatiously large,
it still emanated class and old-world charm.
    He held my hand as he led me up the stone walkway and into
the foyer. I looked around to see large oil paintings on the walls and small
statues on pedestals. Statues? Nobody I knew had statues in their
houses, especially the firefighters.
    “Tristan, dear,” a woman with a striking gray-white bob
said, wrapping him in a warm embrace. She turned to me. “You must be Maya,” and
she surprised me by hugging me as well.
    “Yes. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone.”
    “Please, call me Isabella,” she said, and then pulled back
to look at me as if trying to understand something.
    How much had Tristan told her about me?
    Isabella said, “Come, let’s sit in the courtyard. It’s not
often we can take advantage of that in November, but the weather has been mild
this year.” She led us through a dining room with more paintings and a very old
and expensive-looking table. She opened French doors into a lush garden filled
with gorgeous red foliage on dwarf Japanese maples and brilliant red bushes.
    We sat down at a black wrought-iron table set. No sooner
than I had pulled my chair in than a middle-aged woman approached carrying a
tray with a teapot and fancy china teacups and some cookies.
    “Thank you, Charlotte,” Isabella said.
    Charlotte smiled. “Anything else, Mrs. Stone?”
    “No thank you. This is lovely.”
    Charlotte disappeared. I was more of a coffee drinker
myself, but this fancy setting reminded me of one of those posh restaurants
serving high tea or a scene from Alice in Wonderland .
    What the heck is high tea anyway?
    Getting back to the here and now, I added two spoonfuls of
sugar and tons of cream to my tea. Just as we had all poured and prepared the
tea to our liking, a man approached. He bore such a resemblance to Tristan that
I did a double-take.
    My surprise was clearly registered on my face as Isabella
said, “Tristan takes after his father as you can see.”
    My mouth had dropped, I realized, but I quickly recovered
and replaced my surprised look with a pleasant smile.
    He’s Tristan’s father, for crissake, get a hold of
yourself. Make a good first impression.
    He had the same tall frame with broad shoulders, but his
appeared to have softened with age. His face was so similar to Tristan’s that I
thought I was viewing Tristan in twenty-five years with gray around the
temples.
    Me likey the distinguished Stone look.
    Whereas Tristan wore his hair longer, his father kept his
close-cropped, almost a military cut.
    “Maya, this is my father, Eric Stone. Dad, this is Maya.” He
turned to me. “Wait, Maya,