Soren
I’ve never been a fan of witches. I don’t trust them, and they smell strange. They don't smell like shifters do. They smell like… their potions and herbs, with the underlying metallic scent of magic permeating the air around them.
I tend to steer clear of them even though it's nearly impossible living in a place like Moonrise, their mecca.
Now, it’s completely impossible. The ancient stone cottage built in a grove of cottonwood trees tilts to the side, one corner sinking slowly into the soil over the decades. Four witches rush around the main room of the house, speaking in low tones as they grind herbs and toss them into a cauldron, all while I guard the doorway leading into the room where Maeve is prostate on a cot, covered in thick quilts stuffed with goose down, a fire blazin
