Behind that, a long white drive stretched forward surrounded by plush grass and tall, swaying palms. Pretty. Except when you were on the wrong side of the gate. Sylvie rolled down her window, reached out gingerly for the intercom. Last time she tried to talk to Val, it had been all aversion magic and sparks and burned fingers. She steeled herself, hit the TALK button, and said, “Hey, Val, you home? I really need a face-to-face.” She waited for the sparks, the magical anger, the rejection; instead, the intercom buzzed and the gate pulled back with a rumble of gears. Sylvie put her car hastily into drive, headed up the long limestone driveway. She parked her truck, felt more than heard the massive front door open—a little gap in the protective cocoon of magics woven over the house. When she looked up, it wasn’t Val silhouetted in the doorway but Zoe. “Hey,” Zoe said. She seemed subdued. She’d been that way ever since Odalys had tried to erase her soul. “Glad you came.” “Yeah.”
