Back at her apartment, Cait listened to the sound of the shower starting in the distance before moving a chair to the closet and climbing up to root into the top shelf. She pulled down the leather-bound book and carried it to the kitchen table where she had her ingredients spread before her.

Rubbing a finger across the engraving of a pentagram on the front cover, she drew a deep, calming breath. The book was hers now. Not her mama’s. Not any of the witches in its long past.

Just like the rose quartz ball handed down the generations, the book came with mystical energy that transferred ownership to the next with a touch. The first time she’d sat at this table and read through the spells and stories her predecessors shared, she’d felt as though a part of their souls mingled with her own.

Not that she was suddenly as wise as Yoda. She was still herself, but with knowledge that was inborn and unawakened until she’d accepted the gift.

It was sudden knowledge she hadn’t mentioned to Sam because he wouldn’t understand. At times like these, when she was feeling reflective, she wished she had a friend in the magical world to talk to. Morin would have been the perfect choice if he hadn’t turned out to be no friend at all.

Maybe she was being harsh and more than a little bitter about how things had gone down. But the fact was her mother died because she’d wanted to sever both of their unnatural attractions for the man. Both she and Lorene had been seduced.

He’d played the soulful mentor, the reluctant lover, all in hopes of drawing her into his life and teaching her just enough to free him. Cait felt shame over falling for his act.

Her mother had figured out Morin’s motives but really should have told her. Lorene had forbidden a lust-addled seventeen-year-old girl from seeing a man Cait believed was her romantic destiny. Then Lorene had attempted a spell to break the bonds, only to accidentally poison herself in the process.

Out of grief and guilt, Cait had shunned Morin and magic. Turned her back on Celeste as well, because she’d wanted nothing of her old life. Instead, she’d submersed herself in her father’s, becoming a cop. Something she’d been good at until the voices got the best of her and she’d begun to drink to quiet them. Maybe they’d driven her a little crazy.

But she was back now. Ready to embrace the part of herself she’d so long denied.

She turned the pages until she found the summoning spell her mother had recorded all those years ago, after she’d attempted one last reunion with Cait’s father.

On this day, I summoned my husband from the dead. This spell is one I read about in Morin’s Book, but some of the ingredients had to be substituted because they are no longer commonly found.

Steep three strands of saffron in boiling water and set the strands and water aside to cool.

Add a tablespoon of gum arabic for thickening.

Pour a jigger of alcohol into the mixture and stir…

Alcohol, hell.

Cait bit the side of her lip and eyed the bathroom door, heard the water still trickling down, and hurried to the broom closet. At the bottom, behind the mop pail, she pulled out a small bottle of Glenfiddich scotch. One Sam had never found when he’d cleaned out all the booze.

She rushed to the table and tipped the bottle, splashing good scotch into her mother’s conjuring chalice. Back to the closet, she quickly hid the bottle, stopped to light incense on the counter to mask the odor, and then added the other ingredients.

The smell that rose as she swirled her mother’s athamé nearly had Cait bending to put her nose against the rim to breathe it in. The scent was beyond enticing.

Delicious. Bracing. Pulling memories from the farthest corners of her mind of a time when her mother had sat quietly beside her father, watching the television, while he’d sipped from an old Waterford highball glass he’d inherited from his Irish mother.

Scotch had been her drink because it had been her father’s.

The bathroom door opened and closed. Cait braced herself, wondering whether he’d detect the smell, and then feeling guilty as hell for trying to conceal the alcohol.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she set aside the blade and gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “Sam,” she called out.

He padded to the kitchen door, a towel around his lean hips. “Need something, Cait?”

His gaze resting on her was so calm, so steady, she couldn’t stand the suspense a moment longer.

“I have a bottle of scotch in the broom closet,” she blurted. “I needed a jigger for the spell.”

Sam’s expression remained unchanged. “Thanks for letting me know, sweetheart.” He turned and made his way back into the bedroom.

Her shoulders slumped. “That’s it?” she whispered to herself.

“I have to give trust to earn it, Cait,” he called from the other room.

She shook her head, oddly disappointed at the fact he seemed to be taking this all in stride. “You really are Superman if you heard that,” she muttered.

“Capes are for pansies.”

A gust of laughter surprised her. “Want to help me with the butterfly?”

“Sure. Let me get on some pants.”

“Don’t bother. Magic works best when you’re naked.”

“I’m not the one casting, Cait,” he said, wry humor roughening his voice.

“Oh, right.”

He appeared in the doorway again, sans towel. “But it would sure save time for when you finish.”

Cait grinned, surprised when his frame shimmered. She blinked and realized her eyes had filled. She swallowed hard against a dry throat.

“Dammit,” he said under his breath, then strode toward her, his arms opening.

She snuggled against his chest. “I’m sorry I hid it.”

“I know.” His hand cupped the back of her head. “But you told me. That’s something, Cait.”

She wrapped her arms around his back and rubbed her hands on his naked skin. “I love you. I’m trying.”

“I know.”

A kiss landed on her temple, and she turned her head toward his mouth, which gently pressed against hers. Arousal swirled in her belly, but she pushed it aside.

He growled. “Better get on with whatever it is you’re making.”

The reason for his surliness was trapped between their bodies, nudging at her belly. She smiled and leaned away. “Won’t take long. There’s a bell jar in the cabinet above the stove.”

“A bell jar?”

“A domed thingie with a handle on top. Need it for the butterfly.”

“That poor thing’s still in the cup?”

“He’ll be fine. The jar?”

With his cock fully erect and bobbing, he padded to the cupboard, which afforded her a very nice view of his back and bottom. Sam’s frame didn’t have an ounce of pudge. Everything was hard, ladders of muscles rippling between his shoulders and down his back as he reached for the jar. His ass made her sigh. Hard, round…

Hard, hard, hard kept repeating in her mind.

He turned and caught her ogling. A dark brow arched over wicked blue eyes. “Thought you were supposed to be naked.”

Well, that specification wasn’t written in her mama’s book, but Cait wasn’t above a little fibbing if it meant Sam would look at her the way she did at him. Her clothes melted away, and she kicked them to a corner. Laundry, she’d worry about later.

Naked as he, she held out her hands for the crystal, then nodded toward the cup. “Uncap the lid, but don’t let him out. Then hold it under the jar.”

She slid the jar across the tabletop, leaving a gap beneath where he held the cup, and slowly slid off the lid. The butterfly flew upward, and she slid the jar to close it against the wooden surface.

“What’s next?” Sam asked.

She quickly combined the saffron and the thickener with the alcohol, stirring with her fingers. The liquid turned a warm honey color.