The Colorful Witch

DELILAH

“God, you’d think you were the Queen of Siberia, not the queen of a pack of mutts,” the female on my bed groaned.

She was a dark stain against the pale yellow comforter, her leg hanging loosely off the side of the bed.

She looked to be maybe eighteen. Her hair was pitch black, as was the majority of her attire.

Honestly, she looked like one of those knockoff girls from a cheesy witch novel—with fishnets, black gloves, black nail polish, and black lace-up boots.

A witchy little goth brat—one with odd taste in art, since there were several new paintings now hanging in my room.

Most of them were boring scenes of country houses that looked like something you might find in your grandmother’s home.

There was a cup of paintbrushes on my nightstand, yet I couldn’t spot paint anywhere.

What kind of witch was this?

“It’s been a busy couple of days,” I murmured as my eyes finally settled on her.

She didn’t make a move to get up, but instead continued to lounge on my bed, putting her hands behind her head.

She blew a pink bubble, then popped it only to pull it all back into her mouth and continue chewing.

“You know, for the Grand Witch of the Americas, you look pretty boring to me.”

I furrowed my brows in confusion. There was no Grand Witch of the Americas. “Excuse me?”

She waved a hand, sitting up. “A possibility. Of course, the future is all about choice. Now, for the reason I’m here.”

She climbed off the bed and went over to a large, rectangular bag I recognized as an artist’s bag—the boxy kind for keeping paints and sketches in—that now rested against the dresser where my bags had been.

She unzipped it, pulled out a large canvas, and laid it on the bed. “Is that you?”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

In the image, my hair was splayed out, and I held two infants in my arms.

The mark—still unfaded from the lack of being fully mated—was glaring on my bare chest, at least what wasn’t covered by the infants.

The scene wasn’t one of serenity. It was one of death.

The portrait had my exact image on it, down to tiny, exquisite details—my lashes going from dark to honey-light at the ends, the gold and red highlights in my hair.

I lay surrounded by parsley and rosemary.

Death. This was my death.

The death of my mates, as well?

Or the death of my children?

“How can you paint the future so clearly? How can this be real?” I asked, trying to rein in my anger and fear.

I didn’t dare touch the portrait.

She shrugged.

“Right now, I can’t paint worth a damn, but in the future? After my deal with the Fae, past and present seem to hit me together like a bag of rocks.

“It can make it a bit difficult to function. Seeing people that are part-Fae tends to make it a lot easier, though.”

“I’m not Fae. If you didn’t paint this, how did you get it?” I said shortly, crossing my arms. “You have to be mistaken.”

“I meant your wolves. I had to find the only pack run by two alphas, which is an oddity in itself. The fact that they can jump into trees is probably just written off as a wolf trait.”

She sighed and took the picture back from me, shoving it into her bag. “Assuming they can’t jump into trees, then that just means I have the wrong person.”

“What?” I asked, confusion furrowing my brows.

“Your wolves?” She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hello, how else can two alphas manage to live under the same roof, running the same pack?

“It’s the chaotic energy of Fae magic to do things that are one with nature, and yet are considered unnatural.”

She looked at me. “You may have been imbued with some of that power, but your wolves are Fae. It’s just another way for their kind to secure their bloodline. It happens all the time.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand. Cole and Seth’s mother was mated to the alpha of this pack. There’s no way that she’d—”

“Sleep with a Fae? You’d be surprised. They keep meddling in our world to secure bloodlines and portals, and to ensure that their gifts get passed on. These two are just a prime example of that.”

She straightened, frowning. “Look, I’m here because it’s my gift to tell you what’s going to happen if you don’t get turned into a wolf. There’s a war coming that the Fae are trying to prevent.”

Her eyes widened. “And it puts me, you, and even your cousin Tatiana at risk. So now, you can either be a victim, or you can help protect us all.”

“My cousin? How do you know about my cousin?”

The little goth girl smiled a bit. “Who doesn’t know the famous Poison Princess, now that she’s gone public and given up her gifts? You do realize you’re only marginally related, right?”

I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. “This war…what kind of war is coming? I haven’t heard anything.”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, pulling down several paintings and shoving them into the canvas bag.

“All I know is that it’s major and you need to be able to shift into a wolf. Otherwise, this half of the world isn’t going to fare so well.”

She must have had a spell on the bag, since it didn’t bulge or look as if she had put anything in it at all. She pulled down the rest of the paintings and put them in her bag as well.

“How does me turning into a wolf have anything to do with—”

“You’ll be stronger. We both know it’s not hard to kill a witch if you really set your mind to it—all it takes is one spell that they didn’t prepare for. Your mother had hundreds of years of experience.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Being a wolf gives you an advantage. Why else would it be so taboo to mate with a wolf?” she asked, wiggling her brows as if she found me somehow impressive.

“I still don’t understand how you know all of this,” I scoffed as she walked over to the counter and began picking up paintbrushes.

“We both know magic doesn’t always make sense, even to its user,” the goth girl said, dumping the paintbrushes into the bag before putting a foot inside.

“I have to get going. Next time I visit, make sure your mutts let me in.”

At those words, she put her other foot in the bag and disappeared inside—the bag folding in on itself again and again before winking out of existence as well.