Black Soul White Heart Read online

  BLACK SOUL, WHITE HEART

  HAILEY EDWARDS

  Copyright © 2022 Black Dog Books, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Sasha Knight

  Copy Edited by Kimberly Cannon

  Proofread by Lillie's Literary Services

  Cover by Damonza

  Illustration by NextJenCo

  CONTENTS

  Black Soul, White Heart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Join the Team

  About the Author

  Also by Hailey Edwards

  BLACK SOUL, WHITE HEART

  Black Hat Bureau, Book 3.5

  Vonda Winterbourne is, sadly, a lady. Much to her regret. And her parents expect her to act like one. That includes marrying a nice white witch who can provide her safety, companionship, and all the comforts one could desire in their gilded cage.

  Hiram Nádasdy is no gentleman. He’s a black witch with a reputation that strikes terror in the hearts of his enemies. But not in the girl. No, the girl is fearless, reckless, and determined to know him. He ought to reveal the darkness lurking in his heart and scare her away before it’s too late, but he’s curious about her as well. And, frankly, he’s not sure it would work.

  Black witches don’t befriend white witches, and white witches don’t fall in love with black witches. They certainly don’t marry them.

  Or do they?

  1

  “I dare you.”

  Three words more delicious than fresh honey drizzled over crisp hoecakes on Sundays.

  But I promised Papa I would be good this week.

  Unlike last week.

  And the week before.

  And, possibly, the week before that too.

  “I dare you,” Megara sing-songed again. “Come on, Vonny.” She tugged my arm. “No one will ever know.”

  Meg was a terrible influence, an utter delight, an all-around terror, and my best friend in the world.

  “Except every customer who makes a purchase,” I said dryly. “No, Meg. I’m going to be good this week.”

  The family business, selling dried herbs and medicinal tinctures, tread close to a dangerous line. Witches made easy targets. Trading in what came naturally to us was akin to practicing our craft in the open. We got away with it because Papa was a talented physician operating in a town unlikely to attract another medical professional of his skill.

  And so, it became acceptable for the town doctor to grow a few herbs to supplement his supply. The townsfolk, ones too poor to pay for his services, were quite happy to buy his tinctures at market and avoid the consultation bill. They bought our medicines over the counter and thanked us for it.

  Hiding in plain sight, our coven was safe. But to draw attention to our unorthodox lifestyle was a risk that endangered us all. I had little doubt that was the reason Papa wanted me married by my next birthday. My nineteenth. He likely dreamed of the day I was another man’s headache.

  “I didn’t want to do this,” Meg lied with a wolfish smile. “I dare you.”

  A groan ripped through me, but it couldn’t mask the thrill zinging up my spine.

  The witch blood in me ensured I couldn’t ignore a thrice-asked question without sharp prickles breaking across my skin. A dare was and wasn’t a question. Interpretation was up to me. Which meant…

  “Fine.” I reached for my bodice. “Help me out of my corset, and I’ll wear John’s new suit to market.”

  My brother would tar and feather me if he caught me, but I wasn’t afraid, one of my worst faults.

  Of which there were many.

  But that one, oh how it kept my parents up at night.

  The wildness in my blood explained the kinship with my best friend, a warg, and the fear Momma voiced daily about having a spinster on her hands if she didn’t match me while I was young and malleable. As if I were a lump of clay wanting for a man’s hands to mold me into his ideal shape.

  White witches could blend into society better, but there were rules.

  I hated rules.

  To marry a mortal was to risk heartbreak when they died within a century. To marry a witch was to condemn us to a nomadic lifestyle to better conceal our true natures. Which was the lesser evil?

  Both my parents were witches, but Papa had thin blood. Hence his decision to provide a respectable cover for his wife and children, who couldn’t pretend to be anything other than what we were—magic.

  “You’re so devious,” Meg praised me. “How did God cram your feral soul into a witch’s body?”

  “I was meant to be a warg,” I agreed. “I ought to have fangs and claws and fur. Not blasted petticoats.”

  Meg, the lucky devil, wore her hair cut short and dressed as a boy every day. A wealthy boy. An entitled boy. The freedom it gave her to move around without a chaperone, without attracting the male gaze, without fear of revealing her family’s true natures, must have been about the best thing I could imagine.

  Aside from her enrollment in law school, which promised her the ability to generate income. Her own income. Money that would sit in her bank account and enable her to live her life how she saw fit.

  “Pity the old wives’ tales aren’t true.” Meg stripped me out of my gown with disconcerting ease, leaving me to wonder what other freedoms she partook of as a boy. “I would bite you in a heartbeat.”

  “We could run away together.” I clutched her hands. “Can you imagine?”

  “Live as wolves, howl at the moon, hunt for our food, bite any hand that would tame us.”

  It was our oldest dream, first dreamt when we were children, and it had never lost its appeal.

  “You would never leave your pack.” I forced myself to admit the truth. “You would never leave school.”

  “Meg wishes she could run, but I built Charles Beanington from scratch.” Meg gestured to herself. “He has a life in town, and obligations.” She released me. “Besides, you’re safer here, with your family.”

  As a white witch, I’d had a nemesis from birth: the black witch.

  White witches had little in the way of power, for the most part, but some bloodlines, like Momma’s, were potent. For that reason, black witches hunted us, ripped out our hearts, and ate them to devour our magic. My coven was lucky. No. That wasn’t it. My coven was cautious. We hadn’t been hunted in my lifetime, and Papa aimed to keep it that way.

  “Hurry up,” I fussed at her, eager to change the subject, “before John gets home.”

  A half hour later, I wore a dark jacket with tight trousers, a white shirt, a checked vest, and an elaborate necktie in an even bolder pattern. John and I were of a similar build, both tall and lean. His clothes fit me well enough, but his shoes were boats on my feet that required four pairs of socks to keep them from sailing away without me.

  “You make a passable man.” Meg snickered. “Your breasts and John’s are of a size.”

  With a deft hand, she twisted my hair on top of my head then crammed on a fashionable hat.

  “Mock all you like.” I sniffed. “You likely stunted my growth with all the
coffee you smuggle me.”

  “I might bring temptation to you, but you could refuse it.”

  “You know temptation and I are in a longstanding relationship.”

  A door opened and then shut below us, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to hold in a nervous giggle.

  “Vonny?” John called up the staircase. “Momma and Papa expect the stall to open at—”

  “I’m aware,” I yelled back, ladylike as you please. “Thank you for the reminder, brother dear.”

  After the tease slipped past my lips, I bit my tongue, but it was too late.

  “What are you up to, Howl?”

  The use of my childhood nickname—all Meg’s fault, by the way—warned me against doing whatever I was about to do.

  “Nothing,” I swore with impressive vehemence. “What are you implying?”

  “You never call me brother dear except as a reminder that you love me before you do something dreadful.” He hesitated. “That I will usually be blamed for.”

  The heavy thud of his feet on the stairs set my heart racing.

  “The back stairs.” Meg shoved me out into the hall. “The servants’ quarters.”

  Our lifelong friendship had imprinted a map of my house, and its various escape routes, onto her brain.

  “Right.” I freed the smile tugging at my lips. “Georgie will cover for us.”

  Feet slapping the hardwood as I skidded around the corner in my borrowed shoes, I slid into the wall and groped for the doorknob leading to the first-floor accommodations our hired help called home. I made it down one flight of stairs before Georgie stuck her head out of her room and set eyes on us.

  “What in tarnation are you up to now, miss?”

  Not much shocked Georgie, our cook, and most of that was my fault, I imagine. Long years of working in a house with a tiny hellion like myself had her more curious of my scheme than scandalized by my dress.

  “Nothing too obscene, I promise.”

  “That’s a lie, bold as brass.” The old woman kissed my cheek as I breezed past. “I’ll hold off John.”

  “I always knew I was your favorite.” I glanced behind me. “Love you, Georgie.”

  “Love you too, Howl.” The cook smacked Meg on the arm. “Keep that girl out of trouble, you cad.”

  “Now, Georgie.” She flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Where would the fun be in that?”

  “Vonny.”

  A boom filled John’s voice, almost convincing me he was Papa, and I put on a fresh burst of speed.

  Side by side, Meg and I exploded out the side door and into the cool morning, laughing and wheezing as we sprinted toward the market.

  2

  The girl was late.

  The girl was always late.

  But today, the girl had yet to show, and it left Hiram…unsettled in a most unsettling way.

  He had watched the Winterbourne stall for hours, but three boys worked it today. Two were familiar. Charles Beanington often acted as an escort for the girl. John Winterbourne, who spent most of his time in medical school, had stepped in to help. Perhaps to train the third boy, who had yet to raise his head?

  Three boys were required to do the work of one girl.

  Where is the girl?

  None of his business. It wasn’t his concern where Amalthea Winterbourne had gone. Though the presence of Charles in the family stall, and her absence, painted a vivid picture of a possibility that left him cold. Had Charles proposed? He and Amalthea were young, but they were inseparable. Their eldest sibling, Rebecca, had quit the business when she became engaged, but her beau was wealthy in his own right. Perhaps Charles, who was in law school, would be dependent upon Amalthea’s family to fund the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed until he passed the bar.

  The idea of the girl being used for her familial connections left a bitter taste in Hiram’s mouth, but it wasn’t his concern.

  Despite his habit of walking downtown to market on Wednesdays, when the girl was guaranteed to work alone, he tended to make his purchases from her family on Fridays, when he was only required to interact with John. Mood darkening, he decided to pick up his parcel early and be done with this ridiculous infatuation that spiraled further and further out of his control with each passing day.

  Teeth gritted against his own folly, he prowled to the Winterbourne booth, waiting for John to notice.

  “How can I help you?” the new boy asked in an alto voice. “We have fresh herbs, tinctures, teas—”

  “John,” Hiram spoke over the hireling. “I’ll take my order today, if you can manage it.”

  The young man jerked at his voice then cleared his throat. “Of course, sir.”

  “A special order?” The boy glanced after John’s retreating back. “Do you need any help?”

  “No, V—” John pinched his lips together. “Howl, stay here with Charles.”

  Howl?

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Charles vowed with a wink. “You’ll behave for me, won’t you, Howl?”

  “Like an angel,” Howl promised, his voice as soft as his hands. “I’ll polish my halo until you return.”

  “Who are you?”

  Hiram hadn’t meant to ask, but the question felt wrenched from his dark soul.

  “Charles Beanington.” The young fop stuck out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Not you.” Ignoring his hand, Hiram compounded his error by demanding of the boy, “I meant you.”

  “What business is it of yours?” Howl kept his eyes downcast, but Hiram doubted it was in submission. “Names are for social transactions, not financial ones.”

  “You have a sharp tongue.” Hiram ground his molars. “I’m surprised Mr. Winterbourne hired you.”

  A snort blasted out of Howl’s nose, and even Charles smiled, as if mocking Hiram for not getting the joke.

  “Do I amuse you?” His earlier foul mood redoubled until he saw red. “Perhaps I ought to withdraw my patronage from the Winterbournes’ establishment.”

  That sobered them quick enough, though a stall in a market was hardly an establishment. It was a cover, he knew. A way of blending in, of belonging. A store would call more attention to the family, and no white witch coven wanted to draw notice.

  And none had ever survived attracting his eye.

  He and his coven ought to have dined on the Winterbournes weeks ago, but when Hiram went hunting for his first victim, he found the girl.

  Amalthea Winterbourne.

  Vonny to her friends.

  Hellion to her family.

  And a deadly intrigue to him.

  3

  Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your opinions to yourself.

  That was the warning John greeted me with after the horror of my appearance sank in.

  But this patron made it hard to obey him, and besides, I had never been good at obedience. Still, I was in quite enough trouble, thank you very much, without compounding it by costing the family money.

  “I heard a rumor,” the stranger continued on, as if he had every right to ask whatever he pleased, “that the Winterbournes will soon have cause to celebrate.” He lifted a sprig of rosemary from a bin and twirled it between his fingers, releasing its bright scent. “A wedding, I believe.”

  “You’re mistaken.” I was grateful for it too. “The Winterbournes aren’t expecting the family to swell anytime soon.”

  Not until my next birthday, which was months away, thank the goddess.

  Time enough for one gasp of freedom before a wedding vow choked the oxygen from my lungs.

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” he allowed. “Except I heard mention of Charles and the girl.” The way he said the girl, as if it pained him to ask after her, perked my interest. “Amalthea.”

  But then his meaning sank in, and Meg and I burst into laughter, clutching our stomachs and whooping at the mental picture. Our families were tolerant, far more lenient than most, but even they might arch an eyebrow should I decide to wed Meg wh
ile she maintained the guise of a man.

  Though, now that I thought about it, what better way was there to secure both our futures? I would be granted the independence of a married woman, and she would be validated as a virile man with a wife at home. Our covers would be secure with one another, no need to explain messy details like witch or warg to any future lovers.

  Hmm.

  Perhaps I ought to consider being a lawyer’s wife.

  “I’m single, I assure you.” Meg wiped tears off her cheeks. “I love Amalthea, I do, but as a sister.”

  “There’s nothing romantic between you,” he pressed, voice coarse as shale. “You’re only friends?”

  Unable to curb my tongue, I heard the question as if someone else had asked it. “Why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” he said, cold seeping into his tone. “She doesn’t.”

  Temptation and I were on a first-name basis, and I caved to the desire to know this man’s face, the better to imagine smashing my fist into his jaw for his impertinence.

  I raised my head, locked gazes with him, and an exhale punched out of him as if I had indeed struck him.

  His eyes were chocolate brown, the bitter kind requiring a connoisseur’s palate to appreciate. But his hair was golden, curled in natural ringlets, and might have saved him from appearing so severe, had his mouth not gotten involved. His lips were cruel slashes across his face, matching the words he flung like daggers eager to draw blood.

  For all his talk of the girl, he was my age. A boy. On the cusp of a life in his sole control. I envied him that. Just as I envied Meg. But today’s rebellion had taught me for certain I was a failure as a man. I had been left to my skirts and corsets for too long.

  I moved wrong. I spoke wrong. I even gestured wrong.