Strega (Strega Series) Read Online Free Page A

Max's that night, sparing him from having to do everything with one arm. She'd texted me earlier, reminding me that I was more than welcome to come crash there. Max's place was technically her place too. She unofficially moved in with him that summer, even though most of her stuff still lived at her dad's house in Amesbury. I declined. I could handle being alone, I convinced myself.
    Ruth and Jack's house was old—a historical relic from 1723. They were both historians and fell in love with the old charm of the place. It had too much space for just the two of them. They occupied the west side of the house, which was a roomy two floors. My bedroom was upstairs, just down the hall from theirs. We shared a freshly tiled bathroom with an antique soaking tub that I used almost every night. The guest room where Rena had been staying for the past few nights was around the bend. Otherwise neat and tidy, the room was strewn with a ten-day supply of Rena's clothes and shoes, and it looked like a bomb had gone off inside.
    In the hallway between our rooms, display cases were filled with unique historical items, and shelves were chock full of history books that beckoned me. I perused them and grabbed a new book each night as I waited for the tub to fill up with warm, soapy water. I loved history, arguably as much as Ruth and Jack did, and their house was my own personal candy store.
    From as far back as I could recall, the east side of the house was always rented to tenants. But the last tenants moved out almost six months before, and the space was still empty. For the first time, I wished it wasn't.
    Several beautifully tended acres in the backyard seemed to go on forever, stretching into the vast preservation land beyond the property line. In the late summer mornings, as the sun started to peek over the horizon, deer approached the far side of the stone wall that separated the tightly manicured lawn and garden from the wild landscape beyond it. The garden's plethora of greens drew them in. As autumn approached, the crisp mornings brought families of wild turkeys. Each morning as I made my coffee, I watched for my winged friends through the wide bay window above the kitchen sink.
    Minutes passed on the clock as night slowly crawled toward dawn. I texted Rena, asking her to call me. Though I hoped she would, I knew she was already asleep and wouldn't get the message until morning. Before I sunk into the sofa for the night, I turned on every light in the living room, kitchen, and hallway, closed all the curtains and blinds, and dug my aluminum baseball bat out of the hall closet. My stomach turned as I thought of the predator I'd led straight to my doorstep.
    Every few minutes I'd peek around the curtain to survey the street and the front steps. To my relief, nobody was there. The rain had stopped, but lightning continued to strike and illuminate the dark night sky. It was the only thing that brought me comfort. I loved lightning. Mom said the night she was in labor with me, it was unremitting. She was convinced it was the reason I was so drawn to it. When I was small, I'd stand on the porch during warm summer storms just to watch the lightning tear down from the sky and touch the earth, casting its light on everything for miles.
    Three flames danced atop the thick candle on the coffee table. As hours passed, the pool of dark purple wax grew wider until finally it broke free and cascaded over the edge. Between surges of fear and adrenaline, waves of exhaustion tempted me to drift to sleep. But sleep was the one thing I couldn't do. As terrifying as my dreams were, they paled in comparison to the very real nightmare that had walked into my life that night. Somebody made not of shadows but of flesh and blood was after me, and for all I knew he was lurking outside, waiting for an opportunity to get in.
    I made myself a cup of tea, obsessively looking over my shoulder until I returned to the sofa. I bundled myself in a blanket, shivering with