Moonset

down.”

He shrugged. “We’re in New York, I know that much. Upstate somewhere, I think.”

“Any idea where they’re taking us?”

“No clue,” he said. “Maine, maybe? Canada?”

Either was a possibility. I overheard Cole and Bailey’s excited chatter, discussing the exact same thing. Bailey was hoping for New York City (which would never happen), and Cole was hoping for a ski lodge, even though he’d never skied a day in his life. As it turned out, Mal was right, and we were closer to our destination that any of us expected.

Half an hour in the car with Jenna and Quinn played out in relative silence. We were definitely in New York: signs heading back the way we came promised arrival in Syracuse, Buffalo, and even New York City.

We alternated between highways that skirted Lake Ontario and back roads that probably hadn’t seen real traffic in a year or more. But eventually, the back roads led to an actual city, and ten minutes after that, a sign appeared, welcoming us to Carrow Mill.

The town doubled as a Hallmark movie set. Small town, lots of churches. Even a Main Street with an ancient green-tinged light pole in the center of a roundabout. Everything moved at a snail’s pace, but at least it could properly be called a town. Byron was a whole lot of farmland with a few houses in between. Carrow Mill was what they meant when they said “small town

America.”

“So this must be a nice change of pace,” I said to Quinn while we waited at one of the traffic lights. “Big change from D.C.”

The supernatural America, much like the natural one, had headquartered itself in the capital.

When it came time for the Witchers to be trained, programs had been quietly set up right in the political world’s backyard. The political covens wanted to prevent another Moonset, and many of them oversaw the training personally.

Normally, our guardians were a little older—rarely old enough to pass as our parents, but still old enough that they weren’t so immature themselves. But we’d never had a Witcher for a guardian.

I wanted to get him talking, maybe get some insight on what we could expect. But all Quinn did was give a little half-shrug.

“Did we ever thank you for saving us?” I tried. Jenna, who was checking her makeup in the passenger mirror, met my glance and pointedly rolled her eyes.

“That’s the job,” Quinn said noncommittally. “See the world, fight monsters.”

“Throw your charge into the line of fire?” I supplied.

“I figured better you than Jenna or Cole,” he said. “Your psych profile made you the best option. Plus, chivalry and all that.”

“I don’t think chivalry covers the undead,” Jenna interjected frostily. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Neanderthal.”

I could hear the smirk in Quinn’s voice, even if I couldn’t see it. “You don’t really know enough about anything to pin me down.”

“Wait, there’s a psych profile on me? I want to know what it says.” The idea that they’d been studying me, taking notes about my behavior without my knowledge ran across my skin like a steady stream of spiders.

Having a Witcher down the hall made me uncomfortable. Having a Witcher down the hall who had been studying our psyches made it even worse. What did he know about us? Did they know something we don’t?

“I’m sure you do,” Quinn said, “but now’s not the time.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re here,” he said cheerfully.

We turned down onto a closed street, pulling into a driveway just short of a cul-de-sac.

“Welcome to student housing,” Quinn continued, getting an odd level of enjoyment out of this.

“The Congress owns all the houses on the street, so we’re splitting you all up like normal.

We’re on this side of the street, and the other three on the other.”

Keeping five kids in the same house stopped being healthy back before all of us had reached double digits. Cole was too hyper, Mal too easily annoyed, Bailey too needy. No one ever really questioned it, because aside from our guardians and the witches who knew who we were, we never talked about it. Didn’t invite people over to our houses, never brought it up. It was one of the many things about our lives that was just too hard for normal kids to understand.

“They own the whole street?” Jenna asked, her nose wrinkling up. “How many kids do they have here?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I’m just in charge of you two.”

I eyed Quinn, who was still all smiley. “You don’t like answering questions, do you?”

“Don’t I?”

Before I could reply, I got a look at our house.

“There’s been some sort of mistake,” Jenna said faintly. We couldn’t look away. Our house was basically the flaming wreckage of a freeway pileup. Well, it wasn’t on fire, but it probably should have been.

“No mistake,” Quinn said, hopping out of the driver’s seat. “Welcome home.”

“It’s some sort of practical joke,” I said weakly. “Right?”

Christmas had come to Carrow Mill, and it had vomited all over our house. I’d seen outside decorations for the holidays before, but never this many. And I definitely hadn’t seen them all in one place.

Not one, but two giant pine trees were decked out with strings of lights stretched taller than the house itself. I counted five different Santas perched around the property, competing with two nativity scenes (although the scene itself was life-sized with its own fully decorated stables), reindeer, wreaths, and a giant sleigh on the roof. And about fifteen miles of Christmas lights decking out every surface they could find.

“Do you think it all lights up?” she whispered.

I could only stare. “Bright enough to be seen from space.”

Quinn unlocked the front door. “Nice, right?” His enthusiasm didn’t hide the mockery underneath. The bastard was enjoying this.

“This is a joke, right?” Jenna asked as we walked up to the front door.

“Just think of it as a little welcome gift,” Quinn said. “In honor of all the hard work that landed you here.” Without another word, or any more mockery, he vanished inside the house, leaving the door open.

“Oh,” Jenna said.

The part of me that wanted to snicker was strangled by the overwhelming embarrassment at having to live in a house that looked like a Christmas village.

She covered her mouth with a hand. “We’re being punished.”

“You’re being punished. I’m being punished by proxy.”

Jenna took a moment, studying the street we were now calling home. “We’re the only house with decorations,” she pointed out.

Most people didn’t know how to deal with Jenna. Sure she was stubborn, occasionally hostile, and had a sixth sense for finding trouble, but she didn’t deal well with embarrassment.

I was pretty sure that Quinn had already picked up on that. And that he was the one responsible for the holiday decorations.

At least the inside of the house was Christmas free. For now, I figured. The furnishings were sparse but livable—all of our homes and apartments over the years had a certain “long-term housing” quality. All the basics were there—tables, chairs, couches, TVs. But there weren’t any personal touches anywhere. No pictures, no collectible figurines, no wacky color palettes.

The house could be filled and vacated with a minimum of effort, ready for the next inhabitant.

That was how it worked for most of us.

Witch children weren’t like most kids. Minor enchantments are taught to kids who aren’t even old enough to attend school. It isn’t until later, in the early teen years, that aptitudes and talents start to emerge. At that point, most witches are moved from their homes to places where they can hone their particular gifts. Thus the need for temporary housing like this.

It wasn’t an entirely infallible system, though. The five of us were the exception—grouped together in one