The Windhaven Witches Omnibus Edition : Complete Paranormal Suspense Series, Books 1-4 by Carissa Andrews (graded readers txt) 📕

He might be skeptical at first, but I’m fairly certain I can convince him to at least go out to dinner with me. Taking a final deep breath, I shift into park and pull the keys from the ignition. Before I can talk myself out of it, I exit the vehicle and make my way up to the front door.

My nerves are going wild, and I feel excited and jittery as I lift my hand and knock on the door. Shuffling on the front step, I pull my jacket in tighter and wait. On the other side of the door, I can hear movement as someone makes their way to answer.

Dropping my shoulders and lifting my chin, I plaster on a smile and wait.

The locks on the other side clink and the door opens. My gaze drops a foot down as I stare into the big brown eyes of a little girl who can’t be more than eight years old. She blows back the bangs of her jet-black hair with a sideways puff.

“Can I help you?” she says, pulling the door in tight and eyeing me with suspicion.

My mouth is suddenly dry, but I nod and lick my lower lip. “Yes, is—is this the Hoffman residence?” I ask.

“Who is it, dear?” a woman says, walking up behind the little girl. She has the same brown eyes, but her hair is peppered with gray. Her eyebrows raise as I come into view. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“She’s wondering about the Hoffman family,” the little girl says.

The mother’s dark eyes soften, filling with empathy as she says, “Oh, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this. Mr. Hoffman passed away not long ago.”

My heart skips a beat and I inhale sharply. “Do you know which Hoffman? What was his first name?”

“William, I think?” the woman says, narrowing her eyes as she thinks.

I nod, relieved to hear it’s not Wade. “I see. You don’t happen to have a number to reach the family, do you?”

The little girl takes the moment to slip under her mother’s arm and meander away. The woman takes her daughter’s spot, grabbing onto the edge of the door. Shaking her head, she says, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. You could try checking with the realty company, though. We used Mistwood Point Realty. I’m sure they’d have someone on record.”

Fighting back my disappointment, I attempt a smile. “Okay, thank you. I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem. I wish I could have done more,” she says, shooting me a quick smile and closing the door.

Turning from the door, I make my way back to my SUV and hop inside. My pulse has softened, but it still beats loudly in my ears. While I might have another lead with the realty office, they won’t be open until Monday at the earliest.

So, for now, I’m no closer to finding Wade than I was before.

Putting the vehicle into reverse, I make my way to the one place where I can collect my thoughts without feeling judged. I drive into the cemetery, making my way through the large loop of the newer section and parking in front of the iron gate that marks the older section.

I park, twisting the key from the ignition. For a moment, I sit there, staring at the old headstones beyond the gate. My thoughts tussle back and forth, vying for some sort of peace I know I won’t be able to find. Not even here.

Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grab my hat and tug it on my head. I leave the shelter of the SUV and make my way through the gate and into the older section, where the history rolls off of it in beautiful waves. I can feel the serenity in this place as I connect more fully to my natural gifts and the sacred space itself.

My feet crunch in the freshly fallen snow and already I can feel the tips of my toes getting cold. Yet, I can’t seem to bring myself to turn around. Instead, I find myself sitting down in front of the grave of Charlotte. Her monolithic headstone is a testament to the beauty and care we used to put into memorial monuments.

Raising a gloved hand, I trace the decorative symbol above her name. It almost looks like a snake eating its own tail, but the clarity of it has worn off with age, so it’s hard to be sure. I stare at it, trying to place why something about it resonates within me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a man’s voice says from behind me. I hadn’t even heard him approach.

Adrenaline races through my system and I spin around, coming face to face with Wade’s father.

“You,” I breathe, unable to make my brain form a more intelligent sentence.

His silver eyes flash as he smiles. “And you,” he says.

“You’re alive?” I say, trying to process what I’m seeing.

He shakes his head, smirking. “Well, not exactly. But I exist, so there’s that.”

“So, you’re still the Angel of Death?” I say, standing up and brushing off the snow from my jeans.

He clasps his hands in the front of his body and nods. “Indeed.”

My words cling to my throat as the beat of my pulse picks up. “And Wade?”

His face darkens slightly, and he holds the crook of his arm out. “Walk with me?”

I exhale a jagged breath and loop my arm through his.

“What you did was extraordinary, Autumn,” the Angel of Death says, leading me through the various headstones to the slightly less snow-covered sidewalk.

My gaze falls, and I hope he’s not leading me to a headstone I don’t want to see.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, unable to hide the worry in my voice.

“I disagree. Things are as they should be now,” he says, shooting me a sideways glance.

“What does that mean?” I ask, wondering if he means that I’m no