Wes picked up the package and peeled back the sealed flap. He peered inside, then a grin lit his face. “Mom must really like you. Last time she worked a charm for me, she put it on a big, gaudy necklace I ended up having to wear for three weeks. This is much better. Hold out your hand.”
I did as he asked. He upended the package and a small signet ring fell into my hand. I gave it a cautious once-over, but it appeared harmless. It was actually really nice—small and thin, neither feminine nor masculine, with a stylized “P” in the center.
“Put it on,” Wes encouraged.
I eyed him for a moment. Then, with shaking hands, I slid it onto the ring finger of my left hand. A perfect fit. And the moment I had it all the way flush to my knuckle, a jolt of power zinged up my arm. I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut. But just as quickly as it had come, it disappeared.
“It was my grandfather’s,” Wes said, his tone full of reverence.