Chapter 48
Chapter
Forty-Eight
Donovan’s cabin looks much like mine did, in the cursory inspection I gave it when I dropped off my baggage. The walls are exposed logs, and the living area is one large, open space. To my left is a small galley kitchen, straight ahead is a bathroom, and to the right is a writing desk, a stone fireplace that takes up an entire wall, and a queen-sized bed covered in a homey patchwork quilt. Donovan’s navy duffel bag sits patiently beside it, a dog awaiting the return of its master.
He locks the door behind us. Silence falls, broken only by our harsh breathing, the drip of water from our clothes onto the hardwood floor, and the renewed chattering of my teeth.
There are two towels stacked on the desk. Donovan hands one to me, then kneels and pulls some folded clothes from his duffel. “Here,” he says, thrusting them in my direction. “Sweats. They’re much too big, but at least you’ll be warm.”
At this point, I wouldn’t care if he’d handed me a muumuu. Muttering my thanks, I take the clothes and flee for the bathroom. My last sight is of Donovan pulling off his shirt, which falls to the ground with a splat. Even in these dire circumstances, I can’t help but notice how toned he is, and the V of muscle that leads to his?—
No, Rune. Down, girl. Look away.
I shut the bathroom door behind me with a mingled sense of relief and regret. Then I lean against it, shivering, trying not to think about how the man I shouldn’t sleep with under any circumstances is getting naked on the other side. I’ve never needed stress relief so badly in my life, but this is not the time—and he is not the man. “Not going to happen,” I say aloud. “Focus.”
“Did you say something?” Donovan calls, too close to the door for comfort. “If the clothes don’t work, I could give you a different?—”
“The clothes are fine! Don’t come in here!” I set the sweats and the towel down on the corner of the sink. With fumbling, half-frozen fingers, I tug my destroyed shirt loose, then start working on the drawstring of my pants. The water has done a number on it, solidifying the knot into a mass that I can’t pick apart, no matter how hard I try. I dig at it, trying to pry it loose, and almost peel my nail right off. “Ow!”
“Are you okay in there?” Donovan says, sounding even closer this time.
“Great. I—I just—” In desperation, I search the bathroom for anything that might help—tweezers, maybe, or even scissors. At this point, I’d settle for cutting the damn drawstring in half. I pull open the two small drawers that flank the bathroom sink, then the cabinet beneath it, but no luck.
As I straighten, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: blue lace bra that’s seen better days; porcelain-pale skin; hair tangled with seaweed; irises so huge, I look like one of Margaret Keane’s big-eyed children. I’d give my kingdom for a shower, but we don’t have the time. Instead, I settle for picking greenery out of my hair, gasping in pain when something thorny stabs me in my injured finger.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Donovan sounds worried now. “I heard you slamming things, and then— Just answer me, will you?” When I don’t reply, he knocks. “Rune?”
I scoop up the hoodie Donovan gave me. It’s soft, forest-green, and smells like him—that enticing hint of cedar and vanilla. More than anything, I want to slip it over my head and disappear inside it, all cozy and warm. But no…the moment it touches my saturated pants, it’ll get soaked. Unless I want to put my nasty, shredded shirt back on, I only have one option.
“Rune!” Panic laces his voice. “Will you please?—”
I really, really am not looking forward to what I have to do next. But I also don’t have the fortitude to track down the villain who killed my parents and figure out what the hell Ethan is up to while wearing soaking-wet, ice-cold pants. Sighing, I jerk the door open.
Donovan is standing on the other side, dressed in a navy t-shirt that brings out his eyes and a fresh pair of jeans. He must’ve had his shoulder against the door, because when it creaks inward, he nearly topples onto me. He steadies himself, one hand gripping the top of the frame, and takes me in: blue lace bra, tangled hair, and all. His jaw drops.
“I, um, can’t get my pants off,” I mutter, feeling a blush color my cheeks. “The knot in the drawstring is, um…the water made it impossible to…”
My voice trails off. Donovan is staring at me, his gaze tracking slowly downward—from my mouth to my throat to the lace of my bra, where it lingers. I swear I can feel the heat of it on my skin. It tracks lower still, down my belly to the aforementioned knot, and doesn’t budge.
“There are no scissors in the bathroom,” I say, fidgeting under the weight of that piercing gaze. The woman I examined in the mirror looked about as alluring as if she’d been dumpster diving. But clearly, Donovan isn’t seeing the same thing I did. “That’s what I was looking for,” I rattle on, unsettled. “I thought you might have some out here, in the, um, kitchen.”
At this, his eyes flick upward, meeting mine. Humor lurks in their depths. “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to cut off your pants?”
Sweet Jesus. “I can cut them off myself!”
“Sounds hazardous,” he drawls.
I want to tell him that what’s hazardous is me standing in front of him, half-naked, ten feet from a bed. What’s hazardous is the storm that I can feel brewing between us, the way the space between us is too small and not big enough, all at the same time. But the words freeze in my throat when Donovan lifts the hand that’s not gripping the doorframe, so slowly that I have all the time in the world to back away. Which I should absolutely do. But I don’t move.
With a single finger, he traces the same line his gaze took a minute ago: over my cheekbone and my throat, between my breasts, down my stomach. His hand closes on my hip, its warmth a welcome contrast to my lake-chilled skin. “Chaos,” he says hoarsely, and in those two single syllables I hear both an invitation and a warning.
I don’t know if he’s labeling the mess we’ve found ourselves in, or whether he intends it as the nickname he gave me, the one I haven’t heard him use since that very first night. One thing I do know, though: I’m a millisecond from telling him he can undo the knot in the drawstring, all right…with his teeth. But as I open my mouth, the ground beneath us shifts, the foundation of the cottage creaking. Behind me, the sink turns on, water splashing into the basin.
“What the fuck?” Donovan says, stumbling back from me. He stares at the stream flowing from the faucet, his face blank with shock.
I seize the opportunity to duck under his arm, heading for the kitchen. There are scissors in the first drawer I open, and I grab them, thinking that if need be, I can use them as a weapon…not against Donovan, but against whatever forces we might find ourselves confronting before we get off this mountain.
Maybe I should leave right now. A smarter person would probably do just that. But I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.
When I finally make it out of the bathroom, there’s a fire blazing in the hearth and Donovan is sitting at the small wooden desk with his laptop open. I pad over to him, swallowed up by his hoodie and sweatpants. I probably look ridiculous, but I don’t care. At least I’m dry.
He shoots me an unreadable sidelong glance, then hooks a second chair with his foot and drags it over. “I’d say I like you wearing my clothes, but I have a feeling we’d just wind up somewhere it’s not a great idea to go, for a shit-ton of reasons.”
“I—”
“Let me finish.” He clears his throat. “I believe you about Cooper, okay? And even though I don’t understand it, I’m starting to agree that there’s something…off. I don’t believe in magic or curses, but the car wreck, that first power outage, the mini-earthquake and the weird blue light, the lake, what just happened in the bathroom—they all happened when we were together. Once is a good story. Twice is a coincidence. This many times is a data set worthy of analysis.”
Oh, thank God. “So, let’s analyze it, then,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. “If you trust me about the rest of it, then please trust me when I tell you that there’s something off about Ethan, too.”
Donovan scrubs a hand over his face. “I do trust you, Rune. God knows why, but I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t put myself on the line for you this way. Because what I’ve just done is illegal as hell, and if anyone finds out about it, my job will be the least of the things I’ll lose.”
Those mesmerizing blue eyes of his are fixed on mine, and for once, they’re not icy with rage or burning with desire. This time, their expression is open and sincere. Vulnerable, even, the way they were when he told me about what Cooper had done to him, back before everything between us went so horribly wrong.
He doesn’t believe magic exists. He doesn’t think my premonitions are real. He still thinks there has to be a logical explanation for all this. But he’s willing to take this big of a risk—for me.
No one has ever done anything like that for me before.
I swallow hard, my entire body aching with the urge to throw my arms around him. “Thank you,” I manage to get out. “Thank you for trusting me.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” He tilts his laptop so both of us can see it, his tone all business. “These are the files on Ethan’s hard drive. He had some serious encryption on them, but I was able to break through. From what I can tell, this is the one he accesses most frequently.” His fingers fly over the keys, and some kind of record-keeping system flashes up on the screen. “Look at the names, Rune.”
I lean closer, peering at line after line of text. “Holy crap. Charlotte’s in there, and Mrs. Fontaine, and Cooper, and you, and… Who isn’t in there?”
Donovan scrolls down the page, his jaw set hard. The list of familiar names goes on and on and on. “These are coded,” he says, gesturing at the screen. “And here—a ton of them have ‘BBB’ in the right-hand column. It’s like he’s been collecting some kind of information on all of us. But what the hell could he possibly?—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “BBB,” I say slowly. “Like, ‘Books, Bites, and Bedlam’?”
“The library fundraiser? What could that have to do with anything?”
I stare at the list of names, revisiting the day of the festival in my mind, walking myself through it step by step. And then, with a sick rush of heat, the answer comes to me.
Oh, God. Oh, no, no, no.
“The blood drive, Donovan.” I jump to my feet. “How could I be so stupid?”
His brow wrinkles in puzzlement. “You mean the mobile van? It was a donation to Sapphire Springs’ blood bank, Rune. There’s no reason to associate…that…with this. It’s protected health information, for one thing.”
I shake my head, my still-wet hair cold against my cheeks, as the full impact of my realization sinks in. “We weren’t donating to the blood bank. We were donating to him. ”
Ethan is a Blood Witch. For reasons I don’t yet understand, he wanted samples from as many residents of Sapphire Springs as he could get his hands on. And the blood drive provided the perfect excuse.
He played us, all of us. And we fed right into his hands.
The codes next to each of our names…they mean something vital. They’re at the heart of why he brought me and Donovan together, why my parents died and my curse exists, why Donovan’s destined to die at the altar. I feel it in my bones.
This information is the key.
And if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to figure out how to turn it in the lock.