22 Dáinn
DáINN
I follow my witch to the back of his quaint little farmhouse.
He’s so stern and strong, so beautifully made.
It’s such an oddity for me to get to speak to a victim after their name has been given.
I find Jasper endlessly fascinating. His every angry grunt and muttered curse thrills me.
I think he wants me to chase him. He wants to fight. He wants to try and win.
I glance around the grassy fields. We could do it here, I suppose. I could chase him into those trees, trip him with my shadows, show him exactly what it means to fuck a wraith.
Tomorrow maybe. My sweet witch is tired.
The hours we spent apart tonight were all but unbearable.
The longer I go without claiming his soul, the closer to it I want to be.
It hums there in his chest, so warm and inviting.
I can see it, feel it . . . but I can’t touch.
Can’t taste. Not unless I intend to break my promise and devour him right here on this back step.
What a curious kind of agony.
I itch to press my mouth to his, but I also yearn to let him live. Too much now rests on his shoulders to dare be swept away by something as trivial as my hunger. Jasper will keep his soul . . . for now.
He reaches for the door, and I reach for him. “Wait.”
Shoulder stiff, he shrugs away from my touch and glances back. “What?”
“If you walk in there now, they won’t be able to see you. Remember?”
Jasper turns, his hand pressed flat over the pendant he now wears. “What do I do?”
I drift in closer, lowering my voice. “Hold the pendant as you do now. Say their names and finish with, ‘Evil Eye, hide me not from their Sight.’”
He sighs, glancing over his shoulder to the shut door. “I have to include Birdie, don’t I?”
“Unless you want to be invisible to her eyes, it would be prudent, yes.”
He curses low, gripping the pendant tight in his fist. “She thinks you were a mugger wearing gloves.”
“What?”
“She saw your hands.” He nods down at where I have them tucked inside my robes.
“She saw the skeleton shape and her first thought was that you must be wearing gloves. She doesn’t believe in magic, Dáinn.
If you go in there and reveal yourself to her now, you will rip apart the foundations of her entire world. ”
Ignoring the thrill I feel at hearing him say my name again, I consider. “Revealing myself to her will be inevitable. She must know me.”
“I know, but not tonight. Promise me.”
“I can’t—”
“Promise me you’ll give her tonight to hold to her version of reality,” he says over me, his gaze sharp as a knife. “One more night, Dáinn. She didn’t ask for any of this. She deserves whatever patience and preparation we can give her.”
I sigh in frustration. Knowing Birdie waits so close at hand, it’s all I can do to let Jasper give me this little speech. I ache to see her again. Nothing feels more important. I need to know if I was just imagining her brilliance.
And yet, the witch speaks truth. He’s so good. A consummate high priest, though he hates the title. It’s in his nature to protect. More than Birdie’s physical safety, he wants to protect her peace, her tender human innocence.
Yes, her safety must come first, in all its forms. I will follow the example of my noble witch. “It will be as you say. Birdie must be protected.”
After a moment, he nods. “Good. Okay.” Then he looks down at the pendant. “Hortense Hastings, Birdie Rhodes . . . Evil Eye, hide me not from their Sight.”
As expected, nothing outwardly changes. The pendant is a clever ruse, but weak. Against mortals here on the island and against Ludmilla’s ravens, it will be effective. He looks to me. “Did it work?”
“Go inside and find out.”
Taking a deep breath, he tucks the necklace in under his T-shirt. “Stay hidden. Say nothing.”
It’s a rather rude way to welcome me into his home, but I nod. Fading into the void, I keep the thinnest veil between myself and the living world. I can see out, but no mortal can see in.
Jasper’s eyes widen as he watches me disappear.
“Is this sufficient?”
They narrow again as they sweep left to right, looking for me. “It’s fine. Just don’t touch anything either. Last thing I need is Hortie thinking we’ve got another ghost in the house.” Turning on his heel, he opens the door, leading the way inside.
I’m giddy with excitement. I’ve never entered Prescott House on invitation before.
The weeks I spent haunting Jasper were all without his consent.
I enter now, taking in every scent and texture.
The history of this place is a riot of flavors.
How many lives have been lived between these four walls?
How many generations of Prescott witches have passed through these very doors?
The herbs whisper to each other, rustling faintly as I drift beneath.
They sense the unwelcome stranger in their midst. Angelica for protection.
Dried basil for peace. Clove. Caraway. Dill.
My witch held nothing back in his attempts to ward his house against unwanted intrusion.
I smile up at them and wave, which sends them all shivering.
“Jasper, is that you, dear?”
That’s not Birdie’s voice. That’s the old witch who lives here.
Haunting Jasper all these weeks has meant haunting her too.
Hortense Hastings is a powerful air witch.
From what I’ve seen, magic comes to her as easily as breathing.
I’ll admit, she’s impressive. But Hera wept, the old crone never stops talking.
Or baking. I don’t know how Jasper bears it. No one can eat that many cookies.
Too eager to wait, I use the veil to slip past him into the kitchen.
Hortense sits alone at the table. Sensing me immediately, the not-a-cat jolts upright in her lap, his eyes narrowed to yellow slits as he snarls.
Fuck, I forgot about him. If he presents too much of a problem, I’ll drag him into the void and leave him there.
The old witch pushes the snarling not-a-cat off her lap. “Oh, enough of that.”
He lands on his feet, back arched against me, tail erect.
“It’s fine,” Jasper says at the creature. Then he looks to the old witch. “You can see me?”
She huffs, setting her tea things aside. “Of course I can see you. I’m not blind, dear. Just old. And arthritic. And officially up past my bedtime. Old biddies like me need our beauty sleep, you know.”
With a final hiss, the not-a-cat slinks out of the room, weaving between Birdie’s legs as she walks in. “Hey,” she says in greeting. “All good out there?”
“Yeah,” Jasper replies.
Whatever else they say to each other is wholly lost to me. I’m far too distracted. She’s here. She’s . . . her.
Careful to keep a thin layer of the void between us, I swoop forward, hands aching to touch my human.
Her aura is radiant, even without the glow of a streetlamp and the glisten of the misting rain.
It’s like I can see her whole life reflected in those dancing colors—the beauty, the pain, the tender hope, the resilient strength.
Birdie Rhodes.
Her name fills me. The sound of it rings just as beautiful as her aura.
I breathe in deep, controlling my rattle.
Oh, would that I could dare believe in a higher power.
Surely, this mortal was made by Aphrodite just for me.
How could a wraith ever deserve such a gift?
Her scent bouquet is a revelation. She tastes like sunshine and cotton candy, rolled parchment, fresh strawberries dipped in cream, lavender and chamomile and—
My gaze darts sharply over to the old witch.
Then to the pile of used tea things on the table.
Drifting close, I lower my face to the dish of wet leaves and breathe deep.
Lavender and chamomile, yes. Hints of belladonna.
A sleeping potion. Subtle but effective, barely enough for a dose.
That gnarled old crone spiked my Birdie’s tea!
On cue, Birdie yawns, trying to cover it with her hand. “Ugh, sorry. I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten. Or how tired I am. But I’m glad you called the police. Now we can all rest a little easier.”
“It’s being handled,” Jasper replies. His gaze darts like he’s searching the room for me.
When Birdie yawns again, the old witch stands, clapping her hands together. “Right. Off to bed, both of you.”
“I’m fine,” Birdie lies.
“Nonsense. There’s nothing any of us can do in this tired state. Tomorrow’s problems will wait a few hours. Jasper, dear, show her up to the guest room, won’t you?”
I glare at the old witch, ready to break my promise to Jasper and reveal myself here and now. The only thing saving her life is the fact that I sense no ill intent in her strategy to drug my human. She only wants Birdie to rest. I do too. Poor Birdie is exhausted.
Part of me is grateful for her care. But if she poisons Birdie again, I’ll rip off her withered arms and beat her to death with them. Forget devouring her. I’ll leave her soul to rot in limbo and her body to mold in the pumpkin patch.
Birdie moves over to the table. “Let me just help you wash these first—”
“Oh, leave it.” The witch bats her gently away. “I’ll deal with this mess in the morning. You go upstairs with Jasper now. A good night of dreamless sleep will set you both to rights.”
“Thanks, Hortie.” Leaning over, she kisses the witch’s wrinkled brow. Then she reaches for the bag on the counter.
Jasper beats her to it, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Come on.”
I follow them from the room and down the hall towards the front stairs. It’s a path I’ve traveled many times with Jasper in the last few weeks.
“Goodnight, dears,” Hortense calls from the kitchen.
We encounter the not-a-cat again on the stairs. Seeing me at Birdie’s shoulder, he leaps up and hisses, back arched, blocking the way.
“I said leave it,” Jasper warns.
Still snarling, the not-a-cat dashes away, his claws clicking across the floor.
Birdie watches him go with a frown. “Jeez, what’s wrong with Pickles?”