Chapter 3
Renata
With Hexate coiled up in the passenger seat, we slowly roll into Briarhollow’s town limits. My magic starts to buzz through my veins, similar to when I first got Cordelia’s letter. It’s a clue I’m headed in the right direction.
Hearth, Green, and Love Witches all harness their magic through the land and their connection to the earth.
Gray and Divination Witches are tied to our environment as well, since all natural magic originates from there, but we’re also tied to something…
different. Something that isn’t tangible like the other elements.
I don’t make predictions or have any sense of perception like Divination Witches. I have a connection to my spirit that often reassures me—or warns me—when I’m on a new path.
Without anyone to teach me about my abilities, I learned mostly everything on my own.
I would consider myself successful, having performed resurrections on insects and small animals, hexing my sisters and bullies with twenty-four hour warts, and binding rituals.
I’ve never been given the space to let my magic fully bloom.
Due to our connection, Hexate also feels the spark of life to my magic. She slowly lifts her head until she’s watching the trees pass out the window.
From the corner of my eye, I see her tilt her head in inquisition, and I know what she’s trying to ask.
Are you sure you want to do this?
Taking a deep breath, I take in the tree line and the rundown buildings coming into view.
We’re entering through what looks like Main Street.
From what I can see, there is a diner, a small bar, a billiards pub, a post office, and a city hall.
The street breaks off into more roads lined with homes and shops—some open, others permanently closed.
It’s not modern like Hemlocke. My hometown is full of multi-story buildings in sleek exteriors, large windows, and neutral colors.
I’ve always loved how the town integrated plants into the designs.
Otherwise, it felt like it lost a lot of its character compared to the old photos and paintings I’ve seen.
Briarhollow looks like it’s stuck in time, in the best way.
From the amount of boarded up buildings and abandoned homes, it’s clear this was once a thriving community.
It’s mostly brick storefronts with double-hung windows and symmetrical details.
Some of the buildings have a more laid-back, simple style of Colonial architecture, whereas others have the ornamental features of Georgian like decorative doorways and columns.
There’s a few Queen Anne touches thrown in occasionally. Random houses painted in vibrant colors with wrap-around porches and towers added on, creating asymmetrical styles that contrast the surrounding buildings. It all complements each other somehow, not feeling out of place.
It’s not the only reason Briarhollow is stuck in the past. The streetlights aren’t even electric. The oil candles are charmed to be long-lasting and permanently lit. Most of the roads and sidewalks are cobblestone, and a lot of the store signs are made from wood or iron.
Taking in the quaint town, I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I realize I don’t want to run away. Maybe I never actually did. I just wanted to be in a new place with people who appreciated me, or at the very least, who don’t hate my existence.
I’ve become so brainwashed by my mother’s hatred that I stopped wondering how other parts of the world saw Gray Witches—if we were truly coveted due to our magic or feared by the general public.
There aren’t a lot of Gray Witches in Hemlocke, and none around my age.
Like Divination Witches, our type of magic is less common than the other elements.
Even when I would sneak away to the city for a few hours, it was rare that I’d make the acquaintance of another witch with spirit magic.
And Cordelia’s letter was correct—for many people with spirit magic, it’s easy to gain fame by connecting people with their loved ones who have passed over.
Sometimes gaining enough recognition for their own television shows.
I don’t want any of that.
My only goal is to give the Gray Witches of the Blackthorn line a better future than the ones Cordelia and I were granted. Even if it comes at the cost of my own sanity.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I resolutely nod. “Yes, I’m sure.”
She watches me for a second before bobbing her head once in agreement, looking back out the windshield.
Some cars are charmed with navigation abilities. Finding the town is usually up to the driver. However, once you’re there, the car will adapt to the current geography. So, all I have to do is tell it the address I’m looking for.
“We need to find Mr. Edmond Finkle at 816 Hazel Lane.”
The car’s magic sputters for a few seconds, waking up from the long slumber it fell under while I was driving. It lurches forward with a rough creak.
I’m silent most of the way, letting out little sounds of surprise or approval as we make our way slowly through the town of Briarhollow.
The run-down buildings and outdated technology are exactly how I’ve always imagined Briarhollow. In other ways, it’s nothing like I would have ever dreamed of. Not from what my mother has said, at least. She’s spewed the same information her mother gave her, who learned from her mother.
There are a few families walking down the street with coffees and sweet treats in their hands.
A group of teenagers fly down the road on their bikes and skateboards.
Now that I’m closer, I can see how full the diner is.
It’s just after breakfast time and people seem to be lingering at the tables, talking and laughing, but I was told that Briarhollow was nearly deserted. A ghost town.
Sure, it’s smaller than Hemlocke and isn’t bustling with crowds like I’m used to, but the people I’m seeing look content—happy. At least, enough so that it eases some of that “only one to save them all” pressure from Cordelia.
I’m still contemplating how brainwashed I’ve become when we slow to a stop in front of a small, green house. It matches the ornate, symmetrical style of homes that seem to be the norm.
Looking at Hexate with raised brows, I take her tilt of the head as a sign of approval—a mutual feeling. Stepping out of my car with my purse in one hand and Hexate wrapped around my other arm, I turn toward the front door.
The raven sitting on the mailbox at the bottom of the porch steps makes me pause. It’s watching Hexate and I with keen attention—head tilted to the side and eyes trained on us.
When it doesn’t move, I take a step forward. My foot barely crosses the fenceline when it rouses and spreads its wings out wide. Flinching back, I second guess going up to the door as Hexate hisses angrily at the bird.
The raven and I stand opposite each other for a few seconds, staring.
“I’m here to see Edmond,” I say, feeling silly but hoping this is his familiar. “May I come in?”
It caws loudly and rouses again.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I mutter and cross my arms.
Looking around the street, I watch one of his neighbors walk into her yard. She’s a short, older woman with gray-streaked brown hair that brushes her shoulders. From the impeccable front garden she has this early into the year, I can tell she’s a Green Witch.
When her kind eyes find me, a sympathetic smile tugs at her lips and she sets her watering can down. The closer she gets, the uncertainty settles in my gut.
“Hello, dear,” she calls out with a friendly wave.
Clearing my throat, I return the gesture awkwardly. “Hi.”
She eyes me then glances at the house behind me. “Can I help you find something—or someone? You look a bit lost.”
My face warms and I nod. “I’m here to see Edmond—” I gesture over my shoulder, “—but the raven isn’t happy about it.”
Sadness creeps into her features. “That’s Poppy. She was Edmond’s familiar.”
Was.
“Um, I’m so—sorry,” I stutter with a twitchy shake of my head. “Does that mean Edmond is… That he…?”
There’s no judgement in her features—only confusion. “Yes, about a week ago. Poppy has been very territorial. She’s only left once since his funeral—she got back not long before you showed up. No clue where Cordelia’s familiar, Jezebel, has run off to.”
Hardly listening, I watch the bird with new appreciation and sympathy.
Poppy must have been the one who delivered the letter yesterday, finishing something important to Edmond.
Familiars are gifted with strong senses and enhanced abilities.
She flies faster than the average raven, but that’s almost three hundred miles in a single day. Not including the trip there.
Now, I can see the exhaustion weighing on her. Her head is tipped down, resting against her chest. It’s hard to see her beady black eyes from here, but even when she rouses, it’s slower and less aggressive than a normal raven.
And she had to come back to an empty house—without her bonded witch.
“Did you know Edmond?” the woman asks.
“Yes; well, no. It’s complicated.” Tilting my head, I ask, “Can you tell me what happened to him?”
“He died of a broken heart. Can’t say I was surprised since his Chosen, Cordelia, passed a couple weeks before him.” She lets out a sad sigh. “They’re reunited now.”
My entire body feels like it’s vibrating, each nerve a livewire in response to all of this new information. I keep getting stuck on one fact…
“His Chosen?” I ask in disbelief. “As in, he and Cordelia made the Soul Tie Bond?”
The Soul Tie Bond is one of our oldest rituals. It’s ancient—and rarely performed anymore. It’s the closest bond we have to a werewolf’s fated mate. The main difference is that we choose who we want to tie our spirits to for the rest of eternity.
Not even death can break the bond.
At some point, witches started to take after the fickle human tradition of marriage, and only the most committed couples would perform the ritual. I’ve always thought the concept was romantic—tragic, sure, but heartbreakingly romantic.
“They did. Both were very proud of it, though Cordelia was more reserved than Edmond. Less dramatic.” She huffs out a laugh. “That man wanted to make it everyone’s problem.”
Something swells in my chest and my eyes begin to burn. It feels like hope of a future filled with love and companionship—something my mother mentally and physically beat out of me a long time ago. The curse made sure that my hope never reignited.
A lover not only willingly, but proudly, bonded his soul to Cordelia, a Blackthorn witch with spirit magic who carried the weight of a century old curse.
This information would probably give my mother a heart attack if I told her.
“That’s not a very common practice anymore,” I say with a tight voice.
“‘She was a very rare witch,’ as Edmond would say,” the woman offers with a friendly smile.
Swallowing down the knot of emotion, I turn to her with Hexate now wrapped around my shoulders and neck. “You knew them? Both of them?”
She eyes me. “I did. Edmond grew up in Briarhollow. We went to school together and lived across from each other most of our lives. Cordelia moved here about forty years ago. She caught his eye very quickly and became a local, as far as we were all concerned. She loved Edmond and this town—she even loved that old, abandoned inn.”
She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t come out harsh. Mostly playful.
“Thank you for sharing all of this with me,” I say. “I should get going soon.”
A look of surprise crosses her features at my sudden dismissal. She hides it just as quickly. “Are you staying in town for a while?”
I nod. “I’m not sure how long exactly but I’ll be here for at least a few days.”
“My name’s Eden, dear. I own the apothecary off Main Street,” she says and points in the general direction of where I came from. “The Healing Cauldron. Let me know if you need anything while you’re here…”
She trails off, giving me an expectant look.
Clearing my throat, I reluctantly offer my first name. “Renata. And thank you.”
There’s an expectant gleam in her eyes. I don’t offer more information. Instead, I awkwardly nod once and turn back to my car. Once Hexate and I are settled, I read off the Dreaming Willow Inn’s address and anxiously wait to see what was left to me.