Chapter 11
Renata
Three days later, and we’re each sleeping in our new rooms.
Well, new is a bit of an overstatement.
They’re new to us, but that’s as far as the adjective can be used.
Thankfully, Rowyn’s grandfather is close with a lot of the town members, so he was able to scrounge up some donations for us—a couple new mattresses and linens, along with random pieces of furniture that needed to be replaced.
He’s a sweet, old man who apparently tried to help Cordelia restore as much of the inn as she would allow.
Now as I’m walking through the halls, loneliness is setting in again. It’s different than anything I’ve felt before. This is a type of nostalgia, which is ridiculous since the women are in the three rooms directly next to mine.
I’ve been mindlessly wandering the west wing for the last hour.
We haven’t spent much time over here yet, so I hoped it would distract me, but it’s doing a poor job.
It only fills me with dread because it’s in much worse conditions than the central rooms and east wing.
My relationship and plans with the inn are in a constant battle.
If Briarhollow was a non-magical town, we could glamour pebbles and leaves, making them look realistic to a human’s eye.
The merits surrounding it are iffy, and I’m not sure Rowyn or Clover would be keen on the idea.
In a town like Briarhollow, the glamour would be discovered before I entered the first shop.
Once I’ve lost hope, I turn out of the room and plan to make my way back to my bedroom when something outside catches my eye. I cautiously walk closer and gingerly push the threadbare curtain to the side. A short, sharp scream rips out of me before I can cover my mouth.
A half-decayed body is digging itself out of the ground. More of the soil starts to upturn, and hands pop out of the ground, pulling themselves out. There are at least a dozen grotesque bodies in the field now.
Deadwalkers are similar to the media’s version of zombies. They have to be enchanted by a Gray Witch and bound to someone who controls them. Their bite doesn’t turn a person into one, but it is lethal if not treated quickly.
As a group, they turn to look directly at me—one points in my direction and moves forward.
I take a few steps back and try to cover as much of the window as the tattered curtain will allow. I mentally flip through every spell and ritual I know, but there’s nothing about protecting myself from deadwalkers, only how to create them.
“Fuck, fuck fu—” My words are cut off when a thick, paralyzing wall of cold hits my back and pushes through my body.
I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my teeth, trying to wait for the sensation to fade. The fear of what I’m going to see keeps me in place for a few extra seconds.
Slowly, I let out a deep breath and turn around, keeping my eyes closed until I’ve made a full one-eighty turn.
It’s not my first interaction with a spirit, but it’s different when it’s not one I summoned in a black salt circle in my room for fun. All of my experience and knowledge didn’t prepare me for something of this caliber.
When I open my eyes, I don’t expect to find him right in front of me.
Biting back a scream, I flinch and cover my mouth for extra measure. It’s nearly three a.m., the witching hour, and the veil between realms has thinned.
Once there’s been a connection to a living person, it’s easier for a ghost to stay on this plane of existence. It’s rare they would use their waning energy for something superficial. If they’re in purgatory, rather than fully passed on, it requires much less effort.
Hexate has been calm until now. She lurches forward, mouth open and ready to strike. When her face goes right through his arm, she tries again, angrier this time.
I grab her on the third attempt and gently pull her off my shoulders, letting her coil around my hands. She doesn’t fight me, but her eyes are glued to the ghost in front of us. The sound of her rattle echoes through the hallway.
My already racing heart only speeds up when I take in the handsome features I’ve come to recognize over the last week.
When I have a few moments alone, or after the other witches have gone to bed, I stare at the photo of Petra and the two men.
I haven’t figured out who the other man is, yet he’s the one who holds my attention every time I pull the film out from under my pillow.
Nestor’s face is engraved into my mind, just as much as Petra’s, or my own.
Cautiously, I tilt my head and take a small step forward. He’s still too noncorporeal to be fully awake from his purgatory state, but I’m positive it’s the man in the photo.
“Nestor?” I ask quietly. “Are you Nestor?”
His body flashes a brighter white before fading back to its previous state. His eyes, however, are slightly more focused—a little angry.
“I’m not Petra,” I whisper quickly. I don’t know why I say it, but some of his emotion fades, turning into confusion. “I want to learn what happened here—what happened to her. The truth.”
His apparition begins to flicker in and out again, showing his heightening emotion. He moves closer, and I quickly back up and hit the wall. Letting out a squeak, I remember the other problem.
I hastily turn and pull the curtain to the side, plastering my face to the chipped glass panel. I’m as ready as I can be to find the deadwalkers in the field. What I see is even more harrowing.
Nothing.
There is nothing outside.
No deadwalkers, no upturned dirty, absolutely nothing.
Shaking my head, I close my eyes and use my free hand to press against my lids. I don’t stop until I see dots swirling from the pressure and I’m positive there won’t be any tears when I open them again.
When I do, the field is still empty. So is the hallway.
Hexate hisses at something I can’t see. It’s most likely Nestor, back to his invisible state. I don’t bother trying to summon him, knowing he won’t be going anywhere until the curse is figured out—or until I lose all sense of sanity and succumb to it.
My growing despair brings Hexate’s attention back to me and she tightens her hold around my hand. It’s enough to pull me back to the present while I walk back to my room.
It’s mechanical, but I quickly wash for bed and crawl under the covers, where I finally let the tears fall until sleep eventually takes pity on me.