Chapter 18
Renata
A few days have passed, and Rowyn and I have been at the library for two hours, flipping through page after page with no luck.
There’s plenty of books on the history of Briarhollow and former residents of the town. Rowyn’s clued me into some of the pieces of the past that only a local would be privy to.
Like how Briarhollow was home to more than just witches, werewolves and vampires.
There were a variety of creatures and monsters that lived in the woods around the area.
Things like trickster fairies, forest trolls, shifters that will steal your face, and more.
I became acquainted with all different types of creatures living in Hemlocke, but especially the fairies.
A majority of Briarhollow’s inhabitants are now witches.
There are plenty of towns and villages that are primarily werewolves or witches.
Wolves often live on different schedules controlled by the moon, and prefer communal communities.
Witches are less limited by their environment, depending on what their magic is.
Merpeople have their own kingdoms in the seas and lakes.
Only the luckiest of magical beings are granted access to their realms. Vampires are the least limited when it comes to where they live.
As long as they have access to fresh blood sources—people or animals—and a regular daylight schedule, they have the freedom and strength to go anywhere.
What is most strange is that almost everyone except the witches have scattered across the continents.
There are a few werewolves and vampires, like the co-owner of The Wolf & Flame and the mayor of Briarhollow.
Lorna’s mate Killian is an omega—or lone wolf, like she said—so he doesn’t require a pack.
Maybe that makes a difference.
It simply doesn’t make sense. How could one city, thriving with so much life and diversity, become the shell of what is now left?
There’s no evidence that the curse extends outside of my family or the property lines, but it’s as if the town died with Petra and Nestor.
“Hey,” I call Rowyn over. She wandered down the aisle as I started reading through a history book I pulled off a cart. “Does Briarhollow have designations? Or was the town created through a different ritual?”
She sets a few books down and settles next to me beside the cart.
“I mean, considering the inn is the heart of the town…” She trails off and gives me a look like it should be obvious.
My head whips in her direction. “I didn’t know that.”
“Really? Oh,” she murmurs with wide eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it.”
“No, it’s okay. I promise.” Skimming through the page in front of me again, I ask, “Do you think that’s why the town is slowing fading?
I mean, Briarhollow was one of the most prosperous magical towns only a hundred years ago.
Maybe that’s somehow connected to the coven’s disbandment and the unlit hearth… ”
She thinks it over for a second, but I can see the pieces start to click together.
“It could be,” she admits with a new type of hope. “If we can light the hearth, maybe it would bring a little life back into Briarhollow. Put us back on the map—literally on the maps.”
Chuckling, I shrug. “Maybe. Only time will tell, I suppose. How did your grandfather get the job of town librarian anyway?”
It’s a high honor, even in a place as desolate as Briarhollow.
“The mayor herself asked him to take over the post when the last librarian, Old Man Winters, passed away about thirty years ago,” Rowyn answers while skimming over another page.
I side-eye her from where I stand next to her. “You called your librarian Old Man Winters?”
She laughs. “He was pushing one-twenty, to be fair.”
Even by witch standards, that is old.
Going back to the topic at hand, I ask, “Why did the mayor ask him? Is he the only Divination Witch in town?”
She shakes her head and finishes reading a passage before looking up to me. “There are a few, but his ancestors were the first librarians of Briarhollow, over three hundred years ago. Plus, I think there’s more he knows about the curse than he’s letting on.”
“What do you mean?” I push the book away and give her my full attention.
She tilts her head confused. “He’s the one who told me to answer the call. Didn’t I tell you that?”
My brows furrow.
I don’t think she did tell me that…
I remember she made an ambiguous comment when she first arrived at the inn. Esme also said something that struck me as odd.
Her grandmother wanted her to answer my call.
Rowyn distracted me before I could fully process that, so I never thought much about it. Now, it doesn’t feel like a coincidence at all.
“Why would he do that?” My tone comes out sharp, but it’s my growing anxiety.
“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully, seemingly a little confused by it all now. “He just said he wanted me to be the one that takes the family’s place back at the inn. It was really important to him.”
“I’m glad it was you,” I clarify. “But why not your sister? Do you think she got the call too?”
She tilts her head and thinks it over. “I have no idea. Do you think Clover and Clementine received it, or just Clover?”
I murmur, “We need to talk to your grandfather.”
Something distracts me before I can ask where he is. I’ve only felt this sense of awareness once before washes over me, making a shiver run down my back.
It’s the same prickly sensation I had the first day we went into town during the equinox. Like someone is watching me, but everytime I look over my shoulder, no one is there.
I try to look around Rowyn and down one of the aisles, once again feeling like I’m about to see a ghost. There’s no one else this way.
As I turn to inspect the other direction, Rowyn covers her mouth before letting out a muffled gasp.
Whipping around, I expect to see a hellhound sprinting toward us. What I see is arguably even more terrifying. Rowyn grabs my arm to hide me further behind a stack, so we aren’t easily visible in the aisle anymore.
There’s a man. A seemingly harmless man who is setting his stuff on the circulation desk, appearing to get ready for his shift, not even looking at us. Maybe he doesn’t realize there’s anyone else in the large room since we’re huddled behind a bookcase and a rolling cart we’ve borrowed.
But I’ve noticed him—and now that I have, I can’t stop.
He’s the most attractive person I’ve ever seen. Even from here, even with half his face obscured, I’m sure of it.
He’s tall with a lean build that’s obvious through his jeans and leather jacket. His brown hair is short and messy, and matches the color of his trimmed beard perfectly. When his head whips up—looking in our direction, but apparently not seeing us—I get a better look at him.
His brows furrow in curiosity, probably sensing a presence with his magic, yet unable to see it. When he leans forward and tilts his head the slightest bit to the left, the sunlight streaming in through the clerestory windows hits his features just right, giving me a glimpse of his eyes.
They’re bright blue, reminiscent of the lake not that far from my mother’s house.
Under the morning sun, it glowed bright, and sometimes the younger mermaids would peak their heads out playfully.
When the rays weren’t hitting it directly, like now when the man pulls back a little and out of the path, it would go back to this deep, dark navy color.
But the most off-putting part of the entire encounter is that for the first time in eleven years, I’m seeing the man from my dreams.
I am really seeing him—not while sleeping, but awake. Less than fifty feet from me. I’m certain that’s the man I’ve met in my dreams hundreds of times. It’s like a fog has been lifted and the world is clearer. Like seeing him has brought new color to everything around me.
Nearly jumping out of my skin when Rowyn whispers, I look at her from the corner of my eye.
“That’s the man from the photo,” she says, ducking lower behind the stack and looking at me in shock.
Shaking my head, I ask, “You’ve seen him?” Something in my stomach sours when I add, “In your dreams?”
For the first time since I’ve met her, Rowyn looks at me like I really am losing my mind.
“No,” she slowly says. “I saw him in the photo with Petra and Nestor… the same one you saw.”
What?
Grabbing her hand, I peek around the bookcase and see that he’s now talking to who I can only assume is Rowyn’s grandfather.
While they’re distracted, I pull her out of the library.
The door has almost shut when I hear her name called out, but I don’t stop until we’re down the street and around the corner.
“Renata,” Rowyn cries from behind me and tugs her hand free. She rubs her wrist with a disgruntled expression. I give her an apologetic look, not realizing how tightly I was gripping her. “What is wrong with you?” she demands.
Ignoring her question, I ask, “What do you mean you saw him in the photo? Wasn’t his face obscured?” The anger fades and is replaced with the concern I’ve come to know well in our short friendship—always directed at me. “There was a flash or… or dust or something covering him.”
Shaking her head slowly, she takes a step forward and places her hand on my arm. “No, Renata, his face has always been visible.”
The blood drains from my face and my breathing grows faster, more shallow.
“I don’t understand,” I try to tell her through my hyperventilating. “That isn’t possible.”
Wrapping an arm around my waist and looking behind us one final time, she guides us to her car and quickly pulls out of the spot and down the road back to the inn.
The entire way, my eyes are glued to the rearview mirror, expecting—or maybe hoping—to see the man from my dreams following us.