Chapter 20
Renata
Despite the familiar tall grass and warm sun rays, I know I’m dreaming just from the absence of the migraine I’ve had for days. It’s most likely a mix of the late nights, work around the inn, and being around a ghost all the time.
Even without summoning Nestor, his presence calls to my magic on a visceral level I can’t control.
It’s always prickling under my skin, brought to life by the lurking spirit.
It’s not exhausting itself because it isn’t being used, but it’s always on, ready to be let loose.
It never rests, making it harder for me to get any either.
Contrary to popular belief, Gray Witches don’t inhabit haunted places very often because of the toll it takes on us.
The possibility of it sending someone straight into madness is a Blackthorn bonus.
When I finally open my eyes, I’m heartbroken to see Nestor and Petra standing on the small crop of trees, staring. One night with Archer would have been nice, even if he can’t see me, before fate inevitably brings us together—only to tear us apart.
Hesitantly, I turn, looking for him.
Archer.
His name has been rattling around my head since Rowyn said it three days ago. I’ve avoided the library since—not leaving the property at all in fear of running into him.
He’s sitting right next to me, attempting to run his knuckles along my cheek like he always does.
Except this time, I can see him.
It really is the man from the library.
He’s in Briarhollow—and I can see him.
Up close, he’s even more handsome. His short, dark brown hair is tousled like he ran his fingers through it, and his bright blue eyes are piercing. Not in an unsettling way, but one that somehow holds protectiveness and affection.
Which is weird, because the desperate frustration painted across his features makes me think he still can’t see me.
He never got a look at Rowyn or me in the library, but he could tell someone was watching him.
There’s a layer of scruff that covers his strong jaw and cheeks—bringing my attention to the small hoops and studs decorating his ears. There are a couple on each side, and it fits the casual edginess I picked up from his general demeanor earlier.
His hand settles flat against my cheek, and I hate that I still can’t touch him. I watch as his brows furrow and he mutters something to himself. I slowly reach up and touch my own cheek, right where his hand should be.
The frustration grows when my hand passes through his, and he spits out, “Fuck.”
At least, I think that’s what he says. His mouth looks slightly warped every time he talks. Maybe if I had heard him earlier, I could have unlocked more of him in this state. I’d take this tease over having none of him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper and lower my hand to my lap. My eyes snag on the couple behind him. “I hate that I brought them here again.”
He follows the movement of my hand before looking over his shoulder. His eyes flit around the space, never focusing on a specific spot. Concern creeps into his furrowed brows as he frowns deeply.
When he turns back around, he shifts his body to the side like he’s trying to cover me from something. He moves in the opposite direction of them, and I wonder if he can see them.
Or if it’s only me haunted by them.
The couple stands a few meters away, looking somber and attentive. It’s more than that from Petra though—there’s so much yearning for what we have.
How ridiculous, I think to myself.
Archer and I have nothing. I can’t imagine a world in which our fate isn’t so directly linked by this curse.
Maybe Petra misses her life with Nestor, or wants to be with him in the afterlife after a hundred years.
Or maybe she’s grieving the face of the man in front of me, not beside her.
For once, I can’t bring myself to feel sympathy for her.
Looking over Archer’s shoulder, I look at the woman who shares my face, and shoot daggers at her.
I hope she’s able to read my emotions as strongly as I can read hers—so she will know everything.
All of the isolation, abuse, and heartbreak I faced because of the choices she and her coven made.
She needs to feel the anger of not getting the option to have a short life with the man next to me, because I’m forced to deal with whatever business is left over from the two of them.
All I get back from her is guilt and understanding with the undercurrent of yearning that always accompanies Petra’s emotions, even the happiest of them.
Glancing back at Archer, he’s looking around again, trying to understand what’s going on. The next time he turns and his gaze settles on me, I raise my hand and make the same gesture he has a million times.
I place my hand on his cheek as if I could caress him. Even though my hand went through his once before tonight, hope sours in my stomach, and I can’t help but hate myself for it.
It wouldn’t do Archer or me any good to become emotionally entangled in each other—not if my only theory of how to break this godforsaken curse is true. After a week of hiding at the inn, no one else has come up with anything with an ounce of plausibility.
Even without speaking to him, I already have so much affection for this man that I’m not sure I’d survive having to harm him in any way.
I mean, how does anyone live through committing such violence on anyone?
Even if he were a stranger, I don’t know that I could sacrifice someone for my own wellbeing and live another eighty years.
I’ve been trying to remind myself that my goal is to end the practice of disowning Gray Witches in my family—or at least, giving them a safe coven to be a part of.
Whatever happens to me after the curse is broken won’t matter.
I don’t have to live with the reality of what I’m destined to do, and the inn will be taken care of. There will be a coven to carry on Petra’s legacy with honesty.
“Maybe in the afterlife,” I whisper to Archer and pretend to glide my fingers along his chin, imagining what the short, coarse hair feels like.
Despite the words coming out nearly silent, the wind must have carried them to Petra because her face morphs into anger again. She starts marching forward and I flinch back, pulling away from Archer.
He reaches for me, trying to grab my waist, but I fall onto my back and let out a scream when she stands in front of me. Pointing a finger at my face, she talks belligerently at me.
She’s almost as crazed as Nestor was in my bedroom that night, and I’m positive she’d be worse if he wasn’t holding her tightly to him, trying to pull her back. His touch only angers and disgusts her—all of it consuming me—and she turns around to smack him away. He doesn’t budge.
Archer’s face pops up in front of me, blocking them from view. Each of his hands are firmly planted on either side of my head as he stares down at me with a feral, protective expression.
As much as I hate the reality of it, that’s my cue to end our visit here for the night.
Looking back at Archer, I let myself soak in his handsome face and comforting presence for another second, hating this twisted history we share.
I wonder if Barrett knew the fate he was leaving behind for his descendents when he murdered my ancestors.
Reluctantly, I set my hand on his chest, right where his heartbeat should be.
I let out a deep breath and murmur, “Espercito bannener bannener. Espercito bannener bannener. Espercito bannener bannener.”
When I wake up in my cold, lonely bed, I curl over and sob—even a bit for Petra, as much as I hate the soul-deep empathy I have for her.
Hexate slithers up the mattress from somewhere near my feet, silently coiling herself around my forearm and hand.
Too scared to go back to bed—partly from the fear of seeing him again, but mostly from the possibility of not finding him—I lie in bed, staring out the open window until the first songbirds begin their morning routines, and let the tears quietly fall as I think through every memorable moment of my life this far, wondering how the fuck I ended up here.
My self-pity can only go so far before I force myself to crawl out of bed. I spend some time taking a long, hot shower, then throw on a simple plaid skirt and sleeveless turtle-neck before I go downstairs, looking for the other women.
All four of them are sitting at the kitchen table. Even Esme is here, which means it’s closer to lunchtime.
The kitchen is the room we commune in most often. It leaves the main den for more serious topics and meetings, and the dining room for dinners. It wasn’t really something we talked about, more so just the way it worked out.
Despite how much we’ve cleaned and been able to restore the house with our joined magic, we’ve reached some roadblocks as our spending money dwindles.
Maybe it’s because Rowyn has expelled the most magic into the kitchen, since it’s where she spends the most time. It’s homier than anywhere else thus far.
That very well could just be the Hearth Witch’s presence though.
“Morning, Ren,” Clover calls as I slip into the room.
Lifting a hand, I wave half-heartedly and fill up the kettle.
Staring out the window, I wait for it to fill with water and get lost in my own thoughts for a few moments.
Thinking back to Archer, for the millionth time since I woke up last night.
My mind bounces back and forth between how attractive he is, and the protective expression he was sporting as he tried to use his body to cover me.
I’ve always wondered what his feelings toward me are—at least whatever semblance of feelings he can have toward a person who he has never seen or spoken to—but last night was different.
There was a strong sense of resolution pumping through him, only growing when the protectiveness started to bleed into his emotions.
“You know,” Clementine chirps in a teasing tone, “I would say ‘good morning’ to you, but you don’t look it.”
“Clementine,” Clover quietly chastises from the bench where she’s re-braiding her younger sister’s hair.