Chapter 22
Archer
Over the last few nights, I’ve sat up wondering if this is how the woman in my dreams felt when I didn’t visit her for a few months.
One day, I woke up after spending a night with her and told myself I couldn’t do that again—not only to myself, but to her.
It wasn’t fair, and I thought I was doing right by both of us.
After trying to find her the last few nights, I realize now what it feels like to have that choice taken away.
Every night, I’ve tried to find her in our meadow, needing to see that she’s okay after the last time.
I’ve never been so worried. Not being able to see what causes her so much distress or comfort her made me fucking feral.
Her panic was coursing through me, making me want to scour the earth until I found her.
Then she was gone.
I assume she used the spell to wake herself up since it’s the second time she’s disappeared so quickly. Usually, it’s a slow fade as consciousness slowly starts to burrow its way in.
I’ve been telling myself that she’s alive and safe, because I’d feel it if she wasn’t.
Truthfully, I don’t know whether that’s possible, but with this mental connection we’ve developed over the last decade, a part of me believes it.
If I could find her in our dreams, get one half-glimpse of her and a sense of her emotions, I could be positive.
The restless nights of untangling my subconscious in search of her is taking a physical and mental toll on me. From the look of concern on Sybil’s face this morning, she’s starting to see it too.
I promised myself one week of deep, uneventful sleep before I search for her again.
Even if that means taking a sleep elixir.
My mom would often make them for Sybil and me when we were kids—Divination and Gray Witches are naturally prone to nightmares when their magic is developing—but with her halfway across the continent, I’ll have to buy one.
Gale suggested The Healing Cauldron even though his daughter, Sorrell, and granddaughters are Hearth Witches themselves.
He doesn’t talk about them much, other than when he took Sybil and me to lunch so we could get an idea of the town.
We learned that the Connor witches own a small tea shop that focuses on mental health remedies and elixirs.
He was clearly proud of the family’s legacy, even though he said tensions are high amongst his family.
At this point in my exhaustion, the sunlight is burning my eyes, and I forgot my sunglasses back at the library. So, most of the walk has been spent squinting down at my feet.
It’s a small reprieve when I leave the harsh natural light and enter the soft, low light of the storefront.
Usually when I’m less exhausted, I’d be more aware of the tingling sense of awareness that sparks in my blood as I open the door and take a step in. Yet, even with my magic dimmed by fatigue, my gaze instantly finds her once I look up.
The entire world around us could come crashing down in this exact moment, and I would be none the wiser.
Because for the first time, I’m seeing her—the woman in my dreams.
I’ve spent many lonely and desperate nights wondering what she would look like. She’s tall with a slim, lithe body, and that she has silver blonde hair with a pale complexion. But everything else is a brand new sight.
Her sharp, onyx eyes give away her surprise at seeing me. The perfect bow of her full lips are open in surprise, and a soft pink blush paints her cheeks.
She turns toward the older witch who must own the shop, and speaks too quietly for me to hear. The older woman pushes something into her hands and she turns toward the door—toward me.
Before she can get any further, the shop owner grabs her arm and pushes the product back into her palm. There’s a rushed interaction between them, but all I can focus on is her.
The woman in my dreams is here, almost within reach for the first time.
She’s sweeping past me before I’ve gathered my bearings, and she’s out the door. Only the memory of her silky strands flying in the wind behind her and the lingering scent of sweet florals with a hint of woodsy, herbal tea call to all my senses. Like a bloodhound on a scent, I have to follow her.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly say to the shop owner. “I’ll be right back.”
Before she can respond, I turn around and follow the woman around the corner. I don’t run, not wanting to spook her or gain any more attention, but I don’t need to. Not when my magic will lead me right to her.
She’s not very fast, so I catch the sharp left turn she makes and slowly walk up to her. I intentionally kick a few pebbles on the way so she hears me move closer.
Now, with only a foot between us, I let myself take in the sight of her again.
She’s catching her breath and closing her eyes tight. Up close like this, I can see the faint freckles that spread across her cheeks and nose. They aren’t noticeable from a distance, like they’re a secret she keeps to herself and those close to her.
Not that I would be considered in that category—but at the same time, how couldn’t I be?
There’s a familiarity between us. Even now, she’s anxious, but not scared.
Letting the tendrils of my magic reach forward, anticipation runs through my veins.
I’m partly in shock, but mostly, the only thing I feel is infatuation with the beautiful woman in front of me.
There are so many things I want to say to her. Thousands of questions to ask.
Is she as called to me as I am to her?
How many days did she spend imagining what this moment would be like?
Why is she always so sad, even now?
Taking a deep breath, the only thing that comes out in a gravelly tone is, “It’s you.”
It’s simultaneously the lamest thing I could say at this moment, and the only thing that feels appropriate.
She slowly opens her eyes, and the redness from holding back her tears adds a soft glint to her onyx eyes. She tilts her head and responds in a small, breathy voice, “Hi, Archer.”
I flinch, having to take a step to balance myself. It’s a punch to the heart to find out she knows my name. It cuts deep for some reason, realizing she has some semblance of a clue who I am, but didn’t want to fill me in.
“How do you know my name?” I ask, taking a step forward again.
She doesn’t move away from me, nor does she look scared or confused.
Only sad.
Always so fucking sad.
Immediately, my anger at her secret starts to fade.
It doesn’t surprise me she has as much of an influence on me here as she does in our dream state.
I’m sure if she gave me the chance, I’d let her have full control over me as long as it meant never losing the sight of her beautiful face again or the floral and tea scent that arouses me more than it probably should.
Instead of answering my question, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Taking another step forward, I watch the way she reacts to me closing some of the distance between us. Her breath grows shaky, and she instinctively leans closer to me.
When her wide eyes meet mine, a rush of emotions hits me like a hex to the heart.
I only let myself have a taste of them at first, but when she looks at me, they slam into me. Stronger than ever before.
The longing and heartbreak that courses through both of us mix with my adrenaline and exhilaration, creating a confusing yet intoxicating cocktail of emotions.
It fuels me forward until there’s only a couple of inches standing in the way of knowing what her body feels like against mine. I don’t close that gap though.
I do what I’ve literally dreamed about for over a decade.
I reach up and brush my fingers along her cheek.
Her skin is smooth like silk, and the lingering blush is warm against my fingers. She lets out a little gasp at the contact, and I’m hit by another wave of her sweet scent.
In other circumstances, I’d rub myself like a cat against her, already intoxicated by the touch.
Her breath shudders as her eyes close at the contact. I’m not sure she realizes how much she leans into my touch. I do it a second time, suspecting she’s going to pull away from me in three… two… one…
“Archer,” she breathes out with a shake of her head.
Taking a deep, frustrated breath, I put more of that godforsaken space between us and mutter, “I’m sorry—probably shouldn’t have done that.”
With a teasing tilt of her head, she whispers, “No, I don’t think you are.”
I shrug and offer her a haphazard smirk in response.
She chuckles, and it’s more playful than anything else I’ve gotten from her thus far. The sad gleam in her eye is still present, and suddenly, I’m worried it might always be.
“I have to go,” she says, starting to inch around me.
I have to fight the protective instincts that are already growing at an exponentially fast rate. I let out a disappointed sigh and drop my hand, taking a step back.
Helplessly, I ask, “Go where?”
She offers me a small, genuine smile when she says, “My coven’s waiting for me—it’s nearly dinnertime.”
Turning on her heel, she jogs back out of the maze, leaving me speechless in the wake of meeting her.
Subconsciously, I take a step forward, not meaning to follow after her, but being pulled to do so.
I’m stopped by a loud caw from above me.
A large raven is perched on one of the ornate arches, rousing in a sharp warning.
When I don’t make another move, the raven flies after her, leaving me to watch her disappear for the thousandth time.
Only it’s so much worse than ever before.
There was happiness when she spoke of her coven, making it a little easier to let her walk away without following her. With every step she puts between us, my heart wants to crawl out of my chest in an attempt to stay close to her.
After she raced off, I was stunned in place.
There are so many important things to consider, an endless amount of threads to untangle—yet all I can think about are those soft, faint freckles spreading across her cheeks.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking into the library. The sleep elixir has been forgotten in favor of trying to decide what those freckles remind me of.
As I fall onto the stool behind the check-out counter, it dawns on me.
They remind me of starlight—those faint, flickering specks that appear in the earliest hours of morning. Subtle against the brightening sky. The kind you have to pay attention to in order to truly see.
Something content settles over me once I piece that together, and I’m more relaxed than I have been in days.
Now that I’ve seen her, I’m not interested in suppressing my dreamwalking abilities. I don’t care if I lose a year’s worth of sleep if it means being close to her again—and I get the idea that she’ll do whatever she can to avoid me now.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice Sybil walking up from one of the aisles until she slams a hand on the counter next to me.
Startled, I flinch in reaction to the loud, aggressive movement, but quickly notice she’s still in her trance-like state, shuffling her tarot deck. She’s been coming out of it more often over the last few days, but whatever it is she’s looking for, she hasn’t found.
“Bil,” I start slowly, not wanting to spook her while she’s in this state. “What’s go—”
“I’m late,” she cuts me off. Her hands pause and her wide eyes are glued to mine but she isn’t really seeing me. “Archer, I’m late.”
“Late for what?”
“I—I don’t know,” she says in a low voice, more to herself than to me, and scrunches her brows in confusion.
Just as suddenly, she stops and flips over the reversed Lovers, sliding it toward me.
Staring down at the card for a few seconds, I let out a dry laugh.
Imbalance in the relationship. Detached partner. And fear of commitment.
I slide the card back into her deck and watch as she quickly blinks a few times before meeting my eye again.
This time, I’m positive it’s my sister in her most conscious state now.
I’ve learned to not blur the lines when she’s in and out of a prophetic trance like this, so I offer her an affectionate smile and wait for her to talk first.
She looks around, gathering her bearings. From the direction she came from behind me, I’m guessing she was in her room—probably napping or reading when the magic took over.
After a minute, she asks, “Are you hungry? I think it’s time for dinner.”
My first instinct is to squint in confusion at her, wondering if it’s a coincidence that she’s worried about missing dinner after the woman excused herself for that reason earlier.
Though, Sybil takes her routines very seriously—they help her keep some level of control when she’s having visions of this magnitude.
I mentally shake it off and nod, slipping my leather jacket back on. “Dinner sounds good. Let’s go.”
She smiles brightly—the most identical thing between us—and locks her arm with mine, chatting about the book she was reading while we walk to the Wolf & Flame Diner.