Chapter 24
Archer
I’ve never been sure how Sybil can read me so perfectly. It goes beyond her magical abilities or being twins. She always knows what I need to hear without any context.
Last night when we were getting back from dinner at the Wolf & Flame, she stopped me right before I walked into my room. The assured, clear look in her eyes told me she was temporarily out of her trance-like state.
She said, “All you have to do is trust your magic, Archer—let it lead you sometimes.”
She has seen how much I struggle with my connection to my abilities sometimes. Divination Witches are almost as misunderstood as Gray Witches, but Sybil has the type of magic that people can understand.
The kind of magic humans make into party tricks, or that you’d find on the boardwalks with a crystal ball.
My sense of perception makes witches uneasy—manipulated, even. It’s an unnatural thing for a witch to be uncomfortable with magic, to not fully honor that connection to the highest degree.
And yet…
I’m always worried about how opening myself up to my magic will affect my relationships. Not that I have many right now outside of Sybil and Gale. I know they both wish I’d stop fighting it, so her unsolicited advice kept me up all night.
First, I was trying to figure out what the hell she meant.
Let it lead me where?
That question kept my mind preoccupied for a few hours, always going back to where I hoped it would lead me.
Then it suddenly hit me—what Sybil was really trying to say.
The “where” won’t matter nearly as much as the “why,” and the only way to ask that question is by going.
As soon as I woke up, I changed and went to find Whisper. Our bond gives him better tracking and hunting skills than the average coyote. Most of the time, he finds what I’m looking for faster than I do.
It doesn’t take long to find him slinking over town lines from the nearby forest after a night of hunting.
Trusting he will catch up, I turn down the street, toward the main square.
I’d walk all day if it brought me closer to the woman in my dreams, or the truth of that fateful night a hundred years ago.
Whisper looked determined to stay every second with me after I explained what I was doing today.
Maybe I should be surprised my magic called me here—to the Dreaming Willow Inn.
I knew it was on the outskirts of town, but part of me felt like it wasn’t time, or right to be here. Gale never gave me any more details about the coven, and I didn’t ask.
Letting out a dry laugh, it’s so obvious now.
I’m still standing outside of the gate, certain I’ll find her inside that manor.
There’s too much to unpack with that realization right now. I don’t want to lose my nerve to knock on the door, but the awareness of what it means for her to be a Blackthorn Gray Witch begins to settle.
In hindsight, it was clearly the answer.
I glance at Whisper. His ears are perked, tracking everything around us, but otherwise he looks uninterested—which is better than seeing his hackles raised.
Taking a deep breath, I mutter a quiet, “Fuck it,” and push the gate open.
The moment my hand connects with the iron, I’m frozen in place—literally frozen.
My entire body feels like being thrown naked into a pile of snow.
It’s a type of cold I’m familiar with having grown up in Junimere.
It’s the kind that seeps into my bones and infuses with the very marrow of them, until I’m unsure if I’ll ever be able to shake it.
The most horrifying part about it are the emotions hitting me like a cascade of arrows.
Short-lived affection and happiness are immediately clouded by guilt, heartbreak, and jealousy.
My stomach sours at the realization of these emotions, because I know they belonged to Barrett.
In every story I’ve heard about him, his jealous rage is somehow the culprit of two deaths, a disbanded coven, and a curse spanning generations. The only mystery left is where he went.
I don’t move for a few seconds, squeezing my eyes shut and tightly gripping the gate, Whisper whimpers next to me.
Forcing myself to shake off the bitterness lingering under my skin, I look down and pat him. He rubs against my leg, assuring both of us that whatever happened wasn’t real—at least not in the tangible sense.
Kicking the rest of the gate open, I make sure it’s wide enough for Whisper without having to touch it. I’m not sure how that would affect him through our bond.
I slowly walk the short path and look around the front lawn.
All of the plants are dried carcasses. I’m familiar with many herbs, elixirs, and potions from working in my mom’s healing clinic most of my life, but even she wouldn’t know how to make sense of this.
Only a Green Witch would have the abilities to see into the depth of plants long gone.
Nothing I’ve read said the inn itself is cursed, but they’re like viruses and infect anything it comes into contact with.
The thing that stands out the most to me is the dirt—maybe it’s mud? I’m not sure.
I haven’t seen anything like it before. Different types of soil are used in many different recipes, so I am familiar with what it looks like.
This dirt is thick and gunky. There aren’t any clay particles or deposits anywhere nearby, and I highly doubt this property gets consistent, fresh, organic matter to naturally produce this kind of texture.
Stopping before the porch steps, I kneel and take in the peculiar tan color. Much lighter than any mud I’ve ever seen with a faint green tinge to it, making it look almost sickly.
Barely thinking about it, I scoop up a handful.
Just as I was beginning to suspect—it’s dry and gritty like sand, but it moves in a slimy manner, slowly rolling off my hand in one long string of gunk.
“That’s weird,” I mutter and wipe my hands together.
Whisper lets out a yip of agreement and sniffs the small hole I made. After a few seconds, he loses interest, and I continue up the stairs and knock on the front door.
On the other side, I hear an unfamiliar voice yell out, “I’ll get it!” before it swings open.
I’m not sure who looks more shocked—me, or the young witch standing in front of me.
Her dark eyes widen, but she quickly schools her expression into indifference and crosses her arms.
I’d guess she was around fifteen from the haughty way she crosses her arms. It reminds me of my youngest sister who recently turned seventeen.
This young witch has long, black braids with gold cuffs throughout, and a warm, tawny complexion. Her round face looks far too youthful and inviting to take her anger very seriously, but I have three sisters, and have learned to not underestimate a woman’s rage.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a snarky tone and pops her hip out for added dramatics.
“Yeah, I’m looking—” I pause, remembering that I still don’t know her name. “I’m looking for someone, and I think she might be here.”
She has almost no reaction to what I said—no concern, no surprise. Nothing. “Hm,” is all I get as she pushes the door open, and sweeps her arm in a way that I assume should be inviting.
Stepping inside, I’m about to elaborate, maybe describe the features of who I’m looking for, but there’s a small sense of excitement knowing I can even do that now. Before I get the chance, she turns down the hallway and says, “Follow me.”
I don’t bother asking where she’s going, remembering Sybil’s advice—I’m here for a reason.
The interior is bigger than it looks from the outside, and it takes us down a couple of hallways before she pushes a swinging door open, and we stop in the main kitchen.
At the interruption, another witch turns hastily around. When she sees me, her mouth and the hand holding a large butcher knife slowly lower as her eyes grow wider.
“We have a guest,” the young witch deadpans, and I practically hear the smirk in her voice. “You always said to bring visitors straight to you, not to—”
“That’s enough, Clementine,” the older witch with dark red hair tells her in an authoritative tone. “Why don’t you go find your sister and… everyone else?”
I’m focused on the new witch in front of me, but I can hear Clementine turn on her heel and jog out of the room.
I’m a little scared of her with that knife, truthfully.
A moment later, she sets it down and steps forward.
“Sorry about all that,” she says in a soft, welcoming voice. “We don’t get a lot of visitors around here.”
“Makes sense,” I tell her with a shrug. Reaching my hand out, I add, “I’m Archer Vexley—I work at the library.”
She assesses me before returning the gesture. “Rowyn Connor.”
“You’re Gale’s granddaughter?”
“I am,” she confirms. “I’d have your job if my magic didn’t draw me back to the kitchen every day.”
“Lucky me,” I joke.
She tilts her head and asks with a curious smile, “Are you lucky?”
My mouth opens and closes a couple of times, unsure how to answer that.
In a lot of ways, I’d say no. Most days I feel like a dead man walking, waiting for the ghosts of my family’s past to catch up with me.
However, that job at the library is part of what keeps Sybil and me in Briarhollow, and how I’ve ended up here. Waiting for the woman from my dreams to make an appearance.
As if I summoned her myself, I hear the voice I’ll never be able to forget.
“What the hell are you doing here?”