Chapter 29
Renata
Pacing in front of the fireplace in my bedroom, I do my best to ignore Hexate’s stare, Nestor’s presence, and the knowledge that Archer is moving his stuff into the room down the hall.
Since meeting Sybil last night, I have let Rowyn handle the logistics.
She enjoys this stuff the most, so it’s cruel to take the hostess job away from her.
As my dreams become more incoherent and the visions more frequent, I’m turning into a forgetful husk of who I was.
I’ve never had problems remembering important dates and conversations until recently.
I played down how much things have progressed when speaking to the group last night. There’s no reason to worry them. The only solution is ending this curse, or I may very well live up to my mother’s warnings and throw myself off a cliff before it gets worse.
I was surprised and hurt Archer didn’t find me in our dreams last night. I expected him to, if only to finish what Sybil interrupted. Every night I’ve spent with him since the day I saw his face has chiseled away at my resolve and distance.
When I woke up just after the moon hit its peak, I knew I wouldn’t find sleep again.
Not after the fractured memories of Petra I lived through.
It had only been a few hours of sleep, but it felt like a lifetime being stuck in her consciousness.
I’m not even sure how she did it. It’s something I’ve never experienced before, or thought was possible.
It bred new questions rather than answer any of the ones I already have, as every encounter with Petra seems to do.
It started with youthful memories of her and Nestor’s early relationship, when they were two hopeful kids who wanted to bond their souls forever.
Quickly, the warm nostalgia faded as I drowned in Petra’s grief of losing her mother, and the new responsibilities that felt like cinder blocks tied to her ankles.
Then it jumped to Petra holding one of her coven members, Rhiannon Connor, as she tearfully waved goodbye to her beloved.
She held her still flat belly and didn’t let out an audible sob until he was out of earshot.
Next, it was weeks later when she broke down on the floor and told Barrett that she was pregnant.
It was the same memory of her throwing the vase I first experienced when I sprained my ankle a few weeks ago.
He barged in from the loud crash and picked her up, gently wiping her cuts from the glass and everything else she broke that night.
Then it ended with Nestor coming home—defeated, guilty, and ashamed. Barrett held Petra as she sobbed from the watch tower’s balcony, a mess of relief and heartbreak when she saw her missing husband.
I woke up in a freezing cold, sweating mess, tangled in my sheets.
I was thankful Hexate had gone out hunting so I wouldn’t concern her with my deteriorating mental health. There’s nothing I can do to keep Nestor away. If anything, as the days pass, he stays closer to me.
Sometimes I catch him opening his mouth, as if he’s trying to tell me something, then closing it and morphing into his small, chaotic orb.
While I wouldn’t consider my omission to be a lie, there is one secret I’ve been keeping from the coven.
A few nights ago, I brought out my spirit board to try communicating with Nestor. It was a horrible fail and left me to perform cleansing baths for days. The reason I haven’t told anyone is because aspects of my magic often leaves people uneasy or fearful.
Throughout every moment of craziness, none of my friends—or even Archer and Sybil in the short amount of time I’ve known her—have looked at me like that.
It’s something I’m used to, unfortunately.
My mother hated when I would resurrect the animals and insects I’d sometimes find around the gardens, especially if they were pests. I was never able to just leave them.
It’s been years since one person saw my abilities as a gift. I don’t want to lose that by bringing attention to the less desirable aspects of it.
I often find myself longing for Cordelia’s letter, the one my mother cruelly threw into the fire. The only tangible piece of evidence I had that someone valued me—my magic. It may be pathetic to hold onto the words of a dead stranger. I don’t care.
As much as I appreciated Agatha’s letter, it isn’t lost on me that she never acknowledges my spirit magic. She said she doesn’t fear me, which has been monumental in and of itself, but that doesn’t clear up anything regarding how she views my abilities.
Petra’s journal crashes to the floor, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
My head whips toward Nestor first, used to his antics. He’s in the far corner of the room, watching solemnly, as he has been this entire time. Confused, I turn toward Hexate who is propped up on the foot of my bed.
She’s coiled tight with her head lazily resting on her body, but her tail is rattling. As if to prove her point, she uses it to push my smoky quartz crystal off the bed.
Scoffing, I hurriedly step forward and pick up her mess. “What are you doing?”
There’s more bite in my words than I mean for. I’ve grown more irritable as of late, whether it be from the insanity creeping in the peripheral of my mind, or the lack of sleep.
Of course she can’t answer, but her head angling toward the door is enough of an indication.
He’s here.
“Yes,” I mutter and slam the things back on the bed. “I’m aware.”
She watches me before slowly slithering down the bed post and toward the door.
“I’m staying right here,” I insist with the petulance of a young child.
If a snake could roll their eyes, Hexate would be doing so right now. Instead she hisses at me and whacks her tail against the bottom of the door.
Throwing it open, I glare down at her. “You want to go? Be my guest.”
Waiting to see how serious I am, she makes the decision to enter the hallway where she stops to look back at me. There’s a long stare-off between us, and her growing disappointment comes through our bond. The same one I experienced when I told Rowyn I would be staying in my room due to a migraine.
I’ve never met anyone who sees me as clearly as Rowyn, so she didn’t need perception abilities to realize I was lying.
As I’m about to slam the door shut, Esme’s teasing cackle breaks out from down the hall. Turning my head, I try to catch a glimpse of what’s going on, but they must be in a bedroom.
It could be Sybil’s room—they’re probably helping her get settled.
I don’t know much about prophecies or how they come to be, but Sybil apparently spends a lot of time in the space between reality and her consciousness.
I’ve about convinced myself of that when Esme’s voice comes pouring out of the same room. “Whatever you say, Lover Boy.”
She turns out of Archer’s room with her arms full of bedsheets, and sees me standing at the other end of the long hallway.
Her mouth pops open in surprise before she forces a smile and says, “Renata. Hi.”
Unsure how to handle this situation, I turn on my heel at the same moment I see his tall, lean form step out behind her. The image leaves a sour taste on my tongue as I slam the door shut, not giving Hexate the opportunity to come back.
The window is always open for her if she really wants to get back, but she feels a bit like a traitor at the moment. She knew I would see one of the most beautiful women with Archer.
Esme isn’t just naturally beautiful, and all of the witches I’ve come to love are, but her magic enhances that. Her sensuality and allure is addictive. It’s the same for all water witches, but there’s something different about Esme.
The witch who taught my age range for most of my formal schooling once said that sometimes if our powers are too strong and we haven’t tapped into their potential yet, other aspects of our elements can be heightened.
It is our bodies’ way of releasing the excess magic before it builds up and leads to decay fever.
It’s not the first time I’ve wondered how strong Esme would be if she was given the space to explore that.
Maybe in another life, when I could be anyone other than Renata Blackthorn, I’d be more captured by her mere presence. In a life where there wasn’t a curse and generations of Gray Witches to worry about.
Or even an Archer Vexley to worry about.
As I sit on the edge of my bed and wade through my dark, inky emotions, I’m not worried about Archer growing interested in Esme, and I’m certainly not worried about Esme attempting to pursue something with him.
If anything, that makes me more confused.
This possessiveness I feel for him.
It’s not only confusing, but wrong.
The only part of Archer I have a right to is his death—even if it kills me at the same time.
While I’ve accepted that I need to do anything I can to keep this coven and town safe, as well as give all of the future Gray Witches in the Blackthorn family a fair chance, I’ve accepted that my life will end with his. There’s no way to go on after.
My coven has been understanding of our current working theory so far. No one has any other ideas, and the evidence points toward Barrett. Now that the Vexley twins are under our roof and the friendships are brewing, I can’t expect them to be fine with the outcome, despite knowing it’s the only way.
Looking at Nestor, our somber expressions mirror each other, but only one of us has tears running down their cheeks.
Wiping one from my chin, I quietly promise, “I’ll do whatever I have to so you and Petra can finally find peace.”
His apparition flickers.
“Nestor, I need you to behave,” I continue, pushing the subject since he’s calm right now. “He’s not going anywhere, and I won’t commit any murders until I’m absolutely sure.”
In a blink of an eye, he dissolves into smoke before it forms into the glowing, floating ball that always means trouble.