Chapter 30
Archer
It’s been two weeks since Sybil and I moved into the inn, and I have to give it to Renata’s coven. They have done an amazing job at subtly keeping distance between her and me.
We see each other at dinner, unless I’m at the library or she has a migraine, which is becoming more frequent. During my free time, I help around the inn as much as I can. Even with seven people, the work feels endless.
I swear the inn accumulates dust and grime at a rate that would send a Hearth Witch into hysterics. It’s impressive how patient and determined Rowyn has been.
The kitchen and dining room are in the best shape, being used most often and where Rowyn spends most of her time.
There aren’t any repairs the former needs other than a fresh coat of paint and some updated appliances, but it’s nothing that makes it inhospitable.
The dining room is halfway stripped of its wallpaper, but it’s old, brittle, and stuck.
Most of the bottom floor and the wing our rooms are located in are waiting for their own restoration, It would be easy to get overwhelmed.
I take the coven’s lead, focusing on one thing at a time.
As for the rest of the house, most of the upstairs is in need of a deep cleaning and repairs.
Rowyn keeps Sybil and me busy, using the excuse that since we come from a family of Hearth Witches, we are her biggest assets when it comes to cleaning.
She even lets Sybil help her cook most nights, and according to Clementine, Rowyn typically prefers her solitude when she’s in the kitchen.
I’m often sent into town to check on textiles, fabrics, and furniture they ordered a couple months ago.
It’s slowly starting to finish, and Sybil’s pick-up truck is the largest vehicle we have.
None of them, except Renata, know how my magic manifests. I assume they think because Sybil and I are twins, we have the same type of divination magic. Even without my perception, I realize they are controlling the situation for Renata’s benefit.
You can’t manipulate someone whose magic is literally designed to do that.
It would bother me more if they weren’t so damn good to Sybil.
They’ve accepted her into their coven with open, understanding arms. Even Renata.
Between the two of us, my twin has had more time with her than I have on this plane of existence.
It’s overwhelming seeing them together—the two people who know me better than anyone. That has only been cemented since the first night I spent here.
Despite Renata’s reluctance to spend time with me when we’re awake, I’ve found her every night since I moved in. Our proximity makes it easier. I don’t even have to try, and she never uses the charm to wake herself either.
Barrett hasn’t made another appearance, but Petra and Nestor watch us most nights. Renata has started to ignore them, and they stay in the shade of the trees while we bask in the warm, golden sunrays closer to the lake.
This is a step forward on this weird path we’ve been walking along together. We used to stay closer to the area her ancestors have now taken over. It’s like when we moved into the openness of the meadow, some of the windows to Renata’s soul opened along with them.
I haven’t pushed her to give us a chance or mentioned what almost happened on Gale’s porch. Instead, I’ve focused on all the years I missed but now have access to.
The first few nights, I kept it lighter.
I asked her about the time she resurrected a black wasp at eleven and it woke up only to sting her sister Agatha on the cheek. It was the first fight they had. She was reluctant to tell me the story, but the ice began to melt with each word and soft chuckle.
A single word didn’t go unheard as she spoke, but everything else about her was just as important—the way her thin shoulders relaxed, how her faint freckles look like glitter under the setting sun, and that sweet scent that’s always infused with a hint of her morning tea I’ve become addicted to.
Not that I’m getting nearly as much as I need—nor is it as strong in that state as it is when we’re awake. None of our senses are, least of all touch and smell. I’d guess taste falls into that category, as well.
Fuck, it’s better than nothing. I’d do anything to never go back to what things were like before we got to Briarhollow.
Living under one roof and never getting a moment with her is killing me. It was hard enough to stay away when we were in the same town, but this could be classified as emotional torture.
Which has brought me to standing outside her door for the last fifteen minutes, working through all the possible outcomes of me knocking on that door.
She could be asleep.
Rowyn could have charmed this whole place to notify her when anyone disturbs Renata—I wouldn’t put it past her.
Renata could open the door and slam it in my face. I don’t think my ego would recover from that one.
Nestor, who has avoided me so far, could appear before me and do Gods know what.
Or maybe, just maybe, she’s awake and agrees on my late night adventure.
Before I come to a decision, two giggling voices pull my attention to the staircase in the middle of the hallway. Esme and Clover fall into curious silence when they see me. Realization dawns on them almost immediately.
I’m not surprised to find them together, sneaking a plate of Rowyn’s dark chocolate raspberry squares and glasses of warm milk.
They’re the closest in age to each other—a few years younger than Sybil, Rowyn, Renata, and me, but more than half a decade older than Clementine.
The entire coven is as close as sisters, but there’s a special connection between those two.
I see the same thing in Renata and Rowyn.
My mouth drops open but after a few seconds of uncertainty, it closes.
A slow, smug smirk pulls on Esme’s lips as Clover’s eyes twinkle with giddy surprise. There’s anticipation radiating off of them. I’m not sure if it makes me excited or anxious.
Not sure what else to do, I shrug my shoulders as if that’s answer enough.
Apparently it is, because the two witches share a long look before glancing at Rowyn’s door.
Esme quietly slides across the wood floor in her thick, wool socks, and comes to a stop a few feet away. “Oh,” she whispers and waves her hand in the direction of Rowyn’s bedroom door. “She’s a twenty-seven-year-old grandmother who sleeps like the dead during a full moon.”
My brows flick up at the strange fact about my new chaperone.
“It’s true,” Clover says with a nod. “There’s no waking her until approximately sunrise.”
Looking back at Renata’s door, I ask, “And this one? Does she sleep like the dead?”
Sharing another quick look, Clover shakes her head, but Esme’s the one who says, “No. Never.”
Staring at the door, the only obstacle separating us other than our own stubbornness, I take a deep breath and steel my shoulders. When I look back at the two of them, they are already sliding in Clover’s room.
I hear the quiet click of the lock at the same time my bravery starts to wane.
The worst she can say is no, I tell myself, and the worst that could happen is upsetting Nestor.
It probably shouldn’t be as comforting as it is, but I don’t over think it. Quickly knocking, I wait… and wait… and w—
The door flies open, and there she is, practically glowing in the soft candlelight.
Her white-blonde hair has a faint golden tint to it because of the flames, and her cheeks are flushed, like she quickly got out of bed.
She does look startled, even a little concerned.
It fades into something else when she realizes it’s me.
There’s curiosity, sure, but also a very faint sparkle of pleasure twinkling in her eyes.
“Archer,” she breathes and glances across the hall. “What are you doing here?”
Chuckling, I lean against the door frame and shove my hands in my pockets. I haven’t bothered changing because I knew there was a small chance I’d be getting sleep tonight.
That’s what ultimately sparked this plan—not wanting Renata to wonder why I didn’t come find her in our dreams. The longer I thought about it, if I couldn’t sleep, it only made sense to come to her while I was awake.
“I heard the warden sleeps like the dead during a full moon,” I say with a tilt of my lips.
“We’re a weird coven,” she admits.
That’s when I take in the rest of her. Her pretty face, bare of any cosmetics, makes her freckles the brightest I’ve seen. The familiar pink crawls across her skin the longer I take her in. I couldn’t look anywhere else if my life depended on it.
Not when she’s in a silk nightgown, one of the thin straps slipping down her arm.
The soft gray complements her porcelain complexion by emphasizing the wispy, soft way she has about herself.
I try not to stare—fuck, I try—but I want to make sure every little detail of her is engraved into my memory for the rest of eternity.
She sucks in a breath, about to cross her arms over her chest, but thinks better about it. “What do you want, Archer?”
Dragging my eyes up her body, I say in a low, husky voice. “There’s something I found in the library I want to show you.”
She looks unsure, glancing all around the hallway and back into her room. I don’t let myself lean forward to see if Nestor is watching us, on the brink of a meltdown. My attention quickly comes back to Renata when she closes the door in my face.
I’m too stunned to run back to my room and lick my wounds in private.
After a minute, I’m glad I didn’t.
The door swings back open, revealing Renata trying to catch her breath. This time, she has a knitted cardigan on, a pair of short boots in one hand, and Hexate slithering up the other arm to coil around her shoulders.
“This better be good,” she demands and walks past me to the stairs.
It’s not good.
To be fair, it’s not bad.
It’s just… nothing.
I haven’t come across anything worth pulling her out of bed in the middle of the night, but we needed to get out of that inn with all their watching eyes.
As we sneak out the front door like two school-age witches, I become fully resolved in my decision. The giddy smile she tries to hide clues me into how much she’s enjoying this ridiculous mission to sneak out of the inn she owns.
At the bottom of the stairs, she makes a beeline toward the front gate, going to Sybil’s truck. Before I can think better of it, I grab her forearm and turn her back to me.
Furrowing her brows, she doesn’t ask questions as I guide her to a shed toward the east side of the property.
I’ve made this walk a few times now, so I keep her close under the excuse of not wanting her to trip or step in any of the weird, slimy mud.
The way she rolls her eyes tells me she doesn’t believe me, but she lets me anyway.
“I’ve never been this far,” she admits, sounding a bit frustrated with herself.
Shrugging and pushing the sliding door up, I say, “To be fair, Clover said Clementine found it.”
She lets out a low, dry chuckle that quickly turns into a full, sarcastic snicker as I pull the sheet off of my motorcycle. “Of course you have one of those death traps.”
“I don’t think I ever mentioned that,” I murmur and give her a meaningful look.
She shakes her head and reluctantly steps closer. “You haven’t—it was just expected.”
“Have you ever been on one?”
“No,” she says.
Holding her gaze, I grab the extra helmet off the nearby shelf and hold it between us. “Do you trust me?”
She looks between the helmet and me before sharing an intense look with her snake familiar. “I’m trying to.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I promise. It’s the most important oath I’ve ever made.
Her face almost crumples in response. “I’m not worried about me.”
“You keep saying that,” I muse and set the helmet on her head. She’s quiet as I buckle the strap under her chin, but I don’t push. I help her get settled on the back of my old, scrapped together motorcycle, and wrap her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
It’s cold out since we’re just past mid-spring, and I silently scold myself for not warning her to put on something warmer—though I’ve never seen her in pants.
The cardigan is warm against my fingers, so she must have used a heat charm on it, or maybe Rowyn did.
It’s something she’s probably done for all of their outerwear.
Once Renata is settled behind me, I slip my own helmet on, throw my leg over my bike, and turn it on. She reluctantly reaches out, holding onto the back of my thick crewneck. Biting back a smirk, I grab her hands and pull them around to the front of my chest until they’re firmly around me.
She lets out a little hmph, but interlaces her fingers anyway, holding tight.
Once I’m out of the property line and moving toward the main square, her grip tightens as I speed up.
Whisper comes running out of the nearby treeline and catches up.
Her fingers tickle my upper stomach, I drop my eyes for a second, catching the small wave Renata offers him.
He lets out a happy yip in response and sprints faster.
It’s a short drive, but there’s a reason I chose to restore this old bike with the mechanic in Junimere rather than something more practical like Sybil’s choice.
It feels free—like flying.
Despite calling it a death trap, I know Renata has spent her life searching for liberation, and I hope she finds the short-lived sensation on the back of my bike.
Within a few minutes, I’m pulling to a stop outside of the library and dismounting to help Renata do the same. The heat charm will only ward off so much of the chilly air, and I want to get her inside as soon as possible.
I have no idea what my plan is once I do. At the very least, I can let her look through the same books Sybil and I have had the opportunity to since none of the other witches have gone to the library since we moved in.
With my hands on her hips, I help her slide off, making sure she doesn’t burn her leg on the engine.
A shiver racks down her body when I grab onto her waist. There’s a soft blush visible under the moonlight, but her arms immediately wrap around each other as she waits for me to take the helmet off.
As much as I want to believe it’s solely because of my hands on her body, it’s partly because of the cold, night air.
“Let’s go inside,” I say and quickly lock both helmets in the rear basket.
She glances around the empty street but nods, following me up the stairs.