Chapter 31
Renata
Stepping through the doors of the library, I bite back my reluctant smile. Nothing about this night is what I expected. There’s even curiosity radiating off Hexate through our bond.
When Archer knocked on my door, I was flipping through Petra’s journal.
I’d read it in its entirety already but wanted to go through it again in case I missed any small detail.
With the full moon high in the sky, I knew sleep would evade me for at least a few more hours, and Nestor has been keeping a distance over the last few nights.
It brought about a surprising wave of loneliness, but I understand why our new roommates might be stirring up old emotions.
I felt like someone was watching me, but with Nestor off on his own, it was impossible. When there was a quiet knock on my door, I figured it was Esme and Clover after hearing their giggles from the top of the staircase.
None of the witches have come to my room in the middle of the night, so I hurried, worried something was wrong. I wasn’t expecting Archer standing on the other side, a cocktail of hope and guilt in his eyes.
As much as I should hate the change of plans, I don’t.
Not even when I got on the back of his motorcycle.
I’ve always been wary of them. Now, I find myself hoping to have the opportunity again.
I made Rowyn reluctantly promise to keep him busy so I could breathe without the worry of running into him around every corner.
The only reason she agreed is because I admitted that we spend every night together in our dreams.
It was enough to appease her. She’s done a miraculous job, despite Esme’s subtle actions to do the complete opposite. I’m skeptical to accept even a glass of water from her right now after her love potion joke—which reminds me to warn Archer about her possible antics.
There’s an equal chance he’d help her execute the whole thing.
The very idea should piss me off, but it doesn’t. Not that I want to be under the effects of a love potion, but Archer’s interest hasn’t wavered throughout his time at the inn.
A soft chuckle slips out at the thought of them scheming to get a love potion past me—much less Rowyn—at the same moment we get to the front desk.
Swiftly, he pulls off his leather jacket, revealing a black short-sleeve button up underneath, throwing it on the counter.
I don’t miss the curious, amused look he shoots me before schooling it into feigned innocence again.
He turns until he faces me directly. One arm is perched on the surface behind him, and the other is resting on his muscular, jean-clad knee. The sight of him is overwhelming, even weeks after seeing him for the first time.
Mix in his musky, dark scent, and the strong, calloused hands he always finds a reason to place on my body, and it’s addicting.
It’s exactly why I’ve put as much distance between us as I can.
“Where are the books?” I ask, taking a step forward and gazing at the empty countertop. I stop by his knees, not quite in the comfort of his open thighs, but close enough to siphon some of his warmth.
I was recklessly excited at the prospect of going on a late-night adventure with him that I didn’t think about changing into something warmer. It was stupid, really. At least I grabbed the cardigan Rowyn charmed when she first moved in.
He innocently smiles, making me squint in response. “Looks like Sybil restocked,” he says with a shrug. “Some of them will be up here in the main atrium. Most of the good stuff is in the basement.”
Rolling my eyes, I wave my arm in the air, directing him to the door to the restricted area. When he stands, he’s only inches from me, The one time I’m actively wishing he’ll touch me, he doesn’t. He turns on his heel and strides down the corridor.
I’m a few feet behind him, looking down every aisle we pass. I can’t help it—it’s kind of spooky in here.
A few months ago, I would’ve laughed at myself for thinking such a thing. Before, I wasn’t in the constant presence of a ghost and a nightmare with my face. Things change; like my bravery.
When we’re close to the end, something catches my eye. All I can see from where I’m standing is a dark shadow that slips around the bookcase into another aisle. Blinking rapidly, I turn, trying to be as subtle as possible.
The entrance door is closed, and it creaks loud enough to echo through the large room. I’m trying to shake off the eerie darkness creeping into the edges of my vision when another shadow, this time on my left, breezes past me before running down the aisle across from where the other one turned.
“Archer,” I quietly whisper and curse my voice for coming out so weak. “Did you lock the entrance?”
The door in front of us clicks open, but he pauses. “Yeah, it’s charmed to automatically lock outside of business hours. I can go check?”
I grab his forearm, squeezing tighter than necessary to try to get some of his warmth back in my body. “No, that’s okay. I was just wondering,” I say.
He watches me for a long moment, glancing over my shoulder at the doors a few times. There are a million questions racing through his eyes.
I’m so out of sorts that I might tell him everything if he asked right now.
Closing my eyes, I prepare for the interrogation, but it never comes.
In a gentle tone, he says, “Let’s go downstairs. I can lock this one from the inside.”
Can you lock me out of my mind instead?
Distantly, I’m aware of my head nodding, but I’m disconnected from my body. I’m in control enough to not waste any time rushing through the door, even if it is fruitless. Without turning around, I listen for the soft click of the lock, and breathe a sigh of relief when I hear it.
His hand finds my lower back, and he steps close behind me.
“There’s no one here,” he promises.
“I know… I just…” I trail off, not able to say the obvious.
Sybil’s proven to be quite nosey, and I assume she tells Archer anything I tell her. However, we haven’t talked about the symptoms of the curse. I can see her curiosity sometimes, like the questions are on the tip of her tongue. She always holds herself back.
According to Sybil, the only infliction upon their family line is the extinction of Divination Witches; at least until the two of them were born.
Apparently, the Vexleys were one of the few pedigrees who all had air magic.
After Barrett’s disappearance and his sister Everly fled, like the rest of the coven, there weren’t anymore.
It just stopped.
The Vexleys became Hearth Witches in a single generation and relocated to Junimere.
Sometimes I find myself jealous of their family’s fate—then guilt washes over me. Divination and Gray Witches have the lowest population, so it’s a tragedy for such a great line to end so abruptly.
Different from my family, but a tragedy nonetheless.
He stays close the entire way down the stairs.
I’ve grown familiar with the symptoms before the hallucinations.
With every step, the darkness begins to creep in further, and the room morphs into something else.
It’s the same basement with cement floors, stone walls, and bookcases as tall as the ceiling.
Yet it’s somehow different from the room I walked into with Archer.
Shaking my head, I take a deep breath and try to focus on something, anything, I know to be real.
Of course, my gaze finds Archer, illuminated under the soft candlelight like my own personal beacon to sanity.
“Renata,” he murmurs and places a hand on each of my cheeks. “It’s me, Little Wisp. Just you and me.”
Honing in on his dark blue eyes and the newly familiar scent of him, I’m doing my best to hold onto consciousness. He’s saying something, but I don’t bother trying to comprehend it. Instead, I focus on the steadiness of his gaze; it’s calm despite the underlying worry swimming in the depths.
Like this isn’t the first time he’s seen someone grapple with the reins of reality.
I blink, and suddenly it’s not Archer standing in front of me.
This man has the same shade of bright blue eyes as Archer. Their strong noses are identical, as are the trimmed beards and downturned lips.
From this close, the only indication that it’s Barrett standing in front of me is the scar through his left eyebrow.
This moment I’m re-living belongs to Barrett and Petra.
“No,” I whimper.
All of my hallucinations feel like reality at the moment but this one is even worse—Archer’s hands on me mimicking the way Barrett held Petra.
“Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t leave me now.”
Even Barrett’s voice sounds identical to Archer’s. That, mixed with Petra’s grief and yearning, makes me crumble.
Petra’s desperate to believe him, but her guilt continues to win out. She shakes her head.
Mine shakes in unison.
“No,” we say again.
I anticipate the crack of my knees on the cement, not bothering to prepare for it, but it never comes.
I’m dragged back to a standing position, my weight in Barrett’s—or Archer’s?—care now. Roughly, he wraps an arm around my waist and holds me against his chest. His other hand cradles my cheek as he pushes me backward until my back hits one of the bookshelves.
“I’ve got you, Petra,” Barrett vehemently swears. There’s a quiet echo that follows.
Renata.
“This isn’t real,” I say.
Pushing into my hair, he grips the strands tightly at the nape of my neck, making sure my eyes stay on him.
“Yes, it is.” He lightly shakes my head like he can shake my hallucinations out.
“You’re dead,” I shakily whisper.
It doesn’t matter who I’m talking to anymore—one man already is, and the other will be soon enough. At my own hand.
“Goddammit. I’m real. Me.” He presses his forehead to mine and lets out a deep, pained breath. “Whatever the fuck is going on in your head isn’t real, but I am, Renata.”
This time when I hear my name, it’s with the faint echo of Petra underneath it.
My eyes fly open. From this close, I can’t see if he has the scar.