Chapter 43
Renata
Two weeks and a day have passed since Archer left.
Two weeks of sleeping alone. Of hallucinations that are getting worse by the day. Of reading—then rereading—the ancient text Archer stole from the library, and looking for missed clues in Petra’s journals.
Two weeks of loneliness, disappointment, and dread.
We even missed celebrating his birthday together. Awake at least.
The coven and Gale had a dinner for Sybil. She received a gift and a letter from her family. It was clear she had the least interest in celebrating the day though—not without her twin.
He finds me in my dreams every night, and it’s one of the only things getting me through this time apart. Five hours isn’t the easiest time difference, but it’s manageable to find a couple hours together.
I’ve never had a hard time being away from someone before. With Archer, it could kill me.
He shouldn’t be more than a couple of miles away from the shore. What do we really know about Calista and her island, though?
I haven’t been able to go back to sleep since he left our dreams. So, I’m back in the conservatory, pacing along the large glass walls.
Things have been tense here. Sybil is ignoring me—not that I can blame her. The new friendship we were maintaining was obliterated when she found out that not only is her twin brother fated to die, but at my hand.
She’s been in her head since he left. Archer admitted that he and Sybil have always been attached at the hip—all their adventures have been together, and both were often teased as children.
I’ve spent so much time thinking about how I’ll recover when Archer is gone, but how will Sybil?
My breathing comes in shallow spurts, the first signs of an anxiety attack taking over.
Sitting on the broken bench near me, I drop my head into my hands and do my best to hold onto reality. The hallucinations are coming every day now—sometimes twice a day. I don’t know if it’s from losing the warm safety of having Archer nearby, or my ancestors’ growing frustration.
The shuffle of socked feet comes closer and I wait, expecting Rowyn or Esme’s voices to soothe me—to try to fight off the claws that are sinking further into my brain.
Instead, it’s Sybil’s low, raspy lilt. “Hey,” she murmurs and sits next to me. Her hand finds my back and she rubs gently. “I’m here—this is real.”
Pushing my palms further into my eyes, I try to take a deep breath and nod. “We’re in the conservatory, right? Just the two of us?”
She lets out a sympathetic, throaty noise. “Yes, you and I are in the conservatory.” She pauses before adding, “And it desperately needs new windows.”
Laughing, I lean back and wipe the tears. “What are you doing down here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she admits and shrugs. “Haven’t gotten a lot recently.”
It’s my turn to show sympathy. “This place seems to do that to people.”
“So,” she says in a cautious tone and turns toward me. “I’ve been thinking…”
I turn in my seat. She’s nervously biting her lip, but her eyes never leave mine. I lift my shoulders in an encouraging way. It only comes off as impatient.
“What if we held a seance? You could do that, right?” she asks rapidly. “I tried when I was younger, but I never had much luck. I usually ended up getting sucked into some vision of my own.” Her eyes roll, like her visions are a mild inconvenience, whereas mine are a prison.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done one, but I can try,” I say. I would offer Sybil just about anything if it meant she felt better. “Who do you want to communicate with?”
“Barrett,” she says with a raise of her eyebrows.
That should have been my first guess, but it wasn’t even in the top ten.
She tilts her head. “You haven’t ever thought about it? Or even tried to talk to any of them?”
“I—no.”
I don’t want to tell her I tried once, and failed. She probably feels helpless, and that is suffocating. We can attempt to communicate with Barrett if that’s what she needs.
Sybil’s magic should help, and I used to summon spirits all the time when I was younger. They’re much nicer than my family was. However, it only takes one accidental encounter with a demon to make you pack up your ouija board for good.
She gives me a flat look that says enough, but she doesn’t ask any questions.
“You can siphon some of my magic to help the connection,” she offers.
I open my mouth, unsure of what to say, when Esme sashays through the door and confidently states, “And mine.”
“What the fuck are you doing down here? It’s three a.m.,” I say and shake my head.
“Perfect time to talk to spirits,” she retorts and walks closer. “Lucky for you both, I have had success with summoning ghosts—and other things.”
I scrub my face with both hands and groan. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten about your little hobbies. I’m just so distracted by everything else, but I swear to the Gods, Esme, if you release a demon or spirit or any other creature, I will send you back with it.”
She laughs, completely unaffected by my words. “Never met a demon I couldn’t banish.”
Sybil is watching quietly, clearly more interested in her plan than our banter.
“Okay, so we’re doing it then?” She stands. “Right now?”
My eyes bounce between theirs. Even through my fear, I knew my answer as soon as Sybil asked.
“Fine.”
Apparently, Esme has more practice than I do.
And now her hobbies are quickly moving up my priority list.
She was right though. I am lucky she’s here.
Sybil is clueless. No wonder it never worked for her.
As quiet as we can be, Esme and I get to work as soon as we are locked in my bedroom. Sybil stands by the door, watching with her mouth popped open.
Riffling through the large trunk of things I haven’t bothered organizing, I throw out old library books I never returned, empty elixir jars, forgotten socks, and a few candles.
“Oh, we can use that!” Esme whisper-shouts.
I hear the table being dragged to the middle of the room behind me, but I focus on my mission at hand—finding this fucking board and the various types of salt I always keep nearby.
Once I turn back to her, she grabs the large sack of white salt out of my hands and stands around the table. “I’ve never used two types of salt before. How are we doing this?”
“We’re going to mix it. The black salt will add protection and make it easier to banish anything that comes through, but the white is for us—good energy and purification.”
Esme nods, waiting for me to start and mentally tucking that information away for later.
It’s not the best set up. Typically, the salt would create a barrier between me and the spirit. However, I don’t have the mental willpower to perform that kind of seance right now. Not after two months of my magic slowly draining out of me from being around Nestor and the effects of the curse.
Summoning the actual spirit is a lot more energy than simply communicating with a ghost. Not to mention, it works best with some sort of vessel for the spirit to use as a tool rather than appearing in whatever form they take in the afterlife.
Usually similar to Nestor’s ghostly state, but more defined and corporeal.
The only way for the board to work is if we are all touching it, and I would rather take the chance of us being locked in with something than letting it out in the world.
I briefly wonder why Esme wasn’t with her typical partner-in-crime, Clover, but I’m grateful she found us alone tonight.
Clover is the most wary of these things. It doesn’t grate at me the way my sisters’ fear did. Clover doesn’t make me feel like I’m some sort of magical mutation—she genuinely does not fuck with ghosts, deadwalkers, or anything else tied to the spirit realms.
Clementine’s eager interest makes me wary of sharing too much information with her—though a little chaotic magic like her young, raw powers wouldn’t be a bad addition. I could siphon that in the same way, but could hone it to my intentions.
Esme does her best to match her circle to mine by pouring right over my line, and it doesn’t look too uneven.
It’s better to equally mix the salts together, but we’re all ready to get answers——and avoid the wrath of Rowyn when she sees the nonsense the three of us have created together.
Nodding, I turn back to Sybil and give her a curious look.
“Let’s do this,” I say. “Before the hour hits four would be preferable.”
We each take our seats and begin lighting the various candles.
“What do I do?” Sybil asks.
“Just be here and keep your walls down,” I say. It’s as simple as it sounds. Holding up the small heart-shaped indicator, I add, “We’ll lay our fingers on the planchette and open yourself and your magic to the spirits. It’s pretty much what you would expect.”
“And you can find Barrett?” she asks.
With a laugh, Esme shakes her head. “Spirits are finicky. If Barrett wants to talk to us, he will. His presence is all around the inn, so it shouldn’t be hard to connect. Who else would talk if he doesn’t?”
Sybil swallows and slowly moves her eyes to me, looking for more answers. I thought she would know more about what to expect since she had so much confidence when she asked. To be fair, I don’t know anything about advanced divination powers—outside of what I’ve learned about dreamwalking.
“Most likely, whoever it is will have a connection to the Dreaming Willow Inn, and have answers. It might not be Barrett, but it could be.”
She nods with more certainty.
Placing my two pointer fingers on the planchette, I wait for her and Esme to follow.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes and lean my head back. Settling into the moment, I open the mental gate holding the spirits at bay. They’re always there to guide me, but I’ve learned how to stay in control rather than be consumed by them.
“We welcome the spirits of the Dreaming Willow Inn with good intentions. The Blackthorns, Vexleys, Aguados, and all the other families who have been a part of the history here,” I say.
My voice is low and quiet, but confident.
“Tonight, we—the descendants of the last coven—open our hearts and magic to you. If anyone is there and would like to guide us through this curse, please help us.”
The room rapidly drops in temperature, and all the candles outside of the salt circle go out. Looking around, I notice the flame of the fireplace flickering in and out, fighting to stay alive against whatever entity has cloaked the room.
The spirits twirl around us in the air, teasing my consciousness with the possibility of making that connection. None of them do.
Closing my eyes again, I take a deep breath and mentally look around for someone—anyone.
“Barrett,” I quietly beg. Then decide to throw in other coven members, “Cassia, please, tell us what happened to you. Isadora, where did you go? Rhiannon? Anyone?”
A sharp force flows through me, and my consciousness is only halfway in the room now. The other part of it is residing where the spirits do. I can’t see it—only the dead can—but I can feel it.
Slowly, the planchette moves along the board. The glass circle stops right above Hello.
“Hi,” I breathe out, staring at the board but my gaze is unfocused. “Thank you for being here. Will you answer our questions?”
The spirit moves the planchette in slow, small circles, thinking. Then it quickly passes over the alphabet and lands on No.
Frustration rings through me. I try to tamp it down, not wanting to piss off whoever we’re talking to.
Once the black starts to creep into the edges of my vision, I know exactly who we are dealing with.
“This is not Barrett,” I say.
We follow the spirit’s nudge as a word spells out in front of us:
P-E-T-R-A
Sybil makes a surprised sound in her throat.
“Hi, Petra,” I greet her, fear beginning to touch my bones.
Hello
“You have something to show me, then?” I ask and try to see through the growing darkness.
Yes
“Okay,” I say, trying to blink back the tears now. “I’m open to whatever it is. I won’t fight it.”
A-L-L-O-F-Y-O-U
“What?” Sybil asks before the room spins around us and we’re thrown into one of the large fields on the east side of the property. We’re in the exact same position—sitting at the table with the board around us.
“Don’t take your hands off,” I tell them, but my words are silent.
They nod, and I can only hope they understood.
“What did you do?” Petra screams behind me, slapping her palms on Nestor’s chest.
He looks around with defeat in his eyes. Not paying any mind to her hard slaps, he takes a step to the side, trying to hold Petra back.
“Nestor,” she begs on a sob. “What did you do? Tell me.”
“I’ve made many mistakes, Petra. I’m sor—”
His words are cut off by the sting of her palm, and the impact is so loud I can feel the ghost of it.
“This is your fault,” she tells him and points a finger at his chest. “All of it! You bastard.” She shoves him, and he almost trips over his own feet. “Everything that has happened is because of you!”
He reaches for her, but she pulls away. A loud crack breaks through the air at the same second lightning strikes a hundred feet from them.
Petra falls to her knees as she lets out a guttural scream. Nestor stands in front of her, protecting her from someone.
Then it goes black.
Collectively, we let out a sharp gasp and open our eyes, back in the cold, dark of my bedroom.
“Wait,” I try to shout, but it comes out hoarse. It’s enough to stop Sybil from removing her hands off the planchette. Holding onto any ounce of consciousness I can, I ask Petra, “Are we done? Can we leave?”
Instantly, the piece moves to Bye and our hands fly off the table.
“Holy shit,” Esme murmurs as Sybil stares at the board with wide-eyes.
It’s the last thing I see before the claws of darkness drag me under, and I slump out of my seat.