Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Emery
Instead, I let Declan’s obvious attempt to distract me with ghost horses and Tarot readings eat up a large chunk of my day.
Sure, the farmer was thrilled to answer my questions and try to sell me on picking a basket of apples for sixty dollars.
The psychic at the Tarot shop did a reading that consisted of lots of swords, a tower, and a grim little card called Death.
She swore it wasn’t literal, just “transformation.” Right.
Because ominous metaphors are so much more comforting.
At least she allowed me to take pictures of her shop so I could search for the “orbs”—for an extra twenty bucks.
The story I should be chasing—the Widow, the cemetery, Declan dragging me out of the fog—I’ve been avoiding.
Why couldn’t I pluck up the courage to ask about his sister this morning? That’s what a good investigative journalist would’ve done. Not let feelings get in the way.
Feelings?
Okay, I’ve never been attracted to an interview subject before. Was this covered in my Ethics and Media class? Probably not this exact scenario but I already know the answer.
Don’t get involved.
Stay neutral.
I know how to ask questions in a respectful way.
Disgusted with myself for losing my objectivity and hours of precious research time, I wander down Main Street searching for a spark of inspiration.
The town’s full of tourists, bumping into each other on the sidewalk, muttering quick apologies as they pass.
Bells from shops jingle as patrons go in and out.
Below the normal sounds of a quaint town during its busiest season, something else drifts.
Clop…clop… So faint, I shake my head. Has to be my imagination.
Clop…clop…clop…clop…
My chest tightens. What if that…thing I saw in the cemetery is now loose in the town?
Stop it. I’ve seen more than one horse trotting through the streets since I arrived in Crowsbridge Hollow. It’s probably a carriage ride for tourists.
Except, the rhythm feels too slow. Too precise.
Instinct propels me forward. My brain says, run back to the inn, but my body steers me in a different direction.
The bell above the House of Ink & Iron’s door rattles as I push it open. The scents of antiseptic and citrus cleaner assault my nose. Machinery hums. The chair behind the front desk is empty. I glance at the glass case showing off several pieces of iron jewelry.
Handmade by Declan Sterling.
The pendant around my neck twitches, dragging against my collarbone, tugging me forward like it’s caught a current. The air tastes metallic, like biting a penny.
I lift my gaze in the direction the pendant’s leaning toward and find Declan, sleeves up, wiping down his station with quick, almost angry swipes. His forearms flex as he works, dark ink shifting with the movement.
He glances up and freezes when our eyes lock.
“Emery.” He sets the rag in his hand on the counter. A flicker crosses his face—something between irritation and regret, which chases away any warm fuzziness I felt at seeing him again. “What are you doing here?”
“Good afternoon to you too.” I attempt a breezy tone, but it comes out brittle. My hand lingers over the display case, pretending fascination with the iron bracelets, earrings, and pendants. Anything to disguise the thudding in my chest. “Relax, I’m not here to pester you.”
He slaps his palms together and straightens. “You’re not a pest, Emery.”
My heart stumbles. “Not quite a compliment but I’ll take it.” I force a tight smile.
The corners of his mouth twitch.
“So…” I step away from the jewelry and closer to him. “Ink anything interesting today?”
His lips tilt up. So close to an actual smile. “Yeah, actually. I did a piece with a crow preening in front of a mirror. You would’ve liked it.”
He remembered I like crows.
My heart thumps faster.
Of course he remembered. You yap about them every chance you get.
“Sorry I missed it,” I say.
He approaches with cautious steps, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I grabbed a few pictures. In case you wanted to see it.”
He was thinking of me while he was working?
“Oh…oh really?” My brain short-circuits. “How’d you know I’d be back?”
The hint of a smile slides off his face. “Figured you’d have more questions before you leave the Hollow.”
Leave? “I’m here for the rest of the week. Or longer…if I need to.”
His shoulders relax but the wrinkle between his eyes deepens.
“Can I see it?” I gesture to the phone in his hands.
He nods once and closes the distance between us until we’re standing so near, our arms brush.
He tilts the screen my way, the large phone seeming small in his hands as he swipes his thumb over the screen.
The image appears—a crow, wings half-spread, beak tilted toward an ornate mirror.
Every feather etched in meticulous black ink, shading so detailed it looks soft enough to ruffle with a finger.
The mirror’s surface is empty, though, not a reflection but a hollow oval. It’s both eerie and beautiful.
“Wow,” I breathe out. “That’s incredible. You’re really talented.”
He flicks through a few more pictures but my gaze strays to his tattoos. The intricate black lines seem to tell their own story.
Then they shift.
The tattoos? Or just from the movement of his arm?
I squint harder.
There it is again. A faint ripple. No. It can’t be. It’s just ink on his skin. It’s not actually moving.
I catch it again, at the edge of his wrist. Another shift. A coil of black, like something rippling beneath the surface of a river. The ink moves faster, the lines seeming to pulse in time with my heartbeat.
I blink harder.
You’re losing it, Emery.
Declan clicks his screen off and stuffs his phone in his pocket. I should step back. Put some space between us. But my body seems to have forgotten how to move.
My gaze lands on the intricate vines and leaves winding up his arm. Still pulsing.
“Your tattoos,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
He pulls away. “What about them.”
“Are they…moving?” Oh my God, did I really just ask him that? I sound like a lunatic.
My question hangs between us as I wait for him to laugh and ask if I hit my head today while I was investigating.
“They seem to shift,” I say, unsure how to explain what I keep seeing. “Like ripples under your skin?”
His entire body goes rigid. “Drop it, Emery.”
That’s not a denial. “What is it? Some special kind of ink?”
“Nothing.”
Sure, and the pendant around my neck doesn’t practically jump for joy whenever Declan’s close. Even now, it twists and slides over my skin, inching toward Declan, tugging the chain gently against the back of my neck.
I curl my fingers around the pendant. “Why does it keep doing this when you’re near?” I ask.
He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
The lines of ink shift faster now. Like they’re alive and pleased I’m watching.
Or calling for my attention. Hypnotized by the movement, I reach out, foolishly and recklessly, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
My fingertips graze the edge of the ink winding over the warm, delicate skin at his wrist. His pulse point—strong and steady.
The black lines writhe and pulse against my fingers.
“Emery—”
A clang of metal echoes around us, cutting off Declan’s warning. Cold air rushes through the shop. The key pendant sears hot against my chest.
Pain detonates around my wrist. I jerk back with a gasp as a thin green line etches itself into my skin, glowing like molten glass.
“What the…what the hell is that?” I yelp and stagger away from Declan.
He curses and catches my hand in both of his, tugging me closer. His touch is rough and frantic, but somehow careful, like he’s afraid to break me. His eyes darken, panic seeping into his expression.
“Goddammit, Emery,” he growls. “Why’d you touch me there?” His thumb hovers over the mark. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath ragged. “He must be close.”
“Who? Who’s close?” I wrench against his grip, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers clamp tight around my wrist, thumb brushing dangerously close to the fresh, burning line.
Tears burn my eyes. “Let me go.”
“I can’t.” He sighs. “Emery, what’ve you done?” Misery bleeds through his words.
My pulse pounds against the seared ring, throbbing like it has its own heartbeat. “What is that? What did you do to me?” I cry from both fear and pain.
He loosens his grip, enough for me to pull free, but I don’t. He drags his thumb gently over the faint green line, and for a moment the sting fades. Then he yanks his hand away, cursing under his breath like it burned him too.
“Nothing,” he lies.
“Sure.” My voice rises. “Totally normal to touch a person and end up branded like a glow stick!”
The haunted darkness in his eyes kills any hope of him joking back.
“Please,” I press, waving my arm in front of his face. “What is this?”
His jaw ticks but he slides his gaze away. “You came here looking for a story.”
What does my story have to do with anything? “So, this is my fault?”
He shoves his hands through his hair, the muscles of his arms tight against the fabric of his shirt.
Bad, Emery. Don’t let those fantastic forearms distract you now.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
“Good to know,” I mutter. “What is this then? How do I get rid of it? Tell me something.”
Finally, he lifts his head. The weight of his stare pins me in place.
“You wanted to know if the stories were real?” His voice is low, rough. “Well, now you’re part of one.”