15. Callum
Callum
The cold hits the back of my throat the second I clear the treeline.
It’s damp air, filled with a static charge that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
I’ve logged enough miles through dense timber to know when a stretch of woods is just trees, and when it’s something else entirely.
These woods are the latter. The shadows swallow the tree trunks whole ten feet off the dirt road.
Even with that weird edge hanging in the dark, the main drag still looks like a town on a postcard.
String lights hang between the iron lamp posts and shop roofs, throwing orange light onto the wet cobblestones.
I jog past a little herbalist shop with dried lavender hanging in the window, a small glowing sign for tarot readings, and a corner grocery with crates of squash sitting out on the curb.
A couple of witches sweep overhead, their cloaks snapping in the wind, and two short goblins duck into a tavern down the block.
I pull up near a bench out front of the Stardust Inn, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Sweat cools fast on the back of my neck.
Winifred saw him. She saw my missing brother.
My chest pulls tight, that same hard knot sitting right behind my ribcage.
I’m not saying the word dead. Rory isn’t dead.
I don’t care how many years it’s been since he went missing, or how many people in town give me that sad look when his name comes up.
I know he’s out there somewhere. I just know it.
Gina Stratford’s voice pops into my head. She’s been my therapist back home for eight years now that I see every other week. I don’t go around telling people I go—it’s nobody’s business—but Gina turned out to be less like a doctor and more like a fun aunt who calls me out on my shit.
Grief isn’t a straight line, Callum, she told me once, leaning back in her leather armchair with her glasses resting on her chest. And ambiguous loss is a different monster altogether.
When you don’t have a final answer, your brain stays in fight-or-flight forever.
You build armor to protect yourself from the unknown, but if you don’t take it off once in a while, you’ll forget how to exist without it.
She’s probably wondering where the hell I am right now. I missed my appointment yesterday for the first time in almost a decade.
I wipe a palm over my face, push off the bench, and pull open the front door of the Stardust Inn.
James, one of the owners, is leaning back behind the dark wood front desk. He’s got an enormous black cat tucked comfortably into the crook of his arm like a football, stroking the fur behind its ears. Jett’s eyes are closed, purring like a ?
I let out a chuckle, stepping up to the counter. “He behaving himself?”
“Oh, perfectly,” James says. “He’s an absolute peach.”
Jett’s left eye cracks open, fixing on me. “More than a peach. I’ve been a complete gentleman. He gave me turkey.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Right. Whatever.” I lean my forearms against the wooden counter. “Hey, James, can I grab my room key?”
James stops scratching the cat and looks at me funny. “Your key? I already gave you the key.”
“No, you gave Winifred a key,” I say. “Can I get mine? Or hers, so I can go bring it to her?”
James frowns, his forehead bunching up. “Wait. I assumed you two were together, so I assigned you the last room we had.” He gestures vaguely toward the stairs. “The Autumnal Equinox Festival is this weekend. We’re packed to the gills. The whole town is.”
I freeze. The air leaves my lungs all at once. “Together?”
“Yeah,” James says, nodding slowly. “Like…together together.” He pauses, eyeing my expression. “Are you two not together?”
“I am more than sure we are not together,” I say, though my pulse kicks up a notch.
James leans in a fraction over the desk, dropping his voice. “Why not? If you don’t mind me asking. I don’t swing that way, but she’s a gorgeous woman, Callum.”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling an uncomfortable heat creep up under my collar. “It’s…complicated. We’re working. So, what are my options here?”
James winces sympathetically. “Look, I don’t have another square inch of mattress in this building to go around. But I can have a folding cot sent up to the room if that helps?”
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Yeah, a cot would be great. Thanks.” I turn my head, pointing a finger straight at Jett’s whiskers. “And you. Be on your best behavior down here.”
Jett stretches a paw, extending his claws before tucking them back in. “When am I not?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Where’s Twyla?”
“Kitchen,” Jett mutters, leaning back into James’s hand. “The line cook gave her a piece of buttered crust and a cap of heavy cream. She fell asleep under one of the tables.”
“Fine. Just make sure she knows where the room is.” I take a breath, holding the cat’s gaze. “I mean it, Jett. Keep it quiet and be good. For Winifred. She’s had a rough night.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jett mutters, closing his eyes again while James goes back to petting him. “Go sleep on your cot, big guy.”
If somebody had told me a week ago I’d be having a serious conversation with a talking cat, I would’ve said they were batshit crazy. Now it’s just the norm.
I take the stairs two at a time, the wooden steps creaking.
By the time I reach the second floor, the realization of this being our room rattles around in my brain.
I pull up, rubbing the back of my neck. I can’t remember the last time I slept in the same room as a woman.
I like my own space. My own routine. Having someone else this close—especially her—feels like walking onto thin ice.
I push the door open as quietly as I can. The bedside lamp is still on and Winifred’s stretched out flat on her back, her dark hair tossed across the white pillow, half of it spilling off the edge of the mattress. The damp cloth is still resting over her eyes.
“You doing any better?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.
She pulls the rag down from her face, blinking against the light. Her eyes are still a little red, but the swelling’s cleared up.
“Much better,” she says, holding up the lukewarm cloth. “You’re a lifesaver, McKinley.”
“They’ll probably still feel a little gritty tomorrow,” I tell her, leaning my shoulder against the closet doorframe. “If it starts burning again, just go downstairs and get another cup of milk.”
She nods, setting the wet rag on the nightstand. Then her gaze drops, dragging slowly over my chest and landing right where my shirt’s damp with sweat from the run.
My pulse kicks up. I shouldn’t like the way she looks at me—doesn’t make a lick of sense—but I don’t hate it either. I clear my throat to shake the thought loose before it takes root.
“Did you go for a run?” she asks.
“Yeah. Just wanted to get a lay of the land.”
She sits up, pulling her knees up into the oversized sleeves of some sweatshirt she’s changed into. “And? What are we working with?”
“More or less what you’d expect,” I say, resting my hands on my hips. I look at her for a second, the quiet stretching out between us. “We’ve got a problem though, Fred.”
She pulls her head back, her brows drawing together. “Okay…a problem as bad as the pepper oil, or a problem, like, we’re in trouble?”
“Problem, like, James only booked us one room.”
She blinks. “This room? With one bed?”
I drag a hand down over my mustache, gesturing toward the mattress. “Yeah. He, um, assumed we were together.”
“Oh, shit.” A slow, crooked smirk starts working its way onto her mouth. She leans back against the headboard, her eyes glinting. “What, you’re not up for a slumber party, Callum?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Hell no. I need real sleep if we’re heading into those creepy ass woods tomorrow.”
“You’re no fun,” she sighs, tossing her head back. “Okay so, how are we doing this?”
Before I can answer, two short knocks rap against the door frame.
I turn and pull it open. Quincy, James’ husband, is standing in the hallway, clutching a clipboard to his chest with a look on his face like he’s about to give me bad news.
“Hey, Callum,” Quincy says, wincing before he even starts. “So…about that cot.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It’s gone,” Quincy says, looking genuinely apologetic. “A goblin checked into room four just before you got back. Bad lower back, lumbar spasms, he practically begged for it. Said our spring mattresses were going to ruin him.”
I cut him off before he can give me the rest of the diagnosis. “Is there another one?”
“Afraid not,” Quincy says, taking a step back. “We’re completely full. I’m really sorry about the mix-up.”
He doesn’t wait for me to argue, turning on his heel and heading back down the hall.
I stand in the doorway for a second, looking out into the empty hallway, before I pull the door shut until the latch clicks. When I turn around, Winifred’s already sitting up, her arms wrapped around her shins and a full-blown dimpled grin spread across her face.
“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with trouble. “Looks like you’re stuck with me after all, loverboy.”
“I’ll take the floor,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
Winifred scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cal. We’re both grown-ass adults. The bed is huge. We can share.”
Before I can tell her that sleeping five inches away from her is a terrible idea for about forty different reasons, she grabs three oversized accent pillows from the armchair in the corner.
She lines them up smack down the middle of the mattress, shoving them under the duvet until they form a lumpy white barricade.
She taps the top of the middle pillow with a triumphant smirk. “See? Problem solved. You don’t even have to touch me. Which you should probably be grateful for, honestly, considering I sleep naked.”
My head snaps around so fast my neck pops.
She’s already snickering at my expression, but then she shakes her dark bangs out of her eyes and shrugs. “No, seriously. I really do.”
I stare at her, utterly baffled. “What kind of lunatic doesn’t wear clothes to bed?”