Chapter 3 Hannah
Hannah
So I burned Riley’s poetry book to cut emotional ties forever, but apparently, ‘forever’ lasted about thirty seconds before I bound myself to someone infinitely more dangerous than my ex-girlfriend.
Bound. The word settles like a block of ice in my gut.
That can’t be true.
I turn and sprint away from this terrifying woman, and this time, she lets me go. I burst into the warmth of my home and slam the back door, my hands shaking as I fumble to lock it. As if running from someone who levitated bits of earth with a fucking hand gesture will make a difference.
“Wake up… This has to be a nightmare,” I murmur.
My brain scrambles for rational explanations. Gas leak. Hallucination. Some kind of elaborate prank my coworkers set up, though they’d never go this far. A stroke? Is this what a stroke feels like? Maybe I’m having a breakdown. God knows I’m due for one.
But she’s so real and solid, and when she touched me…
I run my fingers through my hair, still feeling the phantom sensation of her hands on me.
The adjoining living room and kitchen are behind me, lit by soft lamplight and the wood-burning fireplace. It’s all too bright, like spotlights that will let this woman watch me through the large windows.
Breathing fast, I kick off my shoes and peel off my wet socks. The invisible rope around my ribs tightens with every step away from the woman. I shudder like a dog shaking off water, trying to force the sensation away.
My cold, damp feet stick to the hardwood as I race to shut all the blinds. I can see her standing by the back door, arms crossed, fingers tapping her biceps as she stares out into the darkness. Waiting? Plotting?
The heat from the fireplace tingles through me, fighting off the bone-deep chill. My head is throbbing and my vision is wonky, like a migraine is threatening to come on.
I grab my phone off the coffee table, chewing my lip. I should call the police and tell them there’s an unhinged woman trespassing, and she tried to kill me.
Except…
“Dammit,” I whisper, rubbing my chest.
As much as I want to make her leave, I can’t deny the painful tightening in my core when we’re apart and the easing when we’re close. When she grabbed me, it was…not exactly a bad feeling.
Okay, fine, it felt good, and that’s what’s scary. The sensation was over fast, bookended by terror as I caught the dangerous flash in her eyes. But in the middle…
God, those few seconds in the middle felt incredible.
My face burns. I shouldn’t be dwelling on this.
But when her fingers tangled in my hair and brushed my scalp, it was like a gulp of wine easing down my throat and hitting my bloodstream, making my brain fuzzy and my whole body relaxed.
It was intimate in a way I’d never experienced, like the raw connection at the moment of climax.
Like she was touching my soul. Stroking it.
And when the connection broke, a hollowness filled me, leaving me so empty that it was like part of me had been ripped away.
I almost asked her to keep doing whatever she was doing.
Heat stirs in my belly, and my face burns hotter. I hate that my body is responding this way to something that clearly just about killed me.
A power I don’t understand is at play, and I think she’s telling the truth when she says a supernatural force is binding us together.
What was it she said? Her coven?
My heartbeat quickens as the pieces slide into place. The Latin verse. The way she levitated the ash. The intoxicating sensations that flowed through my body.
A word surges into my mind, which I can’t argue: witch.
My knees weaken. I sway, grabbing the couch for support.
No way. Witches—are not—real. This must be a hallucination from inhaling toxic smoke. Or a nightmare.
Yes, a nightmare. I squeeze my eyes shut. Any second, I’m going to wake up in the back room of Book Nook with our latest shipment scattered around me.
But the fire keeps crackling, and my feet stay on the floor of my living room, and I don’t wake up.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I jump, snapping my eyes open.
It’s a text from Dean: How are you holding up? Want me to come back over?
I stare at the message, the words taking a moment to absorb.
How do I explain that I accidentally freed a witch from an enchanted book and now we’re supernaturally bound?
That she tried to kill me but couldn’t? That part of me enjoyed the feel of her fingers drawing the life out of me, or whatever the hell that was?
I can’t. So I type back: I’m fine. Thanks boo.
Another lie to add to the collection I’ve been building for years. I was fine when my parents abandoned me the day I turned eighteen. I was fine when Riley disappeared without explanation.
The lock clicks, and the back door swings open. The woman steps inside with the confidence of someone who’s been, you know, invited in. She sweeps her hand to shut the door behind her without touching it.
Fuck, I guess locks mean nothing to a woman who can control anything with telekinesis.
As I back away, she unbuttons her cloak, revealing a white blouse and bodice that hugs her curves.
Her thick brown hair falls past her breasts, and she tosses it back over her shoulders.
Her nostrils flare as she rakes her gaze over every corner of the house—TV, microwave, laptop, vinyl kitchen floor.
“I never introduced myself.” She turns her winter-blue eyes onto me. Her voice is silky, not at all as sharp as a moment ago. “I’m Julia Moreau, Sanguine Witch.”
I grab the fireplace poker and point it at her. “I kinda figured you were a witch when you tried to kill me with magic.”
The words witch and magic sound strange coming from my lips. This can’t be happening.
“Tried,” she says, as if that makes it fine. “I stopped, didn’t I? A little forgiveness would go a long way, love.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I step forward, keeping the point level with her chest. “New rule. You don’t use magic on me or my property. I may be stuck with you, but I’m not your puppet.”
Julia raises an eyebrow, amused. “And what will you do with that little stick?”
“Iron,” I say, remembering the folklore I read in one of Riley’s books. “Want to test if the stories about iron and magic are true?”
There’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Then her lip curls, and she steps forward until her bodice is pressed against the tip of the iron. “Go ahead.”
Shit.
She grabs the end of the poker with her bare hand—so much for that theory—and rips it out of my grasp. It hits the couch, then bounces to the floor with a clatter, and I scramble back.
My heart jumps. Yeah, poke her with a stick, Hannah. Brilliant survival instincts. Now I’ve pissed off someone who can kill me with a twitch of her fingers.
I step behind the round kitchen table, keeping it between us, and curl my fingers over the back of a wooden chair. I need to figure out how to reverse whatever this is, and fast. “How do we unbind?”
“Not by brandishing sharp implements at one another, I assure you.”
She stalks around the table toward me. I step sideways to keep it between us. Though she’s only a few inches taller than me, it feels like she’s taking up all the space in the kitchen.
“But it can be fixed?” I ask. “I’m not stuck with you forever?”
“Every lock has a key. We just need to find the witch who cast the spell.”
I freeze, bile rising in my throat.
Here’s the question: what in the living hell was Riley doing with a journal that held an ancient witch trapped inside? And why did she give it to me under the guise of being a book of love poems?
“Promise me you’ll always keep this close, no matter what…”
Ice shoots through my veins. Holy fuck, did Riley get involved in something darker than I realized? The mysterious books, the scars, the way she’d been acting…
Is she a witch?
I’ve only known her for a couple of years. Maybe she dumped me before I realized she’s secretly five hundred years old and…
No. This doesn’t fit with the Riley I know. She isn’t evil or dangerous. Besides, her strange behavior only started happening in the last two weeks. Wouldn’t she have known this about herself long ago?
“Do you know who cast it?” I ask, my mouth dry.
“I do,” Julia says, “and we’d best find her quickly.”
The hardwood creaks under our feet as we move in this dance around the table, predator stalking prey. The house feels too small, the air too thick.
I’m hyperaware of her movements, the way her hips sway as she stalks me, the grace in her steps.
My skin prickles like I’m being hunted, and the worst part is that each time her steps bring her closer, the ache in my temples eases and I breathe a little easier.
There’s a pull low inside me, like my body wants to stop fleeing and move closer despite my terror.
I ignore what my body wants, stepping sideways to keep her opposite to me.
“What’s her name?” I ask, trying not to sound terrified of the answer.
“Rebecca, and she’s a formidable celestial witch, which means the spell will become permanent when the moon sets.” Julia looks out the window, her nostrils flaring. “What phase is the moon tonight?”
My relief that she didn’t say “Riley” is immediately smothered by a flood of dread. My stomach plummets through the floor. Permanent?
“It—it’s full,” I say, my voice coming out squeaky.
“So we have until sunrise, more or less,” Julia says tightly.
Sunrise. That’s it. Then we’re bound forever.
God, I’m supposed to start university next year! Faculty of Arts. My acceptance letter is on the fridge. I’ve been working my ass off, saving every dollar, so I can get a real degree and a real career that will pay the very real bills Mom and Dad left me with.
I picture myself trying to go to class, make friends, and live a normal life while tethered to this witch. Always weak and helpless, trailing behind her like her obedient familiar.
Nope. Not an option.
“Let’s go, then,” I say through my teeth, checking the time on the stove. 6:33 p.m. If I have any fucking say in this matter, we’re going to break this spell before bedtime.
“First thing’s first.” Julia strokes the air with her fingers as if to beckon some invisible force toward her. “I require power. I’m depleted.”
“Fine. How do you get more power?”
“A sanguine witch must feed.” She tilts her head. Her gaze lingers on my throat before moving down the rest of my body.
A tremor ripples through me. “What do you mean, feed?”
She sighs, like I’m asking too many questions. “A person’s life force typically sustains me for a lunar cycle.”
My blood runs cold. Is that what she tried to do to me outside? Feed on my life force to replenish her magic?
I grip the chair in front of me, trying not to let my hands shake.
“Oh, stop acting like a scared little bunny,” she coos. “The binding spell protects you. I can’t drain you without sacrificing my own life too, and I’m not in the mood to die.”
“How comforting,” I say dryly.
“It should be. I need you alive, which makes you the safest person in the world when you’re with me.”
I scoff. Safe? I’ve never felt more in danger than I do right now. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction of admitting that. She’s probably the type of sicko who gets an inflated ego over being feared.
She hums, squinting past me out the window over the kitchen sink. “If I can’t feed on you, then I’ll need another source.”
I follow her gaze, my skin prickling. The Walshes’ TV is still flickering through their drawn curtains. “What happens to a person you feed on?”
Julia walks toward the back door, looking over her shoulder at me with a raised eyebrow. “It’s tidier if I don’t leave them alive to ask questions and send the pitchforks after me.”
Jesus Christ. I’ve bound myself to a serial killer.
My heart thuds against my ribs in time with her steps as she approaches the door. Thump. Thump.
I can’t let this happen. As scared as I am, and though I know nothing about magic, one thing is certain: I would rather die than let her murder innocent people. I’m the one who unleashed a monster, and she’s my responsibility now.