Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
What I lack in grace, I make up for in spite.
So when we’re given leave for the weekend to spend it how we want, I bask in sheer joy that Yaretta can’t join.
Apparently, those gifted with perception are needed for a project this weekend at the academy.
I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that she can determine the location and status of other people, but I hope she sees Ambrose and me walking side by side.
I also hope it eats her alive.
Tree branches, brittle and frost-covered, rustle in the frigid wind as we make our way through the Witchwood.
The cold air bites into my exposed cheeks and weasels its way through the heavy layers I wrapped myself in.
These woods sit slightly farther northwest than the Forsaken Forest and are not only marginally more ominous below the bruised-colored sky but also vastly more dangerous.
This is my first time experiencing their unwelcome ambience.
Since it’s the only way for students to reach Moorechester, the quaint little village that is technically a part of the academy, I have no choice but to walk through its Gothic embrace. Only students, academy staff, and supposed witches have access. Since these are their woods after all.
I’ve heard there are a few shops, including a bakery and even a charming little pub. At this point, I’d walk through lava to experience something sweet paired with a nice cup of something frothy that doesn’t come from the dining hall.
I lean over, careful my hair doesn’t sway and reveal the bite marks lingering on my neck, and nudge Ambrose in the shoulder. “So, are there really witches in these woods?” I ask, only partially teasing. “Are the rumors true? Do they really despise all men?”
He turns those frosty eyes on me, and I could sink into their glacial depths. “Yes. And yes,” he answers.
I frown. “Seriously? Should we be worried?” I mean, the last thing I want to do at the moment is stumble upon some highly dangerous women who hate men. Definitely not while walking next to a man I care very much about.
I’ve heard stories about how vicious they can be. Of course, who knows how much of it is actually true and how much is simply tales passed down as scare tactics. I’ve never met one. They’re not exactly beach dwellers and are certainly not welcome at any of the ports.
“Some say they kidnap men and turn them into slaves,” he whispers, looking down at me, his brows drawn tight. “Especially in the bedroom.”
I feel my jaw drop in horror.
A smile tugs at his lips before he casually bites down on the bottom one to prevent it from spreading.
“Very funny.” I shove him playfully and step back, running my fingers through the ends of my braid.
Pictures of Ambrose tied to a bed flutter through my head. How would it feel to have a man like him completely at my mercy? To be able to play out every dark fantasy I’ve ever had. My lips part slightly, and my eyes become unfocused, lost in the make-believe scenario.
I’m shaken from the direction my thoughts have taken by the heavy weight of his stare. I clear my throat and look over at him as casually as possible, praying the lustful thoughts aren’t plastered across my face.
For a moment, his expression doesn’t change, but then I see the way his jaw tenses, fingers curling into his palms, before quickly averting his gaze as if looking too long might open something in him that he isn’t ready to acknowledge.
I cross my arms and move to safer territory. “Have you seen one?” I ask.
He answers, his voice rougher than before, “No, haven’t had the privilege.”
We walk in silence for a while through the dense trail.
Ancient trees surround us, their branches clawing at the sky, black silhouettes against a gray backdrop.
Mist curls along the cold, damp ground, like something sentient and patient.
The air presses down upon us, thick with moisture and the faint smell of decay. Winter is but a touch away.
The trail is wide enough that we can walk side by side with room to spare.
I throw an occasional glance out of the corner of my eye, but he seems to be too deep in thought to notice.
Why am I being so awkward? This is Ambrose we’re talking about.
The man who has seen me at my absolute worst and still considers me a friend.
“How long until we get to Moorechester?” I ask, brushing imaginary lint from my sleeve, needing to break the tension.
“About another two miles. We just have to go a little farther before we cross the Blood River, and then we’ll be at the end of the Witchwood.”
I stop walking.
Ambrose stops as well, turning to face me.
“Blood River?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.
He gives me a sheepish smile.
“As in a river filled with blood?” I ask, dread sinking into the words. “Please tell me it’s just a catchy name and not factual.”
“Technically, it’s a river that is mixed with blood,” he answers, the arrows jostling in the quiver attached to his back.
I let out a laugh that sounds slightly hysterical.
He shrugs, then starts walking again, throwing a quick look over his shoulder to see if I’m coming. Instead, he catches me staring at the back of his head like he’s lost his mind.
He smiles and turns back around again.
I wrinkle my nose in annoyance and quickly join him.
“It’s unclear where it originates from, but it’s definitely blood,” he continues as if we’re talking about the weather. “Some theorize it comes from the witch’s sacrificial offerings to the woods they call home, but there’s no proof to that theory.”
Oh good. No proof of that theory. That makes me feel better.
I roll my eyes.
The cawing of a raven in the distance adds an eerie layer to our already portentous surroundings.
I quicken my step to stay close, my boots sinking into the damp earth.
I’m certainly a desirable target for anything and anyone at the moment.
I still haven’t manifested, and it's a constant worry and heaviness that resides in my gut.
I’m dead weight.
The academy doesn’t keep dead weight around. I haven’t brought it up to him yet, or the events that transpired at the blood initiation, but they’ve been heavy on my mind.
Ambrose hasn’t approached it either.
We eventually come to a thinning in the trees that opens up to a flowing river of ruby rapids. It’s roughly eighteen feet in width with large stones strategically placed throughout. There’s way to get from one side to the other. Not unless we swim through the sinister-looking current.
I scratch the top of my head, trying to work out how I land in these ridiculous situations. “Where’s the bridge?” I ask in a cautious tone.
He throws his head back, laughter breaking free. Thick brown waves fall to his shoulders, and his blue eyes flash like crystals. Tan skin, athletic build, perfect smile. Gods help me, he’s the whole package. If he weren’t so damn nice to look at, I might consider pushing him into the river.
“There isn’t one, brat. Come on, it’ll be like when we were kids. There wasn’t any challenge we wouldn’t take head-on,” he says, lip curling in a half smile.
“But we’re not kids,” I remind him.
His eyes rake over me. “I’m very aware of that fact,” he murmurs.
I can feel my cheeks warming under his scrutiny. “Then you’re also aware this isn’t my idea of a good time,” I say, changing the subject. Apparently, getting his attention in a way that I’ve wanted for so long is causing me to squirm.
“We can hold hands if you want. If you fall, I’ve got you,” he instructs, moving closer and grabbing one of my hands. “You’re safe. I won’t fall.”
His hand completely engulfs mine.
I hold my breath as we take the first step, landing on a large stone at the edge of the river.
The surface is slippery and unsteady from moisture and algae.
I squeeze his hand in a bruising grip. He moves to the next stone, guiding us in precise movements as if he’s done this a hundred times.
And let’s be honest, he probably has. I won’t wonder who he came with all those other weekends.
I bite my lips together and focus on the task at hand. It’s the safer option.
We make our way across the rapids, the sound of water smashing over boulders drowning out any possibility of conversation. When we jump and land on the other side, and I feel the soft dirt beneath my feet, I let out a long exhale.
They really need to just build a bridge and be done with it.
Snow has started to fall from the brooding skies as we enter the cobbled streets of Moorechester.
Orange hues shine through the lattice windows of the shops like a warm invitation.
The brutal cold is unforgiving, forcing me to burrow deep into my oversized cloak.
I’ll never get used to the weather here.
It doesn’t seem to stop the contagious laughter of other students as they pop in and out of shops, some holding bags, others sipping hot beverages. Ambrose takes my hand, cutting through a few of the buildings, leading us to a worn-down building tucked in the corner.
A wooden sign swings on creaking hinges overhead. Faded letters spell out the name Copper Penny Pub. We duck inside, escaping the continuous snowfall and biting cold. The clatter of tankards, veracious chatter, and the scraping of chairs across the uneven floorboards greet us upon entering.
It reminds me of Brylan’s port.
It’s perfect. Exactly what I needed.
Ambrose leads us to a small table in the back.
The air in here is warm and thick, but not in an uncomfortable way.
It’s a welcome reprieve from outside. I immediately start removing layers before sitting down.
Ambrose follows suit, hanging his bow on the back of his chair before taking off his cloak.
I can’t help but notice the way his cream-colored, long-sleeved shirt clings to his body once he removes it.
I internally sigh. My tongue feels heavy and stuck to the roof of my mouth.