Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The night after the clearing, I can’t stop watching the light.
It lingers on her skin even after the sun has gone down, faint as a memory, pulsing like a heartbeat.
It wasn’t magick the way I’m used to it —wild and vast, bound to intention or focus.
Ash’s power had always been more raw. Like the world itself can’t decide if it belongs to her or if she belongs to it.
Ash stands in front of the apartment window, holding her hands out toward the glass. A slow shimmer rolls from her fingertips, gold dust catching the morning light.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” she whispers. “I was just… thinking about how warm it felt out there. With you.”
My throat tightens. “And that’s what you’re doing now. Manifesting warmth.” She turns and smiles at me —small, nervous, radiant — and the light around her brightens.
The next morning, we walk to Wanderlust together, holding hands. Annemarie pretends not to notice, but I don’t miss the inappropriate comments she makes under her breath. Based on the red staining Ash’s cheeks, she doesn’t miss it either.
Betsy gives me one of those all-knowing looks over her glasses, like she already knows too much and intends to meddle anyway.
Fuck.
Things were calm until the afternoon. Apparently, Ash started feeling joyous while shelving a new box of books as light broke out again. Only this time, it was tiny bursts of color refracting through the air. Rainbows danced across the spines, shimmering on the counter, bending through the windows.
Betsy doesn’t even hesitate. “Oh stars above — don’t you dare cry in here, girl.”
Ash looks mortified. “I didn’t—! I mean, I wasn’t trying to—”
I catch her hand before she can retreat. “You were happy,” I murmur. “That’s all it takes.”
She looks at me with wide eyes. I ignore the ache of memory.
“I feel like I’ve done this before.” She whispers.
I don’t bother to answer. She has.
“I think you should fill Betsy in on our training yesterday.” I nudge her towards the older woman. “She should know.”
And she should be able to tell Ash whether or not I irrevocably fucked up by answering as much as I did.
Betsy lets me live and, as she doesn’t disappear with one of those terrifying tomes, I assume she has not penned any special stories for me. Thank Gods.
The next day, it starts small. An old man is arguing at the counter, his voice sharp with irritation about a missing order. The air around Ash feels tight. I feel it before I see it, the way the light dims and the corners of the shop seem to stretch just a little too long.
Shadows are crawling across the walls.
“Casie,” I say softly. “Breathe.”
She flinches. “I didn’t mean… he was just so angry.”
“I know.” I reach her before the shadows can, my hand finding hers. The moment our skin meets, the darkness shudders and peels back, like mist being burned away by daylight.
She gasps, pressing her other hand to her chest. “I felt him,” she whispers. “His anger. It just… crawled into me and I couldn’t stop it.”
“That’s because you’re wide open now.” I keep my voice low and steady, guiding her back to the counter, careful to keep my body between hers and the strangers. “Your magick and power are awake. It’s reaching for every emotion it touches, to protect the energy that’s yours.”
“How do I stop it?! Oh my gods, Flint, I can’t just be manifesting everyone else’s emotions. Or even just mine. Do you know how emotional I can get? For fucks sake, what happens when I get PMS?!”
“You don’t. You learn to listen, you learn to block. You train your powers the way you train for anything else.”
The old man leaves, muttering. Ash leans into the counter, shaking. I stand beside her, close enough that my breath stirs her hair.
Her eyes are wide, tears swimming. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
“You are so ready for this. This is part of who you are. And you, my love, are one strong, bad ass, witch.”
Like I had hoped, her tears dry. The shadows have vanished, but the air around her still smells like rain.
At least she didn’t cry in the bookstore. Betsy would be super pissed if Ash started crying in the shop and ruined all these books.
That evening, Annemarie comes over to hang out with Ash.
I am entertaining myself with a book. Calida is sprawled on the bed.
Annemarie brought her her own pizza so she’ll be comatose for, likely, the rest of the night.
Anne and Ash are talking and I’m doing my best to tune them out, make them background noise.
A lovely family night in for all.
Until Annemarie finds an old playlist the two of them used to play after closing, all soft piano and melancholy words. Ash freezes mid-motion, one hand on a book, her eyes distant. I’m instantly on alert.
“I know this song,” she says, voice trembling. “I used to hum it to someone. A girl. She had—” she blinks. “Freckles. A laugh that was sweet, like bells.”
My heart sinks to my stomach.
Her sister.
“What else do you remember?” I ask, quietly.
Her voice breaks. “She was younger. She liked when I braided her hair. I think she used to sneak into my room at night… if there were storms.”
Tears well in her eyes and, before I can reach out to comfort her, the air shifts.
A drop of water falls from the ceiling.
Then another.
Then a slow, steady drizzle fills the room, though no storm rages outside. Water pools at her feet, shimmering faintly with light. Every droplet carries emotion — grief and love and the ache of remembering.
I wade in, my boots soaking, and take her face in my hands, thankful for the drills my old sergeant put me though and that my shields can be activated in an instant. She’d be upset if we tried to go to bed and her mattress was sodden.
“Casie, look at me.”
Her lips tremble. “It hurts.”
Annemarie sits still, eyes wide.
“I know. I’m so sorry, love.” I brush a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
She leans into me then, her forehead pressed to my chest. The air smells of rain and longing, and I swear I can feel her heart beating against my ribs. Just two rhythms finding their way back to each other after too long apart.
I should have seen it coming.
It started with a nightmare. Ash woke screaming, sheets twisted, her hands faintly glowing. The air is heavy with heat, the faint crackle of static electricity is raising the hair on my arms.
I had been reading on the couch, unable to settle. Maybe this is why.
I’m across the room before I can consciously think about it. “Casie—”
She sits up, eyes wild. “He was here,” she gasps. “Brett. He— he touched—”
I don’t even think. The temperature in the room spikes, the candle on the nightstand bursts into flames. I grab it, snuffing it out with my hand, using the lick of pain to focus.
“Look at me.” I say, hoarsely. “He’s not here. I am. You’re safe.”
But her magick doesn’t believe me. It surges from her palms, red and white, searing, flickering like firelight reflecting in her tears. The books on the dresser rattle. A glass cracks.
I catch her wrists gently, not bothering with a shield. I have to trust that she knows me enough to not hurt me. I need her to use me to ground herself. “Casie, breathe. It’s your anger. Not his.”
Her eyes finally focus on me. Terrified, furious, burning with something too bright and not human. “It feels like it’s going to eat me alive.”
I smile, sadly. “That’s because you’ve been locking it up too long.”
She exhales, a shudder running through her, and the flames dim. The heat fades to a warm glow, like embers cooling after a storm.
I don’t let go.
Finally she asks, “Will you hold me?”
“Of course.” I climb into bed, wrapping an arm around her stomach and tugging her toward me, pressing her back against my chest. Her breath evens out eventually, but sleep is a long time in coming for me.
When I wake up, she’s sitting on the couch, wrapped in one of my hoodies, the fabric all but swallowing her whole. I sit across from her, elbows on my knees, watching her stare into a candle she had lit.
“When you said it before, that I’ve done this… what did you mean?”
I hesitate. “You used to have more control than anyone I’ve ever met. You could draw on emotions like paint. Like each one was a color. You shaped an entire world with them.”
She turns the candle between her hands. “And I lost it all.”
“Not lost.” I’m trying to be gentle and not give more information than she’s ready for. Gods, it feels like walking a tightrope with no net. “You buried it. To survive.”
Every time I give her even the barest answer, I feel like the world is about to implode.
Her eyes meet mine. “I keep seeing flashes. A courtyard. Silver trees? A girl laughing. A man—” she pauses, gaze flicking away, “ —with eyes like yours.”
I swallow hard. She remembers more than I thought. “Do you think he mattered to you?”
“I think that when I look at you, it hurts the same way remembering him does.”
Because he is me.
The silence between us stretches taut. I want to tell her everything — that she is Ember, that I have loved her across lifetimes and wars. But the words catch in my throat. It isn’t time yet. I know it in my bones.
Instead, I reach across the table and let my fingers brush hers. “Then maybe you’re starting to remember what love feels like.”
Another morning, Ash is sleeping, curled up in a tangle of blankets with Calida. All I can see is her snout and it makes me smile. I watch them for a long time, feeling something uncoiling in my chest. A fragile, cautious hope.
When she stirs, stretching, the light around her pulses again. I don’t think anyone but Betsy and myself can see it. It’s not chaotic this time. Gentle. Steady.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning,” I reply. “How do you feel?”
She offers me a small smile. “Like the world is still heavy. But just maybe I’m strong enough to lift it?”
I laugh, quiet. She never fails to amaze me. “You always were.”
Outside, I see the rainbows of her joy dancing against the glass. I reach out, tracing one with my fingertip.
“You’re changing the world.”
She lifts her head. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s everything I’ve been waiting for.”