Chapter Twelve #2
He steps closer, and I can feel the weight of whatever he’s about to say, whatever feeling is shining just a little too brightly in those warm brown eyes.
I can feel my magic rising to meet him, almost reaching out to him as he comes to a stop right in front of me.
It’s too much. Too good. Too kind. I can’t let myself get used to it. I can’t—
“I should get some supplies from Elva’s,” I blurt, whirling on my heel.
“Alright, let’s go then.” He swoops his coffee from the table, grabbing the brown paper bag in the process. “We can eat the cinnamon rolls on the way there.”
“You…you don’t have to come.”
“I know Bells, but I want to.”
I suck in a breath. Only one person has ever called me Bells, and that’s Elora. Even my parents only call me Bellamy. I was never given a nickname by them.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “Only Elora calls me that.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag dangling from them as he nods slowly.
“Alright, that’s okay. Trouble it is.”
I nod my head sharply and storm down the cobblestone path. I want him to call me Bells, but that’s too personal. Too close.
He doesn’t say a word as he follows behind me,silently being there, a comfort that he will never know how much that means to me. Outside of Nyx, I’ve never had someone just be there for me. It’s either with judgement, with intention, or with need. Never just to be there.
Shaking my head, attempting to dislodge these feelings and thoughts, I tuck my head, powering towards the shop. I don’t actually need anything. Sure, I can find something so it doesn’t seem weird, but I needed to get away. He’s getting too close.
The Charm & Chisel, our faerie-owned crystal & altar shop, comes into view.
It’s a crooked little cottage with stained glass windows, steps lined with jars full of dried petals, and a hand-painted sign swinging above the door.
Although I don’t think of this place normally, today it’s my sanctuary.
Elva has a no shifter policy due to all the breakables in her shop.
She doesn’t want any of them to “wolf out” in the middle of her shop.
Which is exactly why I picked it. I’m sure I can find a crystal to buy to make it legit.
I just need time to gather myself, build the wall back up, and then face him again, renewed.
I come to a stop in front of the door, swinging around to face a startled Miles.
“Sorry, Elva has a no shifter policy.” I toss out a shrug, all fake nonchalance, like I hadn’t dragged him here just to leave him standing on the doorstep.
“You can’t come inside. Seems the walk was a waste of your time, sorry. ”
“It might have been.” He concedes with a little tilt of his head, like he’s trying to read me.
“But if this was just a ploy to ditch me at the door, I’ll still take it.
Wasting my time with you never really feels like a waste.
And I can still walk you all the way to the door–and hold it open for you. ”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t. Whispering the words of the hex under my breath, hoping he doesn’t see what I’m doing. Everything hasn’t gone according to plan so far, but hopefully this will.
Twisting around, his hand has just circled around the doorknob of the shop when I hear it. MOO.
Biting my lip between my teeth, I do everything I can not to burst out laughing. I can almost feel his shock, as if it’s a tangible thing in the air. I turn to face him. He’s frozen mid-step, his shoe giving another moo as he plants his foot.
He stares down at it, bewildered, then looks up at me.
I’m trying not to laugh. I really am. But, I can feel my cheeks burning as I strain to control them.
“Moo?”
“Moo,” I say, utterly deadpan. “It’s your emotional support shoe now.”
He looks from the shoe to my burning cheeks and back again. “I can’t tell if this is a punishment or a gift.”
Before I can even reply, a trio of tiny fae perched on the shop’s windowsill cackle in delight. One of them is literally fanning herself with a leaf, her wings fluttering.
“Such a delight,” she says. “Did you see him smiling at her with such adoration?”
“It’s swoon-worthy for sure,” another says, a blush blooming on her cheeks. “It even comes with glittery pink hair and questionable footwear.”
The older third faerie cuts her eyes at me. “Better claim that one, witchling,” she calls to me. “Before some thirsty vampire does.”
Miles beams. “See? They like me.”
“They also married a selkie to a warlock. So don’t get any ideas from them,” I say, turning back towards the door.
His shoe moos one more time as he lurches forward to grab the door and hold it open for me. The faeries cheer like it’s a romantic comedy climax.
And I…I smile.
Damnit.
By the time I’m done picking through Elva’s crystals and grabbing a few to add to my altar at home, Miles is gone. Off doing whatever it is that sweet, golden boys like him do in their spare time. Probably carrying some elder’s groceries inside, rescuing a kitten, or band-aiding some kid’s scrape.
I step back onto the cobblestone path, checking to ensure he isn’t lingering around some corner, ready to pop out like a daisy. With the coast clear, I decide there is only one place, actually one person, I need to see today. I need guidance in the way that only she can give to me.
I cut across the square toward our territory, the wrought iron gates rising at the edge of the main road.
Black metal twisted with moons and stars glows faintly violet in the lamplight, lanterns flickering on either side.
Beyond the gates, a long, winding pathway snakes up the hill, the air cooler beneath arching trees that have guarded this path for centuries.
At the top sits the coven’s main house–a sprawling Victorian manor painted in a deep plum, its turret jutting against the night sky as though daring the wolves and fae to challenge its height.
Witches are proud creatures, after all. Maybe Izora built it this way to remind everyone who really rules Pumpkinridge.
The old brass doorknob is cold against my hand as I twist the door open.
The warm, earthy scent of dried herbs instantly settles around me.
A fire crackles in the enormous, roaring hearth.
A large cast-iron pot is dangling above it with tonight’s dinner bubbling inside.
The shadows dance over the heavy portraits of the witches who have came before us.
Walking up the staircase that rounds the room, I glance along the walls at all the photos of generations and generations of Pumpkinridge witches. Our coven has been here for so long that most of these people are nothing more than faces in a photo. Long gone to the pages of time.
The double doors to our leader’s office are closed, but they are always open to me.
No matter the time or the day, she always welcomes me with open arms. Mabel Savon, our coven leader, sits behind her grand, wooden desk like some kind of ancient matriarch, her long silver hair braided down her front, with dark eyes sharp enough to see through all the walls between us.
As the leader of our coven, keeper of our oldest grimoires, and much to my chagrin—she’s the closest thing I have to a grandmother.
While I do have a grandmother on both sides of my parents’ families, you would think by how they treat me that I am not in fact related to them or a grandchild of theirs.
My mothers’ mother is known for poking my side or pinching me, claiming that dark witches should always live in a world of pain, just like they’re known for creating.
Even though I’ve never intentionally hurt someone in my life.
My dads mother though? She will walk past me as if I’m not standing there, even talks about me as if I’m not standing in the same room with her.
“You’ve got that face again,” she says without even so much as a glimpse up from the parchment she’s writing on.
Yes, she still writes on parchment as if it’s the 1800s and they haven’t invented computers and things of that nature.
While we keep to our tiny town, some of us do venture to the outside world for things that the modern world has.
Like cell phones, for example. “It’s the face you make when something is bothering you or someone. ”
“More like someone keeps showing up with coffee and baked goods like it’s now an integral part of his morning routine,” I mutter, sitting down in the winged-back chair in front of her desk.
Her quill stills. “Ah, yes, your wolf. I’ve heard the rumors flying around town. Might have bribed a crow or two to give me the details.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not my wolf. I just can not seem to get him to go away.”
Mabel sets her quill in the stand, bringing her full attention up to me. Her gaze pins me in place as if she is debating between a lecture or a lesson. “You think the universe keeps dropping that poor boy on your doorstep for the fun of it?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “The universe is a sick and twisted thing. You know my family’s history. You know what happens to every single dark twin, tracing back to the very first set noted in our history. Every single one of us dies a tragic death. Nothing they do stops it from happening.”
Her mouth twitches, half in amusement, half in disapproval.
“Curses aren’t fixed points in time, child.
For someone who’s devoted her entire life to reading every single text about them, you of all people know that.
They’re knots. Some can be cut, some unraveled.
If you are willing to try, and I mean really try, there might be a way to break it.
Maybe starting around the first noted tragic death, maybe something happened? Ever think of that?”
Her words slide under my skin before I can block them from trying.
Break the curse. Live the life I truly want.
Love someone as deeply as I wish to be loved.
Have someone see beyond my walls. An image flits across my mind, Miles and I sitting together drinking our morning coffee, his bright smile beaming over the rim of his coffee cup.
Pink curls, that he refuses to let go of now, glitter in the morning light.
I shove it back into the vault where I keep all the dangerous thoughts.
“That’s a big if,” I say finally.
Mabel smiles at me with that all knowing smile of hers, as if she saw what I just saw. I know there isn’t a way, especially with my mental walls intact. But I still have this feeling as if she did.
“Every great spell starts with the right intention.”
“Where do you think…”
I’m cut off mid-sentence when a ghost with ruffled sleeves and breeches appears next to me. His hair is curled and powdered to perfection. His voice booms around the room in a rich, old-fashioned way that practically drips Renaissance era.
“Oh thy fairest maiden, with eyes like autumn’s first amber leaf!” A wide smile stretched across his face, his grip on his chest a gesture of pure, unadulterated glee. “Thy beauty doth pierce my soul and set my heart alight!”
I freeze, eyes widening. “Oh no.”
I can sense Miles leaning against the ward of our coven.
He doesn’t know the wall he leans against is magically protected.
My hand covers my face as I sigh deeply.
He’s like a toddler touching things he isn’t supposed to.
This man is liable to curse himself by touching something with a warning sign.
The ghost takes a deep theatrical inhale. “Shall I continue?”
“No, you shall not—” I hiss.
“Thou art more lovely, more temperate—”
Shoving myself out of the chair, I stomp over to Mabel’s herb shelf, rummaging through until I find exactly what I’m looking for. Dried Sage.
Grabbing a few sprigs, I stomp over to where the ghost is floating and wave it threateningly at him. “Don’t make me banish you.”
He clutches his chest in mock offense. “Would you banish the words of one’s true love’s poet?”
“Yes,” I say flatly.
Behind me, Mable chuckles under her breath, and when I shoot her a glare, she just shakes her head, grabbing her quill again. “Seems someone has decided to fight your fire with fire himself.”
I groan, already plotting the next hex for tomorrow.