Chapter 4
Callum
As my mate disappears from this realm, the very last scraps of the magickal bindings she put on me snap.
The Veil pulses vibrant green for the space of a few heartbeats before it settles back into its usual swirl of opalescent white.
Before I can fully register what it is I intend to do, I’m bounding across the clearing, slamming my hand onto the stone, anything to bring that emerald shine back. To follow her. To get her to stop, listen to me, find a way to make this chasm in my chest stop splitting me in two.
When I lay my hand on the stone, the ether burns red.
Ready to send me right back to the demon realm.
With a growl of frustration, I remove my hand, then put it back.
But the stone is cold and merciless, and the Goddess is in no mood to grant my request.
“Please.”
The crimson reappears, and I’m not foolish enough to try a third time and risk almighty wrath.
Finnicky, this magick. As much a product of the Goddess’ will as the desires of the being who would access the sacred pathway between her realms. Though there’s nowhere I’d rather go than to the realm my human just disappeared into, I know enough to respect the fact I won’t be going there tonight.
On shaky legs, I step back from the Veil.
Even if I can’t follow my mate, that doesn’t mean I’m ready to go back to my realm, either.
Why? I don’t know.
It’s not like she’s coming back.
It’s not like she’ll step out on her side of the Veil and suddenly be struck with regret. It’s not like she’s going to change her mind and realize she made a mistake.
I saw the look in her eye, the resolve.
My mate doesn’t want me.
A few more steps, and my back hits one of the tall pines ringing the clearing around the Veil. Spine resting against the wide trunk, I let my wings slump, let my head fall forward, my hands resting on my thighs, my breath too heavy and painful in my chest.
Goddess, it hurts.
I didn’t realize it would hurt.
Watching my mate leave and knowing I’m powerless to follow makes me feel as if the center of my chest has been hollowed out. Carved up, left raw and aching with nothing to do but stand here and feel it, to stew in my regret and replay every moment, silently cursing all the mistakes I made.
I should not have lost my temper with her. I should not have been so short with her.
I should never have suggested I didn’t want her as my mate.
But hearing her so callously deny what she most certainly could feel—at least in some measure, I saw that much truth in her eyes—cut right to the core of me.
A mate’s rejection is a rare thing. Not unheard of, but rare.
Rare enough that I’ve never known someone who’s experienced it, much less known to expect how much it would hurt to hear my own mate reject me.
Still, I should not have spoken as I did.
You think I want this any more than you do?
My own shameful words echo through my head.
What caused me to hurl them at her, I don’t know, but even with as much shame as they bring me, they don’t ring entirely untrue.
I’m not fit to have a mate.
I haven’t earned it, don’t deserve it, would never want to tie a partner—human or demon or otherwise—to the rootless, sparse existence I’ve been living.
My emotions were too scattered, too chaotic. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t accept what was happening or comprehend the magnitude of it.
Still, I should have acted differently.
I should have been gentler with her, not the miserable, surly creature I’ve let myself become.
Over and over, the silent recriminations swirl. Every cursed moment plays itself on a loop in my mind, a terrible spiral I’m only jerked out of by the sound of heavy footsteps from the woods.
Pytri huffs and puffs his way up the path. He rests an elbow on another tree trunk just beside mine when he reaches the clearing around the Veil, looking at me like I’ve grown a second set of horns.
“What in all the thirteen realms got ahold of you back there?”
I grunt, unable to come up with any sensible reply.
“Did you catch up with our little spy?”
“Aye,” I allow, and my chest aches again. “I did.”
“And?”
“And what?”
I inhale and nearly retch.
Goddess, he reeks. No wonder I wasn’t able to pick up on the witch’s scent earlier back in the tavern.
Still, reeking or not, his keen grey eyes miss nothing.
“And who is she, to you?”
“Who says she’s anything? Or that she’s a she at all?”
Pytri chuckles. “My eyes may not be what they once were, but I caught a glimpse of her fleeing the tavern, and I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen a backside like that on a—”
“Enough.”
I don’t want to think about the witch’s backside. I don’t want to think about any part of her. Not her golden curls or her emerald eyes. Not the curve of her full lips or the outline of her lush figure beneath her—
“Oh,” Pytri says, interrupting that train of thought and sounding like he’s just uncovered a juicy morsel of gossip. “So she’s your—”
“Enough,” I say again, rounding on him. “Who she is to me is none of your—”
“Alright. Alright.” He raises his hands in surrender. “At least tell me if this little hiccup is going to derail your plans to attend the fae queen’s gathering.”
“That’s also none of your business,” I grumble, mind too much a tangle to even contemplate it.
What’s some fae monarch’s game in the face of what just happened?
What care could I have for any of it when I’ve just met my…
She doesn’t want you, a voice of sanity somewhere deep in the back of my mind chides. It changes nothing.
“Callum,” Pytri says. “If you’re not going to—”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I snap at him, and the unintentional honesty of the words takes my breath away.
It seems to resonate with Pytri as well, because he ceases his questioning.
Around us, the night presses close. The stars above, the gentle glow of the Veil, the deep darkness of the forest.
Peaceful. This realm has always been so damned peaceful.
Not where I would have expected to have my entire existence destroyed and remade, the casual violence of it so at odds with the beauty of the realm around me.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I say again, more quietly this time.
Pytri lays a hand on my shoulder. “Well, I hope you figure it out in the next three days, friend.”
I shrug him off. “I always figure it out, don’t I?”
“Aye,” he says with a huffed laugh. “That you do.”
It seems to be enough of a goodbye, because Pytri turns to head back toward the tavern, where he’ll no doubt be well-supplied with admirers for the rest of the evening.
Alone with nothing but the darkness for company and the faint pulsing of the Veil ahead, I let out a long breath.
It’s time to go.
My mate isn’t coming back for me, and standing here feeling sorry for myself won’t do anything to get me closer to her.
Do I want to get closer to her?
Do I want to find her?
Logic screams it would be a mistake, but the ache in my chest, my bones, my very soul whispers temptation.
I can at least find out who she is.
Even if I never see her again, even if she wants nothing to do with me, I can find out who she is.
Perhaps that’s all I’ll ever get, all I’ll deserve. Standing here, alone, with the weight of the last hour and the knowledge of how very little I have to offer my mate bearing down on me, perhaps it’s for the best.
But it doesn’t stop me from wanting.
A name. Just a name. Something to hold on to if I never have anything else.
And I know a place where I can start searching for that name. I know where I can find other witches who might know her.