22 Dáinn #3
“Wait just a fucking minute.” Stepping forward, Jasper points a finger in my face. “I am not gonna defile a dead body by wearing it as a second skin. Do you hear me? I don’t care if it helps me play dead.”
I scoff. “If your idea of renders are skin suits stripped from a corpse, then maybe you’re not the witch for this job after all.”
This has his anger flaring. “Hey, I said I’d help you take Ludmilla down and I meant it. I’m in this, Dáinn. There’s no shoving me out of this circle of trust now.”
“But you won’t meet my necromancer?”
“No,” he snaps. “I won’t meet your necromancer. And no, he is not invited to Burr Island!”
Sighing, I drift towards the door. “Very well. I suppose I’ll just have to take Birdie to him myself—”
My angry witch presses in behind me, slapping a hand against the door.
His other hand grips my neck, jerking me back.
I preen as he pulls me in tight against his chest. My shadows curl around his legs as he snarls in my ear, “You listen to me, you dead piece of shit. Birdie is not leaving this island. And she’s not meeting your necromancer either.
Whatever plans you think you have for her, unravel them.
Our pact is for a contracted kill only. The moment we get ourselves free of Ludmilla, we’re getting Birdie free of us. Understand?”
“Your threats would be more effective if I couldn’t see your aura when you speak to her . . . or feel your hardening cock right now—”
Growling, he shoves me hard against the door before stepping back and away.
I turn to him. “You ache for her, witch.”
“Stop.”
“She feels the same—”
“I said, stop!”
“I ache for her too. For you both.”
Groaning, he sinks back down to the edge of his bed, dropping his elbows to his knees and his head to his hands.
I float before him, resolved. “You will make your plans with the human as you see fit, and I, in turn, will make mine. Birdie Rhodes is the only creature I have met in all my years of endless undying who has ever had the power to stop me. If you think I will let that go, if you think I will let her go . . . well then, you’re a fool. Are you a fool, Jasper Prescott?”
He looks up at me, his expression one of anguish. “If I say yes? Will this mantle of responsibility pass from me? I didn’t ask for this, Dáinn.” He holds up both hands, spreading them wide. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Fate never asks. It tells.”
He shakes his head, hopeless in his resignation. “I don’t want to ruin her life.”
“And how would you accomplish that?”
“Because I’m not this person! I’m not a king. Or a high priest. I’m not meant to be the one with all the answers. I just make furniture.”
“How does that disqualify you from leading a coven?”
“I’m not the leader my coven needs! I’ll fail them, Dáinn. I couldn’t even fight you off. How do you expect me to fight the one who sent you?”
“With my help,” I assure him. Drifting closer, I reach out and tip up his chin, daring him to look at me.
“Your mother made you believe you were worthless—not because it was true, but because you were worth ten of her. And she knew it. You are the leader your coven chose. And your goddess blessed their choice. Never forget that.”
He leans away from my touch. “What the fuck do you know about my mother?”
“I drained rather a lot of your soul tonight. It allowed for many interesting insights. Esther Prescott was a complicated witch, cruel and cutting towards you when she had no right to be—”
“Hey, if you’re about to tell me how much she secretly loved me, just save it, okay?”
“I wasn’t,” I assure him. “She stopped fostering your growth in spellcasting because she saw you were stronger than her. Remember the time you were meant to summon a single nail, and instead ripped all the metal from Alora Poole’s garden shed?”
He winces. “I remember.”
Even as a child, his potential was unmatched. The coven saw it. But his fool of a mother punished him when he deserved praise. Reckless, she called him. Undisciplined and dangerous. Esther chose to stifle his power, rather than let it grow.
There is nothing impulsive about Jasper Prescott now.
He is all order and control. But a magic like his needs a willful spark.
He deserves to live as wild and untamed as the island’s tangled blueberry thickets, unruly as the crashing waves.
Instead, he doubts, his magic thrumming inside him like a bird trapped in a cage, desperate for escape.
Reckless. Dangerous.
Those words still haunt him, spoken in his mother’s voice.
“Esther would suffer no rival,” I go on. “So, you learned to like the shadows she placed you in. You prefer it there now, for there’s freedom in the dark. I’m a wraith, I should know.”
He stiffens, fast rebuilding his fortifications to shut me out. “We’re not going to bond over hating my mother.”
“You didn’t hate her. You resented her,” I correct. “Now, your resentment of her memory keeps you from fully claiming your inheritance . . . and your power.”
He bristles, his glare deepening. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You took all the pieces left of her and locked them away in a box in your woodshop. Your eye drifts to it often while you work—”
“Wait, you’ve been watching me in my shop?” His anger grows. I watch the way his hands curl into fists.
“I know you,” I reply. “I know your habits and quirks. I know the taste of your soul.”
“Then you know I want nothing to do with her! I don’t want her shitty legacy. She was a bully and a tyrant. Now she’s dead, and I must go my own way.”
“It’s a noble goal,” I concede with a nod. “By all means, don’t repeat her mistakes. But don’t shun her gifts just to spite her memory either. That is a fool’s logic—”
“Stay out of it,” he growls, pointing a finger in my face. “This is none of your business, wraith.”
“Her magic is yours by right of blood and status,” I press. “Your resentment of her comes at too high a cost. She is dead, Jasper. Leave her in the ground and claim all that is yours. We may need her insights before the end. If it will help save your coven—”
“Enough!” I can tell by the set of his shoulders that I’ve pushed him as hard as I can for tonight. “I’ll handle my mother’s legacy the way I see fit. You just focus on the task at hand. Got it?”
I nod, resigned to waiting. There’s no rushing this witch into anything.
“You’re tired,” I soothe. “Mortals need sleep, remember? You’ll be useless for plotting without a little rest.” Using my shadows, I darken the room, blocking out the glow of the moon through Jasper’s windows.
Then I press down on his shoulder. It’s a more subtle kind of magic than my draining magic.
This one is used more for persuasion, like I did with him out in the yard.
I feed him thoughts of sleep, calm, and rest.
Sighing, he sinks back on the bed, eyelids fluttering shut. “This isn’t over.”
“I know. Sleep now, sweet witch.”
“Fuck you,” he mutters, rolling to his side. He’s like an ornery bear, fighting the pull of hibernation.
“Not tonight. You need your rest. Maybe tomorrow.”
He breathes in deep, letting it out slowly. “What do you see?”
“Where, sweet witch?”
“When you look at Birdie. You never said.”
Reaching out, I brush a hand over his soft, brown hair, letting my mind fill with thoughts of the human resting across the hall. “I see every dream I can never have.”
He hums, pressing his face to the pillow as I feed him more thoughts of sleep and quiet. “What do you see when you look at me?”
I only answer because I know he won’t remember in the morning. “Home,” I whisper, still stroking his hair. “When I look at you, I see home. Now sleep. You can yell at me some more tomorrow.”