Chapter 33 Daylight
Daylight
Raven
Iwake with a start, bolting upright, my chest heaving as my heart slams against my ribs. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps.
My hands shake as I rub my palms together, desperate to rid myself of the lingering tingling sensation that never seems to go away. It clings, pulsing under my skin like a second heartbeat.
The room is dark and my body is drenched in sweat. For a minute, I’m completely disoriented.
The dream crashes back in, sharp and vivid. The forest. The wolf. The whispers.
A shiver rolls through me as I scan the room, expecting shadows to shift in the corners, but they don't. I look around at the furniture, the pile of my discarded clothes, the nightstand. Everything looks exactly the same.
Yet it doesn’t feel the same.
I push the covers off and move toward the window. Pressing my palm to the cold glass while I let the chill sink into my skin, willing it to clear the fog in my head.
In. Out. Deep breaths.
I feel so restless.
I see movement at the edge of the trees, and my heart stutters—until I realize it's the same dog. It doesn’t move, it just sits there. The hairs on the back of my neck start to rise, and I slowly step away from the window, yanking the curtains shut. As if that will do anything.
Crawling back into bed, I pull the covers up to my chin and close my eyes hoping to get some more sleep.
I hear voices drift through the closed door, followed by footsteps. A door closes and then Rachel's storming in like a hurricane, instantly shattering my fragile bubble of calm.
I thought I locked the door. And who was she talking to?
“How’s my favorite dumbass?”
I groan, burying my face in my pillow. When I finally peel one eye open, she’s standing there with her hands on her hips, studying me like I’m a lab experiment gone wrong. And just like that, last night slams into me.
I shut my eyes again. Nope. Not dealing with this yet.
Rachel, as expected, does not give a single shit about my coping skills.
“I have a confession,” she announces. Her tone hovers between guilty and smug.
That gets my attention.
“What did you do?”
She shifts on her feet, like she’s deciding what to say. Or how to say it.
“Well…” she draws out the word, milking the suspense for all its worth. Then she rips off the Band-Aid. “When you didn’t come home last night, I may have… well… I kinda texted Kane to ask where you were.”
Both eyes snap open and I bolt upright. “You what?”
Rachel shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “You didn’t text me back, and I was worried. Sue me. Just thought you should know.”
I stare at her, half horror, half disbelief. “And what did he say?”
She hands me my phone, looking a little too pleased with herself. “You’ve got a few messages. I didn’t tell him much, just that you got back and you’re okay.”
I flop back onto the bed with a groan. “Of course you did.”
I hover over the screen, thumb frozen like an idiot. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit unlock.
Kane: You get home alright?
When I look back up, Rachel's watching me. She's suspiciously quiet. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says way too innocently, but the smile on her face doesn’t budge.
“Spit it out.”
She lifts her hands in surrender. “Are you going to text him back?”
I scowl. “No, I'm going to go back to bed.”
She leans against the doorway with her arms crossed, and her eyebrows arched. “Keep lying to yourself, drama queen. You’re already thinking about it.”
I groan, but my gaze drops back to my phone and that small, traitorous flutter in my chest betrays me. My fingers hesitate for half a second, then I lock it and toss the phone on the bed.
Not today.
Rachel doesn’t say anything, but she watches me like she’s waiting for me to cave. I ignore her, stretching my arms over my head and pretend I’m not seconds away from spiraling into a full-on existential crisis.
She finally sighs, flopping onto the bed beside me. “Alright, fine. We’ll just let that sit for now. I won’t ask. Yet. But you came here for answers, and so far, all we’ve got is more questions. It’s time to actually do something, don't you think?"
I groan dramatically, sinking back into my pillow and yanking the covers over my face. “I don’t want to. Can’t we just pretend we’re normal people, on a normal vacation, doing normal vacation-y things? Like wine tours? Or I don’t know, buy overpriced keychains?”
“Nope,” she says immediately. Her voice takes on that bossy edge she gets when she’s about to drag me into something I really don’t want to do. “We need a plan. And before you even think about trying to distract me, don’t. I know you’re holding out on me.”
I peek out from under the covers, narrowing my eyes. “Excuse me?”
She crosses her arms, looking entirely too smug. “You’re acting weird. You didn’t text me back, you disappeared, and now you’re doing that thing where you pretend nothing’s wrong when I know something is.”
I fight to keep my face neutral, forcing a yawn. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
Her eyes narrow further, and she looks dangerously skeptical. “You’re always just tired.”
I shrug, rubbing my eyes like I couldn’t care less, even though my pulse has kicked up a notch. “Sorry to disappoint.”
She studies me with her sharp gaze, but after a second, she exhales dramatically, rolling onto her stomach. “Fine. Be mysterious. But even if I don’t get details about how you got dicked down, I’m still going to say I told you so.”
I snort. “Good to know you’re so supportive in my time of need.”
“Duh.” She winks. “Now, want to get food? You slept forever.”
“Deal.” I mumble, dragging myself out of bed.
She practically skips out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “And for the record, it looks like we don’t need a love spell for Lover Boy after all, unfortunately.”
I groan, rolling my eyes as I make my way to the bathroom. But despite everything, a small chuckle escapes me. She’s impossible.
But as I catch my reflection in the mirror, my amusement fades.
My hair is a disaster, sticking up in every direction, and my eyes are puffy from a night of too much crying and too little sleep. But it's the other thing that makes my stomach drop. My face doesn’t look anything like it did yesterday.
I pull off my hoodie and carefully peel back the bandage, so I can get a better look at my arm.
The cut that I swear was pretty deep last night, looks…
smaller. Less angry. It’s still there, but the raw, swollen redness has faded to a dull pink.
The wound looks days old. Not hours. I look back up at my face, and you’d just think I cried all night or was really tired.
My lip is a little fat, but nothing crazy.
My ribs are black and blue, but not quite as dark as it was last night.
It still hurts like a bitch though.
I’m shocked that I don’t look worse. I definitely feel worse than I look, but I guess that’s for the best. Less questions that way.
I press against my skin, testing for pain. But it barely stings.
A mix of confusion and unease curls in my stomach. I swear it looked worse last night. Am I crazy?
Maybe it looked worse in the dark? Maybe I was overreacting.
My brain's a circus right now, but one cuts louder than the rest. Maybe nothing about last night was normal.
I swallow hard and shove the thoughts down, reaching for the first aid kit on the sink. I tear it open and re-bandage my arm like it's no big deal.
One thing at a time.
By the time I make it into the kitchen, Rachel's perched on a stool with her phone, looking lost in her thoughts. She glances up briefly, and the worry etched into her face stops me in my tracks.
“What’s wrong?” I know her well enough to call bullshit before she even tries to deny it.
“Nothing.”
She sets down her phone in an obvious attempt to change the subject. She grabs the teapot and pours me a cup like it’s the most important thing she’s ever done.
I don’t even need to say anything.
She sighs and leans against the counter, her shoulders sagging. “Okay, fine. It’s not nothing. It’s Bobby.”
I stay quiet, letting her talk. She doesn’t need much prompting when he’s the one on her mind.
She exhales sharply, tapping her fingers absently against the counter. “He’s just being himself. Throwing a fit about something, again. He’s probably mad I’m not answering fast enough. You know how he gets.”
My lips press together. I do know how he gets.
She waves a hand, brushing it off. “It’s fine. He’ll get over it. And I refuse to let him ruin this trip.”
Her tone is casual, but the tension in her jaw gives her away. I take a slow sip of tea, considering my next words. I don’t want to push if she’s not ready to talk. But I also know her well enough to see the weight she’s trying to hide.
I set my mug down, keeping my voice even. “You sure?”
Rachel meets my eyes, and I can see her mask slip for just a second. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, and then it’s gone. “Yep! Now eat your damn toast. We have witchy business to attend to.”
The next few days pass in a blur of research, frustration, and dead ends.
Rinse and repeat.
Rachel and I spend hours digging through books, online archives, and any scrap of information remotely connected to folklore, witchcraft, and my family’s history. We keep slamming into the same wall of nothing.
The book I grabbed from the bookstore has been somewhat useful. We’ve learned a lot about crystals and their meanings and abilities. Specifically, the two I have and the one embedded in my dagger. But the biggest mystery is the stone in my necklace. We still can’t find anything on that.
We found stories on fairies stealing babies, good fairies, bad fairies, but still nothing about witches.