Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
There’s a charming little garden fenced in on one side of the store, a fun fact I learn when Griffin tells me that my duties include watering the plants.
It’s full of color and smells like spring—a lovely oasis of raised beds with rosemary, sage, lavender, and a bunch of other herbs I don’t recognize at all.
I find the watering can and fill it from the rain barrel tucked in the corner. The repetitive task of watering each section is soothing—at least until I spot movement by the back gate.
Chase slips into the garden with the ease of someone who’s been here many times before. He looks startled to see me, then nods before squatting down in front of the herb bed and starting to clip off some leaves.
“Um, does Mr. Griffin know you’re taking his herbs?”
He glances up. “I think it’s fair to say that Griff knows pretty much everything that goes on in this town.”
He’s probably right about that. But he didn’t actually answer my question.
As he kneels by a bed of something with delicate yellow flowers, I decide not to press the issue. After all, the plants will grow back.
“What are they for?” I ask as he pulls a small pouch from his pocket.
He ignores my question, carefully harvesting several sprigs. His movements are precise, almost ritualistic. He murmurs something under his breath with each cutting—a prayer? A spell? I put down the watering can, using the movement as an excuse to get closer, trying to hear.
“Protection freely given, freely taken. Guard against the dark, shield against the shadow.”
A shiver runs through me. “What are you doing?”
He tilts his head to look at me, then shrugs. “This town has a high crime rate. I figure every little bit helps.”
I tilt my head. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” he says, and though I search his face for any sign that he’s bullshitting me, I don’t see a single hint.
“Okay, then,” I say, squatting across from him. And before I can talk myself out of it, I blurt, “Are you making that for me?”
His brow furrows, and I wonder if I’ve totally missed the mark here. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, I mean…you know. Before. With the freaky wolf mugger.” Am I a smooth liar, or what? “And,” I add before I have time to talk myself out of it, “because of the way you’re always saving me in dreams.”
I search his face for a reaction—some sign that he knows exactly what I’m talking about. But there’s no reaction at all. Neither recognition nor confusion. Just blankness.
Then he says, very quietly, “In your dreams?”
I shrug, my cheeks burning as I desperately wish that one of those freakish creatures from my dreams would swoop in and cart me away, because hello? Could I be any more lame?
“Sorry,” I finally manage. “I guess I was young and impressionable back when Wolfie jumped out at me. Kinda makes you the man of my dreams.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Did I really just say that? Seriously, why is the earth not swallowing me whole?
“That’s quite a responsibility,” he says, and it’s probably just wishful thinking, but I think his words are underscored with heat. “In that case, I guess I’d better make you a ward.” His eyes twinkle with what might be amusement. “Have to keep you safe in this world too.”
“Oh.” I can’t seem to conjure any more words. For that matter, if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose myself in the gold of his eyes.
“I’ll find you later this week and give it to you.”
My pulse flutters, and I nod like an idiot. “Yeah. That would be great. Maybe we could meet by the Widowmaker or—oh! Actually, I’m going to a party with Tia on Friday. Do you want to come with us?”
I resist the urge to cringe because I really should ask Tia first. But if Chase is coming, then she can invite Riley, and that should work out fine.
“A party?”
“Yeah, Tia says they have a rep for throwing great parties.”
“Who?” he asks, though I have a strange feeling he already knows. Maybe he did send that text…
“Whitehall House.”
“No.” He leaps to his feet before the word is even out of his mouth, then drags his fingers through his hair. “No way in hell are you going to that party.”
I scoot back, gaping at the guy who’d just pulled a Jekyll and Hyde. “Was it you? Were you the one who sent me that text?”
His brow furrows. “What text?”
“The one to stay away from Whitehall.”
His head cocks, his eyes narrowing as he says slowly, “Not me. But they’re right. You need to stay away from Whitehall.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, you should be wary of invitations from strangers. What exactly did it say?”
“Excuse me,” I say, bristling from his tone. “Last time I checked, you weren’t my babysitter.”
“Why did they invite you?” His words are hard and measured, and although I’m tempted to just escape back into the bookstore, I’m more curious about what has set him off.
“I don’t know.” He makes a good point. Why on earth would I get an invitation to what Tia seems to think is the most exclusive party on campus?
“You don’t know, but you’re going to go anyway?”
“Maybe,” I admit, starting to deflate. “The invitation said to come if I want to learn about my dreams.”
His eyes narrow. “Your dreams?”
I look down, suddenly fascinated by the striations on one of the herb leaves and wishing I could turn back time and erase my words.
“Cora?”
“I have a sleep disorder, okay? It’s no big deal.”
“The hell it isn’t. Listen,” he says, “if someone is contacting you about your dreams—if Whitehall is in the mix—then you need to be careful.”
I go suddenly cold, as if I’d just teleported naked to the Arctic Circle.
At the same time, my mind goes completely blank.
I don’t even realize that I’ve stood up until I finally tune into my own thoughts.
This man isn’t a crush I’m projecting into my dreams. He’s really there.
Like actually, truly, really, really there in my dreams. Chase is Golden Eyes.
I’m certain of it.
And he’s saved me time and time again.
“Tell me,” I beg, my pulse quickening. “Please, please, Chase, I need to understand. Tell me about the creepy scorpions and freakish babies. About the king in the cave. Tell me how you can be there and here. And please, please, tell me how to survive.”
He only stares at me.
“Dammit, Chase. Tell me why you’re in my dreams.”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Cora, calm down. Think about what you’re saying. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, hello? Maybe you’ve dreamt about me—and I’m flattered. But in your dreams? What does that even mean?”
I grimace, because of course he’s right. He’s only in my dreams because my mind puts him there. That’s how dreams work, after all.
Or that’s how they’re supposed to work.
But that wasn’t a real dream. It was the kind of dream that killed my mother…and Chase was there too. Just like Adric was.
I’m right. I know I’m right. The dreams are real. He was there.
And, yeah, it sounds crazy, but I know it’s true.
More, I’m certain that he knows it too.
What I don’t understand is why he’s so determined to make me believe I’m tripping.
“Chase—”
He holds up a hand, something flickering across his face as he cuts me off. Confusion? Recognition?
I just don’t know.
A moment passes, and he sighs. “Give it a rest, Cora. I’m just a guy who helped you once. Don’t build me up in your mind as some sort of superhero.”
“No,” I whisper. I have to be right. Because if I’m not, then maybe I’m losing my mind.
He stares at me for a long, tense moment. I hold my breath, willing him to break, to tell me something, anything, that will help me make sense of what’s happening.
Instead, he gathers up the herbs he’s cut. “I have to go.”
“Of course, you do.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
He flinches as if I’ve struck him, and for a brief moment, his carefully constructed walls seem to crack. Then they snap back, and when he speaks, his voice is as tight as his expression. “I wish I could help you. I really do.” He reaches out, his fingertips brushing my cheek.
“Please,” he says. “Please stay away from Whitehall House.” And then he slides past me, his shoulder barely grazing mine as he heads for the gate.
I shiver, the brief contact having sent a jolt through me, just like the last time we touched. An intense, sizzling awareness, like static electricity, only deeper.
I frown. That’s just not normal.
He pauses at the gate, his eyes meeting mine. “Trust me,” he whispers.
“Chase!” I call out, but I’m too late. He’s already gone.
I stare at the empty space where he stood, frustration and confusion warring within me. He knows something. So why the hell won’t he tell me?
But despite racking my brain for answers, I don’t have a clue.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of mundane tasks—restocking shelves, ringing up customers, making the occasional latte. Mr. Griffin doesn’t mention Chase’s appearance in the garden, and I don’t bring it up. But I catch him watching me sometimes, his expression thoughtful.
By the time Mr. Griffin walks me through the lock-up procedure at eight, my mind is spinning with questions. Chase’s cryptic comments. Mr. Griffin’s knowing looks. The mysterious text warning me about Whitehall House.
They’re all connected. Too bad for me I don’t know how.
The walk back to campus is brief but eerie. The Spanish colonial architecture casts looming silhouettes against the night sky. Gas lamps flicker along the main thoroughfare, their light too weak to fully illuminate the space between buildings.
I quicken my pace, unable to shake the feeling that I’m being watched. Twice, I stop and turn around, certain I’ll catch someone following me, but the street behind me remains empty.
Just paranoia, I tell myself. The aftereffect of too little sleep and too much stress.
But as I approach the edge of campus, something moves in my peripheral vision—a shadow detaching from a deeper patch of darkness.
“Hello?” My voice sounds small and fearful in the quiet street.
No response, but the shadow seems to shift, elongating impossibly before melting back into the darkness. Surely just my overtired brain playing tricks.
Except…