Chapter 27 The Bone Of It
The Bone Of It
The cabin stood at the path’s end. It looked as if it had grown from the mountain itself, old and strong. It had once been beautiful, now it showed its age openly with every splinter and crack catching the light of Aiden’s SUV headlights as we drove up to it.
The smell of resin and fire intensified as we came closer. It had an undertone of something herbal. I think it was rosemary, or sage, smoldering in the coals.
I could see unfamiliar runes carved above the threshold. They were not the clean, crisp symbols found in Wiccan shops; these were old, rustic scratches. Each of them pulsed with a faint glow that deepened the longer I stared at them.
Aiden supported Mateo’s weight as we moved toward the cabin. Mateo’s fingers curled tightly around Aiden’s shirt. His brow furrowed slightly, even in sleep, as if he sensed the weight of the ancient structure looming ahead.
I glanced behind us; the forest was silent. Aiden stepped up to the door with Florence at his elbow. She lifted his hand to knock, but before her knuckles could even graze the surface, the door rasped open on its own.
She stood there, a woman no taller than my shoulder, but with a presence that filled the entire frame.
Her hair fell in wild, silver curls around her face, her eyes were the darkest brown I’d ever seen, alive with the restless intelligence of a predator.
The skin was glossy and deep, a color somewhere between mahogany and burnished chestnut, mapped with the faintest webbing of age.
She regarded us for a full, silent beat, then gave the barest tilt of her chin.
“Bring the boy inside,” she said, her voice a velvet growl.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Is it safe?” I muttered to Florence, who responded with a silent nod.
The woman stepped aside gracefully. As we stepped into the cabin, the runes shimmered. The heavy door creaked shut behind us, sealing out the night. Aiden cradled Mateo against his chest as my gaze swept across the dimly lit space.
The air felt thick with history, saturated with the scent of aged wood and something herbal. The only smell sharper than smoke was the underlying tang of something metallic: blood, or perhaps rust.
The inside of the cabin was a part hunting lodge, part apothecary, part museum of the occult.
Tapestries with shimmering patterns hung from the ceiling.
In the middle, a circular hearth illuminated the worn wooden floors.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the walls, along with bones tied together by red strips.
Shelves groaned under the weight of jars filled with teeth, feathers, and fur.
Every surface was cluttered but clean, and each detail heightened my sense of unease.
The woman moved to the hearth and stirred the fire with a stick. Only when the logs had settled did she turn back. Her eyes fell first on Mateo, then on me.
“This is Ethel,” Florence said quietly.
Ethel’s mouth twitched slightly. “You can call me Sister if you like,” she said. Her voice was softer now, but no less commanding.
I found myself staring. “Are you…?” I started, then trailed off, embarrassed by the childishness of my own question.
“No, dear,” Ethel replied. “I’m not a wolf.” She turned, the firelight tracing her jawline. “I’m a sorceress.”
Mateo whimpered. The faint rise and fall of his chest betrayed some unspoken dream, and I realized my own breath had stilled to a shallow, uneasy rhythm.
Aiden cleared his throat, gently nudging me forward.
“He’s been having…episodes,” he said, voice even, but I could tell he was uncomfortable letting anyone else take control. “We want to know what’s happening to him.”
Ethel gave him a quick look before focusing on Mateo. She leaned closer to Aiden, who held Mateo against his chest. Then she pointed to the long wooden table behind her and motioned for Aiden to lay Mateo there.
Its surface was covered with a thick woven cloth. The fabric was marked with hand-drawn circles and crossing lines in fresh black ink that glistened in the dim light.
Ethel’s hands remained open and empty as if she were approaching a fragile treasure.
“May I?” she asked softly.
I met her gaze, heart racing, and after a long moment of hesitation, I nodded, granting her permission to approach my son.
She set her fingers lightly on his temples. For a moment, nothing happened. Ethel’s eyes closed; her lips moved in a silent chant. I stared, unable to look away, my heart thundering in my chest.
There was a soft pop, like a candle snuffing out, and the fire in the hearth blazed higher.
Ethel’s eyes snapped open, and she let her hands fall away.
Mateo slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the dim light.
He blinked several times, taking in the strange surroundings, then he closed his eyes again.
Ethel straightened and wiped her hands on the coarse fabric of her skirt. Her eyes met mine, pinning me to the battered floorboards. Her voice was so level, so calm, that it was more terrifying than a scream.
“He’s not sick,” she said. “He’s changing.”
The words fell into a profound silence. I heard the words, sure. But for a moment, I just stood there, unwilling to process what she really meant.
He’s changing.
Yeah, no shit.
Kids grow up. Their limbs lengthen, faces thin out, voices break and crack, and they turn into someone new every six months.
But the way she said it, flat, certain, like a door slamming shut, made my scalp prickle.
Florence’s eyes were shining, but not with tears. It was something else, some private knowledge she didn’t want to share. Her lips parted, but then she pressed them together so tightly the color faded from them.
“He’s burning up. He needs water, medicine, not…whatever this is,” I said.
If he was “changing,” then change him back. That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I just dug my nails into my palms and glared at Ethel, daring her to contradict me.
Ethel’s gaze flicked to me with a precision that suggested she’d been expecting this: no anger, no warmth, nothing but pure appraisal.
“Child, water cannot quench a fire born from beyond this world,” she said it gently, but the words landed like a hammer.
I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat. “Are you even listening to yourself?”
Florence’s hand appeared on my shoulder. “Trust her, Josie. She’s been doing this longer than either of us has been alive.”
The ridiculousness of the statement almost sent me over the edge. But then I looked at Mateo, still lying out on the table, lips parted, breath coming in shallow little pants. My heart twisted, the panic rising again.
“Then, what can you do to help him?” I asked.
My voice was shaking, and I hated it. I wanted anger, something sharp to slice through the terror.
Ethel nodded as if I’d said something reasonable, then she moved towards Mateo again, reaching for a glazed ceramic jar on the nearest shelf. She pinched some of its contents between her fingers and began to draw a circle around Mateo.
The powder was black as soot, but as it hit the cloth, it shimmered in the candlelight, each grain igniting for a split second before settling into place. She muttered as she worked, in a language I didn’t understand.
Florence joined her, producing a set of four tiny crystal totems from a box that was on one of the shelves.
There was a wolf, of course: obsidian black, jaw open, fangs bared.
A clear quartz bird, wings flared as if in mid-scream.
An amethyst human skull with hollow eyes.
And a fourth I couldn’t make sense of, just an elliptical knot of wood with a spiral burned into its surface.
Florence placed them carefully at the four corners of the table, aligning them so their eyes pointed inwards, all focused on Mateo.
From across the table, Ethel looked up at me. “You must stand back, Josephine, if you want him to come through this.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to fight for every inch of Mateo’s soul. But she said it in a way that made resisting feel childish. I stepped back until my heels touched the rough edge of the hearth and wrapped my arms around myself.
Aiden stayed near the door, hands clenched so tight his knuckles shone white. “If they don’t try this, he won’t survive, Josie,” he said.
The muscle in his jaw twitched every time Ethel spoke over Mateo’s sleeping form.
Ethel began again, her voice almost a hum. She sprinkled the black powder across Mateo’s chest. The scent of the stuff was overpowering. I wanted to gag, but I didn’t. Mateo’s eyelids fluttered, his lips twitching as if he were about to speak.
Then, he did.
However, the sound that came from him was not a child’s voice. It was too deep, too old. The language was the same one from his fever dreams, which made my skin crawl and my stomach clench.
Ethel froze mid-incantation. Her eyes, suddenly wide, shot to Florence with a look of pure alarm. They exchanged a glance. Florence nodded once, barely perceptible, her fingers tightening around the wolf totem so hard I thought it would shatter.
“What? What is it?” I asked. The words scraped out of me.
Ethel held up a hand to silence me, then leaned in, pressing her palm to Mateo’s chest. Her head cocked, as if she could hear something none of the rest of us could.
“He carries three threads in his soul,” Ethel said at last, her voice a whisper. “Wolf. Fae. And something else… something older. Not of this realm.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending. I shook my head, refusing the words. “That’s impossible. He’s my son.”
“Is he?” she asked after a beat of silence, not accusing, but with a finality that suggested she knew the answer better than I ever could.
The world seemed to snap on its axis. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. This was my kid, my only point of gravity.
It wasn’t possible.
“He’s mine,” I said. “I carried him.”
And I had. I remembered the kicks. The swelling. The way he pressed a heel into my ribs at three in the morning.