Chapter 6
six
LIZZY
Someone probably wrote a survival handbook with an entire chapter about the dangers of walking into a cemetery in the middle of a foggy night, especially with a demon who emerged through some creepy-ass Hell hole in your mother’s basement, which is unfortunately not a euphemism.
But something about my new professor makes me trust him implicitly.
I think it’s the glasses.
Also, the hotness.
He didn’t stay in demon form long enough for me to get a good look beyond the basics—tail, horns, skin like black smoke, hulking beast vibes—but as a human, he’s lean and muscular, taller than me by a head, with strong yet elegant hands and kind honey-brown eyes and a swoop of dark brown hair I’d love to mess up, if only to get a reaction out of him.
He dresses like a proper gentleman straight out of an antique photo, and he’s super uptight and stuffy, and whenever I’m talking, he looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin heat up.
I know, I know. The handbook probably has three chapters making the case against using hotness as a measuring stick for decency, but since I don’t have a copy on hand, I guess we’ll never know.
Besides, if Dr. Sutherland really wanted to chop me to bits or use me in a ritual sacrifice, he could’ve done it in the basement and saved us both this torturous pre-dawn hike through the pitch-dark woods.
At least he let me run upstairs and get my shoes and a jacket first.
See? Chivalry’s not dead after all. Not even in Hell.
Speaking of Hell, I’m all for learning about my roots, if that’s what it takes to claim my magical legacy and get my spellcasting on, but I didn’t exactly sign up for a workout.
Don’t judge. Your girl is not a hiker. My lungs have been through a lot.
“Are we almost there?” I pant. “We’ve been walking for hours.”
“Seven minutes, actually,” he replies, not winded at all. In fact, judging from the briskness of his steps, he seems to be enjoying this little outing. “Which puts us approximately forty-five seconds closer than the last time you inquired.”
“I thought you said you’d be helping with my magical education.”
“That is precisely what I’m doing.”
“Okay, so… when do we actually do the magic?”
“Not until you’ve demonstrated an understanding of the fundamentals.”
“Is cardio one of the fundamentals?”
He slows the pace, all the better to turn and glare at me. “You told me, and I quote, ‘I despise reading, Professor. I’m much more of a hands-on learner.’ I’m hoping the cemetery visit will help put things in perspective for you.”
Shame heats my cheeks. I hate the thought of getting a bad grade on the first day. Especially from him. “I didn’t say I despise reading. Just that it’s… never been my favorite.”
“Oh.” He stops for a moment, his tone gentling. “Because you don’t enjoy it in general, or because you struggle with it?”
He asks the question genuinely, academically, with no hint of judgment. His matter-of-factness puts me at ease, and I find myself making a confession I’ve never shared out loud with anyone, not even Brendan, who I seriously thought would be my husband one day.
I know. Brendan gets his own survival handbook chapter too. Hindsight, dude.
“I’ve always had trouble reading,” I admit. “I still mix up letters sometimes, or my brain starts rushing ahead and tripping over itself, and I lose my place easily. Then I just get super frustrated or embarrassed, so I give up.”
“Have you always felt that way?”
Out of nowhere, I’m hit with a rush of memories.
Rachel, climbing into my bed in one of the foster homes after lights out, storybook and flashlight in hand, helping me sound out the words.
Rachel, meeting me at the bus stop after school so we could walk to the library, where we’d sit in one of the study rooms and work through my homework together until the librarian started asking if our “parents” knew where we were.
Back then, I thought my sister was just being hard on me.
Trying to control everything and make me feel even worse about falling behind.
And I did feel worse, because for the longest time, whenever one of the foster families was shitty to us, I thought it was my fault.
That I was a burden for not getting good marks in school.
For not being able to take better care of myself.
Something in my heart softens. But only a little bit. She’s still Rachel, after all. Self-appointed Bonnivarde Judge and Jury.
“Anyway.” I shake off the complicated memories before I start to have feelings about them.
“I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth, and I can read enough to manage my day-to-day life, so I never really looked back. I just don’t read for pleasure.
And I won’t be applying to any librarian jobs. ”
“No, I suppose not. Well, I can’t promise your magical studies won’t require any reading or writing, but I can promise I’ll be by your side through every bit of it, helping as needed.
You’ve only to ask. And I’ll do my best to provide more hands-on opportunities for learning, as you called it, to balance out the book work.
” He offers a small smile, which I return, suddenly buoyed.
It’s funny, the way life goes sometimes. I don’t even know this guy. He’s a freaking Hellbeast. One who’s making me do a nature walk. Uphill. Yet in the span of an hour, this Hellbeast has made me feel less alone than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
It’s not just the glasses and the hotness and elegant fingers, either. It’s him. Some core part of his essence. His humanity.
I’m no demonologist—I have no idea if demons are made or born, if a demon’s fate is a choice or a punishment or something in between, if you’re even allowed to ask such things. But I am sure of one thing: this demon was human once. A kind and decent man.
Speaking of mythological creatures!
We fall back into step, slowly moving through the dark woods, minding the narrow path. It’s cloudy tonight, the moon hiding, but somehow I know we’re going the right way. It’s just a feeling—that same internal tug I felt at the house. Like I’m being guided. Like I’m supposed to be here.
“Ah, here we are.” Dr. Sutherland comes to a halt, stepping aside with a sweep of his arm.
At first I don’t see anything—just the same black night, the dark outlines of the trees.
Then the clouds shift and the moon shines down, illuminating a simple iron gate framed by two stone angels speckled with moss, their once-sharp edges worn smooth.
Hawthorn Cemetery, the rusted lettering at the top of the gate reads.
“Named for the trees that watch over the dead.” Dr. Sutherland opens the gate with a creak that echoes through the silent woods, startling an owl out of his perch. “After you, Miss Bonnivarde.”
The cemetery sits on a large, rectangular clearing in the woods, surrounded on all sides by trees—hawthorn, I’m guessing.
Despite my whining, the walk wasn’t so bad.
Not even that far from the house. If I stuck my head out that broken window in the tower, I might even be able to see it from there.
The clearing, the odd headstones jutting out in no discernible pattern. The angels guarding the gates.
Mindful of broken headstones, I follow the trail deeper into the cemetery with slow, careful steps. The sight of the place steals my breath. Well, not the sight, exactly. But the feel of it. There’s a sacredness here in the lonely woods, a peace I’ve never felt before.
A shiver slips through me, but this time, it’s not because someone’s walking on my grave. It’s because I’m walking on theirs.
Maybe the idea should freak me out, but it doesn’t. I was never really afraid of ghosts or spirits or the things that supposedly go bump in the night. In my experience, the living are far more dangerous.
Dr. Sutherland is right behind me, but he’s not saying anything, which I appreciate, so onward we go.
There aren’t many graves—maybe a hundred or so—but it’s the centermost one I’m looking for.
I can feel it. So when we finally reach the headstone smack in the middle of all the rest, I’m not surprised to see who it belongs to. To see her waiting for me.
“Hello, Calista,” I say, and a warmth rushes through me. “This is Dr. Sutherland. He’s helping me dig up the past. Well, not literally!” I rush to add. “Just… you know. Figuring things out. I’m kinda new at all this.”
“Incredible,” Dr. Sutherland whispers.
Calista tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and smiles, a crooked grin full of magic and mischief. I would’ve liked her, I think. I already do.
Clouds slide back over the moon, and my ghost girl vanishes.
I kneel at her grave. Pluck a few mud-caked leaves from around the base. The headstone is cracked and weathered, tilted like a crooked tooth, the carving so worn it’s hardly legible. I trace my fingertips over her name. “Beloved daughter,” I say, reading the faint inscription. “Cherished sister.”
Emotion wells up at the word. For all their faults, all the fights, I can’t imagine ever having to kneel at the grave of one of my sisters.
I wonder who she was, this young woman. Who she loved. Who she left behind.
Calista’s grave is easily the oldest one here, nearly black with age. But the remnants of more recent times remain; a bouquet of dried roses. The melted stubs of white tea lights in glass votives. A small pentacle charm affixed to a braided ribbon.
Someone visited her. Tended to her final resting place, maybe even said prayers for her. I’m about to ask Dr. Sutherland whether the girl has family left around here, but then I remember…
It’s me. I’m her family. My sisters are her family.
And so is—was—our mother.
I pick up one of the rose blooms, gently folding my fingers around it. The petals are still fragrant. I close my eyes, press it to my nose…
A vision swarms behind my eyelids. It’s my mother again—I’m sure of it—laying the bouquet on the grave. Lighting the candles and pressing her palms into the dirt. Her face is serene, untroubled. Peaceful.