Chapter 18
CLEMENTINE
It’s not until Mor shows me the potion in the grimoire that I start to believe we might cure me.
When Carl suggested going to the library to help the witch search, I agreed only because I knew my brother needed to feel useful.
But sitting down with a stack of books, studying for hours, was never my strength.
School always made me anxious, and text would sometimes blur on the page because I was so in need of movement.
I don’t experience the same distraction when working on a screen, likely because I can move the words around, adjust things, and manipulate what is in front of me.
Still, even more than giving my brother a purpose, I agreed because I didn’t want him to think that I was starting to give up hope. When Violetta had said that there wasn’t any sign of poison, I’d felt a sense of excitement for just a brief moment because it was new information.
But then despair eventually set in because if not poison, then what?
Still, maybe I don’t need to know what is causing the wound to stay open. All I need to know is what will fix it.
An answer that Mor has found for me.
Carl practically vibrates in the driver’s seat next to me as we navigate back to Griffith’s house.
Not only did Mor locate a potion for what she described as a regeneration spell, but she was able to concoct the magical mixture for me.
Turns out, the Shelly witches have more than just books on hand.
They’ve also been creating their own miniature apothecary.
Ame is also not the biggest fan of sitting and reading dusty old books.
She works the front desk at Zara’s veterinarian office in town, and on her days off, she will sometimes go out into the forests surrounding Folk Haven and forage for herbs and plants that supplement spells that exist in the books that Mor reads.
Plus, because of the vast wealth of knowledge the Shellys have amassed, their library is a popular spot for the local witches to visit.
Mor and Ame have connections. When they needed the ingredients for this regeneration potion, whatever they didn’t have on hand, they were able to call in favors in order to gather.
I forgot what this felt like. Or maybe I never took the time to know it in the first place.
Community.
Not that I got all of this for free. I paid a fair sum for what I hope is finally the cure.
I need to fix this soon. Now.
The witch bandages are degrading faster each day. They itch almost from the moment that Madeline applies them to my skin. The weirdest part is, I can feel the blood in my body, trying to drain out of an opening it expects to still exist. Because it does.
“I knew she would find something. I knew there had to be an answer,” Carl says as he turns into Griffith’s driveway.
This isn’t the first time he’s repeated something similar. At this point, I think the words are more for him than they are for me. But I guess that’s how our relationship has been. Him always caring for my safety more than I have. At least, that was how it was when I was younger.
I do care about myself though. I want to be healed. I want to be safe. But I also have a lingering despondency, a fog of distress, a shadowy voice in the back of my mind that constantly tells me this will go wrong.
Things always go wrong. Don’t get too comfortable because your life will eventually be upended. Probably when you least expect it.
That’s the pattern anyway.
“I’m glad she found the cure too,” I say, keeping my worries inside, where they can’t hurt my brother.
Carl smiles over at me, relief in his gaze. And I feel sick because I don’t want to see all that hope drain away if this doesn’t work.
Please let this work—if not for me, then at least for him. He deserves to be happy.
I hate how my pain becomes his.
Before we reach the front door, it’s already opening for us. Griffith stands on the threshold. The wolf’s eyes track over me, as if he is searching for new injuries. I try to figure out when the shift happened. When he went from aggravated to protective. I wonder why he started caring.
And I try not to panic at the thought of another person being disappointed if this doesn’t work.
“I have the bath running,” Griffith says. “Scalding hot water. That’s what Bo said the spell needs.”
Mor told me she was going to send her mate to inform Griffith about their discovery.
Apparently, Bo and Griffith are close, even though Bo is a monster and Griffith is a werewolf.
Even though I grew up with Carl and Griffith being best friends, the divides in the town between different mythic types were undeniable.
But since I’ve been back, I can’t help thinking that those lines are blurring. That there’s more crossover.
The witches who run the library live in the Of the Wing section of Folk Haven.
Griffith co-owns a bar with a witch.
When I’m in town, I spot different mythic types sitting at tables together, walking together, laughing together. A melding is happening that’s taken almost a century since the town was first founded.
I’m glad to see the growth. It gives me hope that people can change. Become better versions of themselves.
“Gotta say, this is the perfect potion for me. One that lets me soak in a bathtub.”
I affect a confident grin, trying to hide my nerves about the situation.
I don’t know if I’m successful with the men, but Shrimp must pick up on some level of anxiety because he sticks close to my side, pressing his large body against my thigh in a comforting manner.
I reach down to scratch his ears and try not to consider what his life will be like if, in the end, this doesn’t work.
Try not to think about him having to live with Carl, just the two of them.
I guess Griffith would be there as well.
Would he miss me too?
The thought threatens to steal the rest of my faint confidence, so I hurry into the house and head toward the stairs.
After my first night staying here, Griffith offered that I could move to one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor if using the stairs wasn’t irritating my injury.
He claimed that was the reason he put me in the ground-floor bedroom in the first place.
But I liked how the space he set me up in was slightly separate from the rest of the house.
Was far from his bedroom upstairs. I wanted to keep my distance.
Now though … I’m rethinking that choice.
As I ascend to the second floor for the first time, I take in the framed pictures he has hung on the walls. A lot are of him and Carl. Hiking. At Local Brew. I search for any sign of his parents, sure that once I see them, I’ll recognize the pair and recall encounters with them.
But there’s nothing. No slightly older versions of Griffith. Just him with his pack mates and coworkers and friends.
The last is another of Griffith and Carl, arms around each other’s shoulders, in robes and tasseled caps.
I remember that day. One of my parents took that picture, and I was standing beside them, eager for the day when we’d all be celebrating my graduation. Back when I had no idea my mom and dad were done with parenting and had their sights set on the road out of town.
Shame scrapes against my nerves when I think of how close I came to not earning my high school diploma, so set on blowing up my life in rebellion of their rejection. I think most of my teachers passed me out of pity.
I’m not that person anymore. My side aches, as if to refute the point.
Griffith and Carl follow behind me, the two of them hovering. I pause at the top of the stairs until the werewolf comes up beside me and points the way to his bedroom.
I step into a room with tall ceilings, soaked in a natural golden glow from two skylights. A plush rug spreads across the dark wood floor, and the centerpiece of the space is a massive bed, covered in thick emerald-green bedding.
That’s where Griffith sleeps every night.
Thoughts of his large body sprawled in that bed invade my mind until all I want is to crawl onto the mattress and sneak under the covers to see if the fabric holds on to his warmth and forest scent.
Stop daydreaming!
I cross through the giant, cozy space and approach the bathroom, where I can already see steam seeping from the doorway. Inside is a massive bathtub. Large enough to fit Griffith with room left for another to join.
I shake my head to get the thought of him naked and soaking in water out of my mind.
Still, at my back, I can sense both him and my brother hovering.
“I don’t know how you guys expected this to go, but this isn’t a group activity. Give me a bit of privacy, huh?” I turn to face the two men who walked into the bathroom with me as if they belonged here.
Their faces each go ruddy, and they shuffle out of the room. I nudge Shrimp to follow them, worried that he might decide to take a drink of the tub water, which would be gross in normal circumstances, but possibly dangerous once I add the potion into the water.
I close the door and lock it for good measure. I don’t expect that either will bust into the bathroom, but Carl’s orbiting has reached new levels ever since he realized my life is at stake. Plus, Griffith has already proven he can’t be trusted, even with a locked door.
Once the water level is only a few inches below the edge of the tub, I shut it off. From my pocket, I pull out a silk pouch that is full of mixed ingredients. The spell work has already been done, and all that’s left is for me to add the concoction to the bath and immerse myself in it.
I pull the drawstring open and upend the contents; petals and powder and herbs with a sparkling sheen all tumble out to infuse the water. The steam takes on a floral, earthy scent. A subtle blue glow starts up once everything is mixed together.
That must be the extra Shelly magic that they spoke over the dried potion.
I inhale a bracing breath, then let the air out slow and try to release all my expectations with the exhale.
“It’s just a bath,” I murmur. “A normal bath. If nothing happens, then that’s fine because it’s just a normal bath.”
I strip off my clothes, shake out my limbs, and take one more look at the peeling witch bandage on my side.
“Just a bath,” I repeat.
Then I step into the tub.
Mor instructed me that I needed to submerge my entire body. Hold my breath and stay under for as long as possible.
As a mermaid, the task isn’t hard. I can hold my breath underwater for hours. Once my head sinks below the surface, there’s an element of euphoria to the submersion. My body aches to shift and change, and luckily, Mor told me taking on my mythical form would help the spell.
Allow the potion to access every part of me.
And so, like releasing a tight fist I’ve been holding for months, I allow my other form to take shape.
The delicious tingle of stretching a muscle shudders through my legs until they aren’t legs anymore, but one long limb.
The skin of my hips melts into rich green scales.
My tail feels strong and lithe, and I wish I were in Lake Galen, so I could truly stretch myself and enjoy the freedom of swimming with a body that was made for it.
But for now, I simply allow the joy of reclaiming my other half to infuse my soul.
After counting to one hundred multiple times over, I finally push myself upward, my head breaching the surface, but only so my collarbone is above the water.
Everything else stays underneath. Closing my eyes and leaning back against the side of the porcelain tub, I take mental stock of myself.
My tail, my fins, the talons that have grown on my fingers, and the skin that remains on my torso.
There’s no pain.
I blink my eyes open and stare down through the water. The witch Band-Aid has floated away, and through the murky water I spy my side, bare of any mark. Like the injury never occurred.
It worked.
And as if they could hear my realization—or maybe they heard my gasp of surprise—there’s a pounding of a fist on the other side of the door.