by Holly Ice
‘Won’t that ruin your case?’
‘You’d rather it go to trial?’
‘No, but–’
Justin checked his phone and cursed. ‘I’ve got to go. Be good. We’ll sort this out.’ He crossed the grass into the city, and I felt my first flicker of hope.
* * *
The days after our trip to the Christmas market went quick. Without anything to do, I’d turned nocturnal. Justin messaged a few times with updates on Shane and Cameron, and how the school were reacting to what they saw as my betrayal, but the WMCF kept him busy, and chatting to him wasn’t the same as being with Shane.
Justin said Shane spent a lot of time in his room, avoiding people who blamed him for my actions, accusing him of helping me do something awful with everyone’s DNA. I’d ruined both his investigation into his uncle and his reputation. He had to hate me.
I curled the covers tighter around me and checked my phone again. Nothing from Justin today, or from the WMCF.
A soft knock at my door. ‘Bee, are you in?’
‘I’m here.’
Finn peered around the door and pouted. ‘Enough moping over that stupid boy. You need to get in the holiday spirit.’
‘I’m really not in the mood, Finn.’
‘Holiday. Spirit.’ He brought his hands out from behind his back and pushed a glass into my hands.
Ice clinked inside the milky drink, and the whiff of alcohol was eye-watering. ‘What is this?’
‘Drink up!’
I side-eyed him but then shrugged. The last time I gave in to his fun and games, Justin had offered to help me. Getting off my bum might be a good luck charm. So I put the drink to my lips and downed it, trying not to swallow ice along with the alcohol. And then I coughed. That was much stronger than I expected.
Finn clapped and dragged me out of bed. ‘Plenty more holiday spirit in the living room.’
‘Okay, but what’s everyone doing?’
‘Drinking and watching Christmas movies. Come on, we miss you.’
He gave me the puppy dog eyes, and I caved. It shouldn’t work on a guy with so many piercings and tats… but that just made it more convincing. ‘You had to give me the eyes.’
‘Bee, if I didn’t, you’d have hibernated.’
I huffed but donned my slippers, balanced a fluffy blanket around my shoulders, and hugged him. ‘Thanks, Finn.’
He froze, then squeezed me back. ‘I’m sorry it hurts so much.’
I kissed his cheek, fighting a tight throat, and waddled into the living room, searching for that next glass of holiday spirit. Drinking wasn’t the way to keep these feelings at bay forever. But I had to do something different.
After my third glass, the others went to bed as the credits rolled.
I took out my phone to check the time and strayed again to Shane’s name in the contacts. I hovered over it, over the picture I’d taken of him with his cheeky smile, leant on his motorbike. My heart ached. He’d pushed me to be better, to get involved in the world around me, to let people in.
I closed my eyes and battled the tears. I wanted him back. I wanted my life at the academy back. Even that bitch Amélie. I’d had a place there, a purpose I didn’t have working odd jobs and saving money for university. But how could I get him back? Or should I suck it up and fight through the heartbreak?
He’d rejected me, abandoned me when I needed him but… I’d hurt him, too. He’d already forgiven me for hiding Lyall from him. I should have told him what I suspected. I had the time. I just hadn’t opened up.
Biting my lip, I clicked on his number and pressed dial before I lost the nerve. Opening up was exactly what I had to do. I had to tell him how I felt, how much I wanted him back, how much all of this was tearing me up. How I’d never meant to hurt him. And I couldn’t hold anything back. Now was the time to be completely, brutally honest about how much I hurt, too.
His phone went to the answer machine, but I took a deep breath and waited for the dial tone. I could do this. And if he rejected me again, if I didn’t hear anything, then I’d drink more holiday spirit and throw myself into the meals and movies until I didn’t have time to think about him.
* * *
Boxing Day, my belly was complaining about the holiday spirit and the rich food. I’d still clawed myself out of bed and into clothes and I’d lined up a run of Christmas movies when the door buzzed. Repeatedly. I stilled, remote in hand, and waited for someone else to get it. But no one so much as turned over in bed. And our visitor wasn’t going away.
‘Bloody bastarding hangover queens.’ I stuck my head through a hoodie and stumbled to the intercom, closing my eyes a few times against the wooziness. I jabbed the button. ‘Yes?’
No one replied, and I cursed. Had someone buzzed that long just to drop and run? We didn’t have a camera, so I couldn’t check from here. But I was enough of a hungover bitch to put the door on the latch and slump downstairs to the entrance.
The doorstep and the street were empty, but a towering pile of books as big as me was waiting with a handwritten note sticking out the middle. The paper and the books had a multicoloured glow that told me this pile had to be for me.
I plucked the note: ‘These trial and judiciary procedure books should help you with the inquest. I’ve also included books on the Wildes family’s past. They are invisible to humans, including your housemates.’ I turned the note over. It wasn’t signed, but the back held a long list of names and phone numbers. The page was titled ‘Lawyers’.
Someone wants to help you.
Yes, they did. I messaged Justin: ‘These books from you?’
I locked my phone and stared at the titles. These pages had answers, things that might help me beyond Justin’s testimony. The top book had the academy library stamp. I ran my finger over its edges, wishing I could get back to my cosy nook behind the bookcases. But, if I played things right, I could still get back there.
I glanced at the stairs. The books almost reached my chin. Way too many to carry upstairs in one go. And the note said they were spelled… Yes, it was worth a try. I envisioned the books floating in my mind. Lyall, you got this?
Already done.
I opened my eyes to find the books floating a few inches off the ground, and kept my concentration as I climbed the stairs, adjusting the vision to have them follow me.
You don’t need to concentrate that hard. I’ve got this.
Lyall flew up and down the stairs, watching me. And for the first time in at least a week, I could look at him without wanting to pluck him and roast him. Thanks for helping.
That’s what I’m here for.
And as much as I hated how all this turned out, I knew Lyall tried to help. He’d pushed me away from the conspiracy, he’d pushed me to improve my magic skills before searching for his family. He’d wanted me to be as prepared as possible for whatever happened, and ideally avoid it.
I’m sorry for getting mad at you.
In your place, I’m sure I’d have done much the same.
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I wasn’t about to quibble now we were getting along. Any preference which order I read these in?
I’ll read the titles and let you know.
I walked through the deadly quiet apartment and into my room, then shut and locked the door. The books sank to the ground. There had to be twenty or thirty. So were the most useful ones on top, at the bottom, or spread throughout? Or had they dumped them all together?
The spines seemed to be in alphabetical order, by author. So neither of those options. I frowned and ran my finger over them, wondering whether any were useful, when I got a familiar tingle in my hands. Slower this time, I ran my fingers over the spines until I pinpointed the three causing the reaction, one more than the other two. I plucked that one out first.
The Rising of the Wildes Rebels. A promising title. The first page was a wide shot of people, enough to populate a classroom. And right in the centre standing next to a young woman, was Lyall. The human ve
rsion of him, down to the freckles across his cheeks and nose, and the straggly cut of his hair. Even the scattering of moles over his neck were the same.
‘It’s you.’
Lyall changed from his raven form into his human one in a moment. And I couldn’t stop looking at him, the picture, and back. The picture was subtitled: The Wildes Rebels. So he’d really done it, been there. And he seemed high up in the operation, not a simple puppet. Why would aether send someone who did something like that to guide me? Was it because I’d need that kind of power? I didn’t think so.
‘If I read this, can you tell me what happened? Tell me which parts are a lie?’
‘No.’
I sighed. No wonder he’d like to change what was written about him. He didn’t have a voice to dispute it anymore. ‘Can’t you tell aether I need to know?’
Lyall rolled his eyes. ‘Tried that. Many times.’
Either aether was far more stubborn than me, or it was laughing at me. But I’d gotten through tough odds before.
I opened the book to the introduction. ‘The Wildes Rebels were largely recent graduates from a variety of witch academies. Apart from the Wildes, the witches came from minor witch families, with a greater concentration of Animalis than Cognata witches. Historians have found no link between these witches prior to the formation of their group. Their occupations were varied, though many worked in higher spheres of witch society, with access to people and events that may have made them a promising recruit. Statements and family accounts of their movements suggest the group was founded and regularly met for up to two years before the murders.’
Lyall peered over my shoulder, reading with me. I didn’t see the dangerous rebel they’d portrayed. If anything, he looked resigned.
The rest of the introduction covered which families the minor witches were from, but at the end of the chapter were labelled portraits and photographs of all the witches involved in the group. Lyall was near the centre, and his real name stared at me. Dougal Aidan Wildes. Born 1864, died 1892. But as I scanned the other names, a familiar one stood out: Lyall Tomas Fraser.
I tapped the picture. Lyall - or should I say Dougal - reached out a hand as if to stroke the man’s cheek.
‘Was he a friend?’
‘A lover.’
From his sad smile, I figured there was more to the story, but I didn’t pry. Instead, I turned to chapter two, which detailed the murders. The report was dry but included statements from the rebels, made before their execution. One came from the alleged ringleader, Dougal.
Lyall’s smile was gone, and he’d drawn back from the book to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Dougal Wildes stated he’d had visions and other indications which pointed to corruption among the most influential families. But rather than taking diplomatic action through the coven, his team confronted suspect witches during ‘the night of ghosts’. Half their group died during these confrontations. The rest defeated their marks, or came to a stalemate, before the authorities arrived to arrest them.
Little covered why Dougal and the others felt this course of action was necessary, and no one went into detail about the corruption. Most academics discredited Dougal as a psychic that’d gone mad, hungry for power and blood. But I’d known Lyall – Dougal – for months, and he wasn’t mad.
Should I call you Lyall or Dougal now?
I’ve grown used to Lyall.
Because of what they’ve said about you? Anyone reading this history would feel the name Dougal was as tarnished as Adolf.
No. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared into space.
From the way he’d looked at that picture, it had to be for his lover. And I felt for him. It was one thing to be in the web of spirit, watching from above, but quite another to live the Wildes hatred with me, read the intricate detail of what they’d written about him and his group. But I was glad I’d started with the history. It explained the reaction I’d had, how many people were demanding I face trial. Winning this case wasn’t straightforward, even with Justin’s support.
Chapter 20
I’d skimmed five books when my phone vibrated. Lyall peered at it, then carefully sat on the bed. When he didn’t tell me for the hundredth time it wasn’t from the school, or Shane, I closed the current book and crossed to my bedside table.
‘The books aren’t from me. But I think I know who sent them. Look at this.’
I clicked the link and found a video of Shane, standing outside the academy. He must’ve stayed after they broke up for the holidays.
Flashes peppered his face from the media, but he stared straight into the camera.
‘I’m here today to refute the rumours against Bianca Nash. She may have Wildes blood, but she isn’t evil, and she hasn’t committed a crime. I’m supporting her in the coming inquest and I’m more than happy to speak for her, if she’ll have me.’
Reporters yelled out questions, but I couldn’t hear them. Shane had come out – publicly – to defend me. He’d not do that if he didn’t mean it.
The interview ended abruptly when McKee dragged his nephew back inside, but Shane yanked his arm away and walked in under his own steam. And the media reported he left the school soon after, with his bags.
‘Are you still in Edinburgh?’
At first I thought the text was from Justin, but it was Shane.
I drew in a slow breath. ‘Yes, I’m in the flat. I just saw the news. Can I call you?’
The door buzzed, and I gripped my phone tighter. The others had to get it this time. But it kept buzzing and buzzing. Were they all out? Stuff it, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I turned back to my phone and found a new message.
‘Get the door.’
‘Here? In Edinburgh?’ I felt clammy. I couldn’t let myself believe he was actually here. I couldn’t live with that kind of disappointment.
‘Please.’
My eyes welled up. Then I was on my feet and flying downstairs, holding the rail in case I tumbled down. I looked through the door to the apartment building. A blurred shape of someone shifted foot to foot.
I had to pull it together. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, only opening the door when my arms had stopped shaking.
‘Bee.’ Shane’s voice was clear, but tired, his cheeks red from the cold. ‘This is for you.’ He handed me a bouquet of wildflowers.
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I come in?’
I stepped back and led the way. He followed, hands shoved in his pockets. But he didn’t say anything else until I closed my bedroom door behind us.
‘The things they’re saying…’ He had no fire or hardness in his eyes. Some pain, and some confusion. ‘I’m so, so sorry. They’re using what I let slip about Lyall against you. Making it seem like you’re some evil intruder. I know that’s not true.’
‘I should have told you what I suspected about my family.’
He could’ve told me everything I needed to know.
‘No, I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I know you find it hard talking about personal stuff, and I made it almost impossible.’ He took my hand in his. ‘Will you forgive me?’
I ducked my head. ‘I should have gotten past that. You were upset and angry, but you would have listened.’
Shane screwed his eyes shut, then drew me flush against him. ‘None of this is your fault, Bee. I’m with you. And I’ll make it up to you.’
He kissed the top of my head, and I melted into him.
He wanted me. He actually wanted me back. To fly out here in the face of everything being said about me. To stand with me through this, he had to want more than a fling. And with him, I wanted more, too.
I linked my arms behind his head and pressed my mouth to his, relishing in the minty taste of him, the pine and musk, the soft feel of his hoodie in my hands. I’d missed this. I’d missed him.
I backed up to the bed until my knees went. Shane fell with me, that playful sparkle back in his eyes.
‘If you want to make i
t up to me…’ I put his hands under my jumper, on my skin.
He slow walked his hands to my breasts and tweaked my nipples. I groaned. It’d be next to impossible to stay quiet for this. So my housemates had better have decent headphones.
I unbuckled Shane’s belt. Then I tugged at his jeans until they were halfway down his hips, showing me the edge of his boxers and that tantalising trail of hair.
‘Now?’
He ditched his jumper and top in one. ‘No.’
I pouted, but his look was so soft, my complaint died in my throat. He was looking at me with sheer adoration, like he could kiss every inch of me and not be done, like I was perfect.
He peppered kisses down my neck, lighting a fire in my belly. He already knew all those delicious places that made my toes curl, but so did I. His firm cock in hand, I stroked him. Again and again, until he stopped kissing my jaw and growled, pulling my hand away and yanking my top over my head. He undid my bra one-handed and threw my bra away. Then he took my breast in his mouth, playing with one nipple, then the other, flicking them with his tongue, play biting.
‘Oh, hell.’ My knickers were so, so wet.
Shane undid my jeans, each accidental brush of his hands making me buck my hips. But I didn’t take my eyes off him. I wanted him. I wanted to be together again. And I was not going to wait much longer.
Shane took my jeans off. They landed somewhere by the door, but as he climbed back up my body, his hand massaged my clit. Each soft stroke brought me closer. He had me. Completely.
‘Now, please,’ I whispered, stroking him until he groaned against my mouth.
He removed my knickers, then moved back and forth over my entrance and clit, teasing. He reached for a condom and prepared himself. I didn’t drop his eyes.
He pushed inside, letting me get used to him and stretch around him. I groaned for more.
I felt connected to him again, spiritually and physically. But then my vision went black.
Shane had his phone to his ear, frowning. He teared at his hair, eyes glassy, then stormed to the academy library and demanded the librarian tell him where to find books on court procedure. Then he was back on the phone, arms loaded with books, telling Justin to book him a flight.