Under the Harvest Moon
Page 6
That was all right. I wouldn’t have known what to imagine her saying anyway.
While blackness claimed my consciousness, I spared a thought for my mother, who would blame herself even though she shouldn’t. She would hate that I had been alone at the end. She had no way of knowing that my mind would fill in the blanks with the cool touch of Rhea’s hands on my face.
Hold on…
“Well was it there for her, or was it there for you?”
The blackness receded slowly and voices filtered in through the muffled, cotton-wrapped feeling of my head.
“How the hell would I know that, Jean?” That was Rhea’s voice. “The were didn’t go after me. He ran off once I clocked him.” There was a pause: a horrible, tension-filled thing. “She gonna turn?”
“No. You got her here in time. I can stop it.”
I blinked my eyes open, clawing toward sight to stare up at Jean’s blonde hair, her blue eyes focused on my leg.
“Stop what?” I croaked. “What happened?” My voice was far away and the snap of Jean’s gaze to mine sent a frisson of seasickness through my gut.
I tried to sit up, fought to get my shoulders off the table but Jean had me pinned back with no difficulty at all.
“Hey, now. Take it easy, Laurel,” Jean murmured and some of the tension seeped from my body. How did she do that?
“You have to tell her.” Rhea’s voice was harsh, brusque, and it took longer than I cared to admit to find her in the unfamiliar room.
I was on a table. A big dinner table. There were large windows in the wall and Rhea sat perched in the sill of one of them, one of her long legs poised on the frame next to her, the other extended down to the floor. Why was she there?
Wait.
The woods.
I was in the woods.
“There was a coyote —” I said and the urgency in my voice was stilled and quieted by Jean’s gentle shushing.
“Tell her.” Rhea’s voice was the only solid thing in a world that insisted on melting away every time I reached out to it.
“Greenhollow decided —” Jean’s brow was knitted together in displeasure but she looked determined not to do what Rhea wanted. Had Rhea found me?
Oh my god, did that actually happen?
“Fuck what Greenhollow decided. You know she didn’t wander out there on her own. And that were was waiting for her. Tell her,” Rhea said firmly. “She deserves to know.”
Jean swore beneath her breath and a wave of something cool and soothing flowed through my leg. I’d been bitten. Hadn’t I been bitten? I strained to look down at my leg but there were towels in the way. Towels and brushes covered in things I didn’t recognize — but I wasn’t in pain. Why wasn’t I in pain?
“Laurel?” Jean said softly. “You with me?”
The fog was draining from my mind but I couldn’t put everything together yet. The street lamps poured yellow light in through the windows and I — I knew where I was.
“This is your apartment,” I said. “This is the apartment above the shop.” I shrugged off the hand on my shoulder and pulled myself upright. The movement swirled the world around me in a nauseating wave, but I still fought to get into a less vulnerable position.
“That’s right. Do you remember how you got here?” Jean asked.
I wanted to say ‘no’, but something in my mind relaxed, surfaced memories I didn’t realize I’d formed. Rhea’s arms around me, slinging me over her shoulder, carrying me out of the woods — carrying me through the streets until she came to Jean’s door.
Had she really carried me that far? And why? Why not go to one of the hospitals in the area? And how had she known I’d needed help at all?
“Rhea,” I breathed.
Rhea’s head snapped toward me, eyes wide and mouth set in a grim line. The streetlamp painted golden highlights along the branching network of her silver scars, the pendant that hung ever-present around her neck, and I wished that I could get a closer look.
“She brought me here.” I coughed and accepted a glass of water from Jean with a grateful look. “But why? There was a voice, then a coyote — Does that happen a lot?”
“A voice?” Jean asked, eyes suddenly intense and narrowing on my face. “What did the voice sound like, Laurel?”
“I’d heard it in my dreams before. I don’t know his name.” I shook my head and swallowed more water.
“Jean,” Rhea prompted. “Tell her.”
“If the Council loses their shit over this, I’m calling you in to back me up,” Jean groused.
All at once, Rhea’s posture changed. She went stiff, hands forming into tight fists, body language threatening to leap out the window rather than stay where she was. “Okay.” Her voice was tight, barely audible, and a flicker of shame passed over Jean’s face.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jean murmured in obvious apology. Then she turned her attention back to me. “Hell, there’s no good way to tell an outsider this.” Jean bit her lower lip, worrying the flesh between her teeth until the movement threatened to drive me out of my skin.
“My mom always told me to blurt it out when something was hard to say,” I offered quietly.
“Okay.” Jean nodded. “Well, you’re a witch, Laurel.”
I opened my mouth to laugh but the complete absence of humor on her face stopped me. I looked past Jean over to the window where Rhea waited. Her expression was still dark, still grim, but satisfied.
She nodded.
“Oh,” I said weakly. “I’m sorry. Could you say that again?”
8
Rhea
Everything in me wanted to turn away from the conversation that Jean and Laurel were having — well, trying to have, at any rate. Jean was practically soul-deep in Laurel’s vitals, trying to patch her back together without destroying the magic that hummed along her bones — and without letting the were’s curse take hold. It was a delicate operation and Laurel was lucky as hell that Jean had been so close by. That kind of bite, without a healer? That could’ve easily gone the other way.
“Could you say that again?”
There was a note of hysteria in Laurel’s voice and I couldn’t blame her. After all, I’d been raised knowing what I was, but as far as Laurel was concerned the world was a much simpler place.
“A witch,” I said and pretended it was irritation rather than fear in my voice. Fear that if Jean tried to keep up the conversation she might miss something. “A caster, a spellslinger, a sage, a mystic. Take your pick. Though most everyone uses ‘witch’, if that matters to you.”
Laurel nodded, looking seriously at her knees like they were the ones responsible for keeping her life on the rails and they’d failed her. “Right. That’s what I thought you said. So, I’m in a coma or something, right? Or I’m dead? That coyote gave me some sort of blood disease and I’m dreaming of being a witch because my brain is processing a lot of trauma.”
I bit down on the inside of my lip to suppress the grin that tried to surface. Whatever I had thought she might say about her newfound identity, that wasn’t it.
“Sure, kid. Could be that.” I nodded. “Or you might be a witch.”
“C’mon, Rhea. Show her something.” Jean’s voice was bright but I could see the glassiness coming into her eyes, the sweat that bloomed on the back of her neck. The strain she was under was starting to break through her calm veneer.
“Show her something,” I repeated flatly.
Jean knew why that was a bad idea. It wasn’t like anyone under the Crescent didn’t know what had happened. Hell, I hadn’t used any of my own magic, anything that wasn’t activating a charm another witch had created since…damn. It was more than a decade ago.
“Come on,” Jean said again. “Light a candle or…float something. I don’t care. Just keep the fireworks to a minimum.”
“You really want me using power in your home, Wyatt?” I asked and maybe it was colder than the words needed to be but Jean had to know how stupid that was.
Fuck.
She had a point.
“Fine.” I hopped down off the window sill and reached a hand toward a candle sitting on Jean’s stove on the other side of the room. It was small, encased in a jar and melted and re-formed so many times it was amazing that there was a visible wick in it at all anymore.
“You watching this — what’s your last name?” I asked.
“Pearson.” Laurel’s voice was small and distant but answering the question brought her attention back from wherever she’d disappeared inside her head. Wherever she was telling herself that she was already gone.
“Right. Watch, Pearson. I’m not giving a repeat performance.” I took a slow, steadying breath and tried to unfurl the smallest piece of my power. The effect was instantaneous. The whole system had been under so much pressure that releasing any part of it sent everything roiling beneath the surface, trying to burst free from its confines.
I caught it as it began to unravel and clenched that power as tightly as I’d ever hung on to anything. The taste of lightning painted the back of my throat and my tongue, and in the sky outside I could feel clouds threatening, yearning to respond if I called.
But no.
I wouldn’t.
I wrapped my power gently through the air — the smallest, gentlest current that I could manipulate — and swirled it in careful, steady flows around the candle.
It rose from the stove without a sound.
“Oh, my god.” Laurel’s hazel eyes were bright, almost perfectly round, and she looked like she might never blink again.
It was kind of flattering.
Okay, more than kind of. It was flattering enough that I wanted to see if I could make her gasp.
It was a stupid, vain impulse and I leaned into it wholeheartedly.
I split a sliver of power from the air-current — I didn’t dare try to release my grip on anything new, didn’t trust myself to release more of my magic into the working — and pushed heat, energy into the wick.
It caught immediately.
Its spark was a surprise in the darkness of the dimly lit apartment. Orange-red flames spouted upward in a gout of magic that had Laurel’s pretty pink lips dropping into an open-mouthed gape.
Goddess, it felt good.
The flame burned off what little magic I gave it the way gas flares ignited the emissions off a power plant. It could take whatever I could give it. I could shape it with the wind that followed along with my magic’s commands, could paint the air with dragons or birds or dolphins. Dancing imagery that I knew would delight the injured witch.
The spells were simple, small and they barely needed the attention I was giving them, but even that much magic stroked along my skin and swept pleasure through my body, heating my flesh as easily as any lover’s kiss.
Which was exactly the problem.
The thought was ice water down my spine and I yanked my magic back from the wick, extinguishing the flame and pulling back almost too far — almost dropping the jar to the ground in a wave of splintered glass.
Jean didn’t say anything but the momentary flash of alarm on her face was enough to stoke the shame creeping in around the edges of my mind.
The candle landed on the metal stovetop with a gentle clatter.
“Oh my god,” Laurel said again. “Oh my GOD. That can’t — I can’t possibly — how could — No. I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake.” The brunette shook her head, sending her riot of waves around her shoulders in a typhoon of denial. “That…all of that was amazing. It was, but I can’t do anything like that. You’ve made a mistake.” She tried to swing her legs over the side of the table, and to my surprise, Jean let her.
“If this Council gets upset with you I don’t mind telling them that there was a mix-up and that I’m very grateful to you both but I’m definitely not a witch.”
Jean scrubbed a blood-stained hand through her hair, heedless of the gore. “It isn’t a mistake, Laurel. But we’ll talk about this tomorrow. Neither of us is in any shape for this conversation.” The small healer shot a meaningful look my way. “She needs food and rest. Get her home.”
I indulged in the first half of a sigh and nodded. “Come on, Pearson. Let’s get dinner. My treat.”
Laurel was struggling into her jeans — doing her level best to ignore the holes and dirt that were the worst of the evidence of what had happened now that Jean had seen to her skin — and looked at me with the sort of lost expression that no one should ever, ever turn to me.
Especially not Laurel.
The best part about being attacked by a were and needing a healer’s attention right by the university was that we were down the street from a chili parlor that kept university student hours.
“Two?” A middle-aged woman, brown curls drawn back into a tight ponytail, asked. At my nod, she directed us toward a small table near the front window.
Laurel looked lost as she sat down, obviously going through the motions of accepting a menu and saying thank you.
I wondered where that mind of hers had gone off to.
“You two know what you want?” Our waitress — Lou, going by the name on the tag pinned to her uniform shirt — stood with her order pad in hand, though I couldn’t imagine that she usually needed it.
“Oh,” Laurel said, sounding surprised, like ordering hadn’t occurred to her. “I guess I’ll have…a bowl of the chili, please?”
I darted a hand out to wrap my fingers around her wrist — tried to ignore the warmth of her soft skin beneath my touch — and shook my head. “First time here?”
Laurel looked bewildered at my hand on her, a hint of pink rising in her cheeks, and nodded wordlessly.
“This isn’t that kind of chili.” I turned my attention to Lou. “I’ll take a regular five-way, dry. She’ll have a regular three-way.”
“You got it, hon.” And with that Lou disappeared, her pen not so much as tapping against the pad she carried.
“What’s a five-way?” Laurel asked, blushing as the words caught up to her. “Aside from, like, really complicated.”
“It’s a three-way with onions and red beans.” I nudged the little dish of oyster crackers toward Laurel. Once she had something to do with her hands, she’d feel better. Probably.
Speaking of hands, I finally dropped my hold on her wrist and turned my attention to my own crackers.
“And a three-way…?”
“Spaghetti, Cincinnati chili, and cheese.” I quirked a brow and waited for the usual out of towner reaction — vague horror.
“Huh.” Her large, hazel eyes blinked once then caught my gaze again. “Am I awake?”
“Yeah, Pearson,” I confirmed. “You’re awake.”
Laurel nodded that same, slow nod that said she’d been hoping that wasn’t the case but was resigned to the fact that it was. “So you’re a witch, too?”
I choked on the sip of water I had taken and looked around warily, making sure that none of the other patrons were close enough to have overheard her question.
“Cool it, Pearson. That’s not exactly common knowledge, okay?” I quirked a brow at her and indulged in the small smile that had been tugging at the side of my face. “But yeah. Me too.”
“And Jean?”
“Yeah.”
“The book club?”
“Jean’s coven,” I confirmed.
“Coven. Is it your coven?” Laurel cocked her head to the side and I could see her fitting it all together inside her head.
Unfortunately, Laurel didn’t have enough context to avoid questions a polite witch wouldn’t ask.
“No.” The word was clipped, a betrayal of the pain lancing through my chest at having to consider it. “I’m a hedge witch.”
“Hedge witch?” Laurel, for her part, was blissfully unaware of the effect her questions were having.
“Means that I’m…liminal. I’m not part of a coven.” I wanted to tell her about the coven I’d had, the way my mother’s life had been wrapped up in our community, the way her star had shone even among witches of her power. But I didn’t.
It didn’t matter and I wasn’t altogether sure I could get through telling it. “No flag, no country.” The joke fell flat.
“What you did with the candle — can I do that?” Laurel looked haunted by the thought, and I spared a moment to wonder what had made her think something so small would be dangerous in her hands.
“Probably.” I spun the empty cracker dish on the linoleum tabletop. “Witches tend to specialize. But that? You can probably do something like that.”
“You called that coyote something — what was it?” Laurel frowned down at her water.
I was surprised. I had expected that she would care more about what she could do but she let it go easily. She wanted to know what was in the world around her.
“He was a ‘were’. Like a werewolf, but this one was a coyote.” I shrugged.
“So he’s a shapeshifter.” Laurel squinted at me. Clearly, she expected that I’d pull out the camera crew at any moment and start laughing at her.
“No,” I shook my head. “Shapeshifters are different. They’re born. Weres…” I trailed off.
“Jean called it a curse.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty close. They have to be turned. It’s foreign magic, not everyone’s body handles it well, and usually it’s done by vampires. Vampires aren’t known for giving anything away for free.” The scowl on my face was out of place next to Laurel’s gentle curiosity, but her eyes went round anyway.
“Vampires?” She whispered. “There are — like undead, hate garlic, suck your blood vampires?”
“I think the garlic’s a myth and the undead thing is a topic of debate. But that last one, yeah.” Suck your blood, tear you to pieces, follow your heartbeat from a mile away while watching everyone you love die. That was them.