Free Spirit: Book Two of The Bound Spirit Series

by H. A. Wills

  The bed is low to the ground with a minimalist, black lacquered, wood frame bookended with matching nightstands. Across from the bed is an 80” TV mounted on the wall.

  I shrug, heading for my walk-in closet to try and find something for her to sleep in. “I like my space.”

  “Suuuuure,” she sings from the other room.

  “Believe what you want,” I shout back, not really wanting to delve into what she might be thinking.

  After rummaging through some drawers, I pull out an old Imagine Dragons t-shirt. Wondering if it will be long enough, I hear from outside, “Another balcony up here is a little excessive, but whatever. You do you. And I like the plants. But why are there foldaway doors into your bath and shower?”

  “So I can enjoy the view while bathing,” I answer, deciding she definitely needs shorts. I haven’t worn boxers in years, preferring boxer briefs, but there are a few fresh pairs at the back of one of my drawers.

  There’s the swish click of the balcony door closing, and Callie pokes her head into my closet, looking much better than a few minutes earlier. Apparently, my bedroom and master bath are good distractions.

  Her fine blonde brows furrow. “Don’t you feel… exposed?”

  I laugh and hand her the clothes. “No, not really. Even if I did care that someone saw me, no one can. It opens up to the back property which is nothing but acres and acres of forest.”

  She rolls her eyes, clutching the clothes to her chest, and mutters, “Of course you wouldn’t care if someone saw you naked.”

  “Now get out of here and change, or you’re going to see me naked,” I playfully threaten, and a new blush takes over her face. Too soon?

  I change into a pair of sleep shorts, and I’m turning down the bed when Callie walks out of the bathroom. The band shirt comes to about her mid-thigh, and as she walks over, I see peeks of the boxer shorts I gave her. Yep, definitely the better decision.

  She climbs in first and then I slide in after. Turning off the bedside lamp, I plunge us into mostly darkness with only soft hints of light from the ones I left on for Felix downstairs.

  Please don’t let him get the wrong… okay slightly right, but mostly wrong idea.

  Callie pulls my right arm over her, snuggling her back against my chest. She laces our fingers together then tucks her hands under her chin, leaving my forearm pressed between her breasts.

  And shifting my hips away from her.

  “Thank you,” she whispers into the night.

  “No problem,” I mumble, breathing in her scent of pomegranates and orchids. The nails of her free hand lightly trace down my arm and answering shivers cascade through me.

  “But seriously, why the huge bed?” she questions, amusement coloring her voice. “I’m pretty sure Connor could sleep sideways with his arms stretched over his head and still have space.”

  It’s too easy, and I can’t help myself. After a long pause, I murmur seductively near her ear, “Do you really want to know the answer.”

  “Aww man,” she groans, turning her head into the pillow. “Really? No, I take it back. I don’t want to know.”

  I press my lips tight together, as I laugh so hard I’m shaking us both. “Damn,” I wheeze, “you really think a lot of my prowess, but I’m going to live for a couple centuries, so I should probably pace myself on sexual exploits.”

  “Har har,” she mutters, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

  After several halting breaths, I gain enough control to answer with the truth. “All the guys have their own rooms, sharing the two suites on either side of mine, but when we were kids, we liked to pile into the same bed, eat junk food, and pass out watching movies. My parents, as is their way, went over the top and got me a giant bed to accommodate us.”

  “Awww… that’s sweet,” she comments, giving our clasped hands a light squeeze. “Do you guys still do that or is it not okay anymore?”

  “Not as often, but we still do it. When we need each other.” I clear my throat. “We camped out here the first week after Felix… after what happened to Felix. Anyone that wants to judge us can fuck off.”

  I cuddle her closer, wrapping my body around her, then remember she might not appreciate being poked in the ass and try to pull away, but she’s already trapped one of my legs between her knees. This is going to be a long night.

  She’s quiet for several minutes, and I think she might have fallen asleep, when out of the blue, she asks, “Do you still want to know what I see when I look into you?” Her husky voice has a haunting quality since I can’t see her face.

  Shock cuts through me. I remember her telling us about her ability to see into the core of a person, but I don’t remember ever asking what she saw in me. Mostly because I’m afraid of what she’ll find.

  “If it’s bad, no,” I joke with a playful squeeze, trying to hide what I’m feeling.

  “Just the opposite,” she murmurs, a smile in her tone. “You’re a good person, Nolan. Full of light and laughter. A generous and caring soul.”

  There’s a pause while I try to absorb what she said, but it’s hard to believe. Then again, she’s been surrounded by shitty people her whole life, so maybe her definition of “good person” is a low bar.

  “Remember that the next time you blame yourself for what happened to you,” she adds like she can read my damn mind.

  “Are deep emotional conversations while trying to fall asleep a norm for you? Because they’re not the best bedtime stories,” I mutter, while teasingly patting at her face with my left hand like I’m trying to find her mouth. “Now shhhhh. Sleepy-time.”

  “Goodnight, Casanova,” she laughs, her voice muffled by my hand.

  “Goodnight, Callie love.”

  She sighs contentedly, her breath warm against our clasped hands, and settles against me.

  I tend to ignore how much I don’t like sleeping alone, but it’s unnerving how much I enjoy just this. Holding her in my arms. Playing with her hair. Whispering in the dark. These sweet everyday things that I haven’t done in a long time.

  There’s a hollow feeling in my gut that aches for more of this kind of closeness. I know that I’m heading into some grey territory here, but as long as I stay on the correct side that doesn’t hurt anyone, then I can have this... right?

  Because the light she sees isn’t me. It’s her.

  Chapter 10

  Callie

  I drop my pencil and rub at my eyes. Since I showed up in detention, I’ve tried to work on my AP Chemistry homework. Unfortunately, I find myself staring at the words and numbers and none of it is sinking in. Instead, my mind keeps drifting to the guys, and their bizarre behavior all day.

  Nolan and Donovan were acting completely normal, which should be good, but it was less normal normal, and more like ‘purposely ignoring what happened yesterday’ normal.

  I know Nolan and I agreed to pretend that the kiss didn’t happen, which considering everything, is probably for the best, but I can’t seem to. It was my first kiss. It was amazing. And even though I feel guilty for springing it on him, disappointment weighs heavy in my gut at the thought of never doing it again.

  He held me through the night to protect me from my nightmares. I feel safe in his arms. He said we should just be friends, and he’s right. Last thing he needs is another girl chasing after him, plus I have no idea how to be a girlfriend. Not that he wants one. So why do I suddenly dislike the idea so much?

  And we’ll be burying whatever that feeling is.

  Then there’s Donovan and what happened in the gym. He didn’t really do anything, technically. He corrected my form, touched my arms… hugged me? But it felt like more. Was it more or am I crazy? Well, I know I’m crazy in general, but does it extend to this too? He doesn’t seem to think it was more, or acts like he doesn’t anyway. His physical contact with me hasn’t changed. No new idle touches or hugs, so I have nothing to compare yesterday to.

  Even Kaleb and Felix were acting strangely. Kaleb kept his nose
in a book all day, which is normal for him, but he was unusually quiet. To every question, his answers were short and to the point. No long drawn out explanation in sight. Is he still upset that we’re not doing more about Gina?

  Felix was all smiles and jokes, until he thought no one was watching, then his eyes grew sad and distant. Every time I asked if he was okay, the smile would click back on, he’d say everything was fine, then make some crack about how boring being dead can get. Is this his subtle way of saying he’s ready to move on? Am I selfish for wanting him to stay for a little longer?

  Ugh. Why are boys so complicated?

  The only one of the guys that’s acted normal was Connor. Spending a day as a wolf, doing wolfie things, I guess, seems to have settled him, and he’s been his quiet, calm, unaffected self.

  And what does it say about my life that the least troublesome friend is the one that enjoys patting my head and sniffing my hair, and occasionally turns into a giant wolf that if provoked, would probably rip Gina to shreds?

  I shudder, shaking my head to try and dislodge the thought of Connor’s wolf munching on Gina’s femur like a chew toy.

  As if summoned by my own musings, Connor walks into detention, and immense relief washes through me. I should probably feel bad about that, but right now, I could really use his brand of calm.

  Connor hands his detention slip to Coach Norris, who seems to have a never ending supply of retina-burning red tracksuits.

  The coach looks up at him with sympathy and asks, “What’s it this time?”

  Connor shrugs and mutters, “Unexcused absence,” before making his journey to the back of the classroom. He’s in here a lot? Is it because of things like yesterday or… the Alpha? I want to ask him, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to know about his home life. I feel like I’m drowning in secrets, and for once, they’re not just mine.

  When he gets near me, I hop up and hug him, my forehead resting against his upper abs. He freezes for a moment, before gently wrapping his arms around me.

  “The world is weird,” I complain, breathing in his clean foresty smell and knowing he won’t ask me to explain further.

  He hums a general agreement, his right hand reaching up under my hair to massage the tense spots behind my ears.

  This is what I needed. I sigh, soaking up Connor’s ‘it’s okay to just exist’ calm that he normally exudes-- when he doesn’t want to murder someone. Yep, my life is so very, very weird.

  The coach clears his throat. “Sit down. You can hug your girlfriend after detention.”

  A blush burns across my cheeks, and I open my mouth to correct him, but Connor simply shrugs again, gives me a tight squeeze, then pats my head before releasing me, seemingly uninterested in what people think. Which is usually my reaction.

  I’m being ridiculous. The guys are my friends, and I need to stop obsessing. I have bigger issues to worry about than what the hell a random hug or accidental kiss means.

  Feeling like I finally have my head screwed on straight, I sit back down, Connor taking the seat next to me.

  It’s mostly quiet, except for some PSA video on how to stay out of detention playing on the TV mounted to the wall. The few other students in the classroom are either doing their homework, staring at the walls, or stealing looks at me, while Coach Norris reads something on his phone. This school is way too small. I don’t know any of them, but they sure as hell know me, apparently.

  I’m about finished with my AP Chemistry homework, when Donovan comes strolling in, handing over his detention slip to Coach Harris.

  Harris rolls his eyes and asks, “How many times has it been this semester?”

  “It’s not my fault Mr. Deniel is a fucking moronic sheep who doesn’t know the difference between a simile and a metaphor,” Donovan drawls, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his right shoulder. “Just because it’s written in the textbook doesn’t make it true.”

  “Hey, language. Now, go sit down and be quiet,” he sighs, with a slight shooing motion, before going back to his phone.

  My mouth suddenly goes dry and there’s a fluttering in my stomach, as Donovan makes his way down the aisle. Act normal. And breathe. Everything’s totally fine.

  He smirks when he gets close and leans down so his mouth is near my ear. “You’re in my seat.”

  “What?” I squawk, then clear my throat.

  He chuckles, pointing his finger at the letters ‘DA’ carved into the desk on the upper right corner.

  “Seriously?” I groan, rolling my eyes, as my anxiety begins to slip away. “You’re here enough that you’ve carved your initials into one of the desks?”

  “With a pencil,” he boasts, moving out of the way so I can get up.

  “I don’t know why I’m surprised that you’re proud of that,” I mutter, moving to sit in front of Connor.

  “Me either,” Donovan replies, his vivid, aqua eyes dancing with mischief.

  Connor snorts.

  More of the other students steal looks at us, and I wonder if it’s the rumors running through their heads, or the general curious surprise over my easy banter with the two guys the school seems perpetually terrified of. If they only knew that I’m the real one to fear.

  Plopping my backpack next to me, I tuck my feet to one side so that Connor has enough room to stretch out his legs, and Donovan hands me my textbook, notebook, and pencil. While I finish up my homework, and Connor continues to work on what looks like an English paper, Donovan pulls out the demon book from Tuesday.

  I give him a look. He grins back to illustrate the lack of fucks he gives over what people might think he’s doing, and it gives me an idea. I’m stuck here anyway, and unlike the lost Dracula prop, the Volkov journal just looks like an old book.

  Quickly, I put away my homework and grab the journal from my backpack. My aunt would probably not approve that I brought it to school, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

  The journal reads less like a diary, and more like the spark notes edition of spirit witches, which is weird. Agata, the author of this journal, and the translator notes means the good, mentions the growing unrest in her people and that she can feel dark change in the air. Nice and cryptic. Then explains who and what we are, our purpose as voices for the goddess, and that keeping balance sometimes means…

  “Holy shit,” I gasp, my fingers pressing against my lips. “She knew! She knew that they wanted her dead, and she didn’t stop them. Why?”

  There’s a heavy tap on my shoulder, and looking behind me, I find Connor and Donovan staring at me with matching ‘explain now’ faces. I glance up to check on Coach Harris, who’s still enthralled with his phone.

  I lean over the back of my chair, putting the journal on Connor’s desk. The guys crowd closer, and as quietly as I can, I explain what I’ve found.

  “When I started reading this on Sunday, it seemed strange that she kept talking about what spirit witches were... are?... and some of our history. Who does that?” A tightness builds in my chest, and my brain can’t seem to make sense of the pieces I’ve been handed. Swallowing heavily, I continue, “Someone who’s trying to preserve all that future generations will need to know.”

  Donovan frowns, strands of his black hair falling into his eyes. “I don’t get it. Why would an all-powerful witch let herself be murdered?”

  “Not just her,” I utter. “Every one of her bloodline, of all the original bloodlines, that showed signs of being a spirit witch was slaughtered too.”

  Connor growls, and instinctively, I reach out and put my hand on his. He intertwines our fingers, his thumb running along the life line creases on my palm, and a little shiver races up my arm. His skin is warm and smooth against mine, and for the first time, I wonder if it’s so soft because of his healing abilities. Hard to create calluses when with every shift, he’s good as new.

  “So why?” Donovan repeats, bringing me back to the present.

  “I don’t know,” I reply, somewhat intrigued that Donovan, for
once, cares about motivations. “She mentions feeling overwhelmed by the unrest of her people, like she can physically feel them turn on her.”

  He rolls his eyes. “People are idiots. Did she know who was going to kill her?”

  “I’m reading between the lines here,” I mutter, my lips quirked to one side. “She doesn’t write, ‘Hey, I’m pretty sure there’s a plot to murder me, better write all this important shit down.’”

  Connor chuckles, and Donovan flashes an annoyed glare at him.

  “No talking!” Coach Harris bellows from the front of the classroom, and I flinch, forgetting where we are for a minute.

  “We’re working on a group project,” Donovan replies completely deadpan, the lie easily rolling off his tongue.

  Harris narrows his eyes, looking between the three of us and our odd assortment of books, before sighing, “Fine. Just keep the noise down.”

  “I can’t believe that worked,” I murmur, as the Coach turns his attentions back to his phone. “He didn’t even say anything about your Dracula book.”

  Donovan snorts. “Dracula book?”

  “What? It looks like a prop from an old movie.” I shrug.

  He shakes his head, then with a smirk, he asserts, “It’s all about confidence. Harris will pretty much let you get away with anything if you give him a good reason. Now, what else does it say?”

  Glancing back down at the journal, I skim with my finger, searching for anything that jumps out as important. My finger stops when Agata talks about the wolf shifters. For a moment, I blink stupidly at the words in front of me, because my rabbit hole decided to get a whole lot deeper.

  Connor squeezes my other hand, the one laced with his, and I look up into his deep set, amber eyes. Questions swirl within their depths, and I don’t know how to tell him what I’ve found.

  “What?” Donovan asks, his gaze trying to read the words upside down and sideways.

  “This um… She says that…” I stammer, my throat dry. “She talks about those that will come later-- meaning witches like me, I guess-- that uh, they… I… should seek out the wolves for protection, but only those that hear The Call to me.”