The Castle of Water and Woe (Briarwood Reverse Harem Book 3)

by Steffanie Holmes

  But I knew what it was like to not feel in control, to have something burrowing inside you that altered you so completely that all it left behind was a shadow of yourself.

  I tried to read my book, but all the words blurred together on the page. The sour look on Corbin’s face didn’t change for the whole bus ride. If anything, he grew more nervous, shifting in his seat and sighing under her breath.

  I wanted to do something to calm him, to show him it would be okay. But I didn’t know what that thing was, or how to say it. I hated myself for being so weak. If the situation was reversed – as it had been so many times – Corbin would know just how to calm me down.

  We got off the bus in one of those postcard perfect thatched-roof villages, and Corbin grabbed his bag and started stalking off down the high street. I raced after him, not stopping to relish the lightness in the air or the way the earth hummed beneath my feet, the soil surprisingly restless, apprehensive.

  Corbin turned down a side street. Here, the houses were less picturesque, more Victorian industrial. He stopped in front of a brick two-up, two-down, identical to every other house on the street except for the bright red front door.

  Two kids’ bikes were chained up beside the front door, and there was a dying tomato plant in a yellow and pink polka-dot terracotta pot. I bent down and touched my fingers to the plant, and within moments the leaves unfurled again, bending toward the grey light. Tiny green cherry tomatoes popped out of the flowers.

  Corbin stood in front of the red front door, sucking in deep breaths. “Stay behind me,” he ordered. I reached out a hand to touch his arm, to show him that I was here for him, but he shrugged it away.

  Corbin took a heaving breath, and knocked.

  FOURTEEN: MAEVE

  Jane’s eyes narrowed at the door, her body stiff as she leaned over the handles of the pram like it was the only thing stopping her from kicking the door in. My stomach twisted. That’s sick. Who would do that to a woman who just went through hell?

  THE WHORE WILL BURN.

  I put my hand on Jane’s shoulder, but she jerked away.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Jane snapped, whirling around and storming back down the front path. She jerked the pram so hard that Connor woke up and started crying.

  “Jane.” I jogged after her, but her legs were longer than mine and she didn’t slow down. “Jane, wait, please.”

  Jane yanked the pram to a stop, and bent down to unbuckle Conner. She lifted him into her arms and jiggled him up and down, a little more violently than I’d seen her do before.

  “I hate this stupid village,” she growled, gripping Connor’s head so tight he grizzled.

  “Who would do that to your house?”

  “One of the local old biddies, no doubt.” Connor started wailing, and Jane had to yell over his cries. “They can’t stand the idea of their old fashioned values being challenged. They’ve had it out for me ever since—” she snapped her mouth shut.

  “Since what?”

  Jane bent her head to Connor, kissing his head ashis cries simmered own into sniffles. She didn’t answer.

  I decided to press on. If people were tagging her cottage, we needed to know what exactly we were dealing with. “Jane, when the police were questioning me, they said that you’d been arrested before …” I squeezed her shoulder. “For street solicitation. Is this something to do with that?”

  Jane screwed her face up, her hand balling into a fist. “Inspector Davies, right? She’s a right she-wolf, she is. If I report this crime, she won’t lift a finger to find the culprit. She shouldn’t have told you that. She was trying to catch you by surprise, so you’d reveal something she could drag me in for.”

  “It was Davies. Jane, is it true?”

  “It’s not really any of your business.”

  The comment stung, but I ignored it. “You’re part of our coven now, whether you like it or not. The guys and I will do our best to protect you and Connor, but you have to give us the full story.”

  “Have you told the guys about what Davies said?”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to speak to you first.”

  “Good.” Jane rocked Connor back and forth. “That’s good.”

  “So it’s true, then? You’re a—” I couldn’t think of a polite way to finish that sentence.

  Jane sighed. “A prostitute, Maeve. You can say it. I’m not ashamed of it. Why do you think I let you in when you showed up with that cock-and-bull story about being from the local women's group? Most of the women in this village want to see me burned at the stake, and Inspector Davies would be the one to light the match. Her husband was only one of a long line of men who wanted to try something more exotic. He was going on with me behind her back, but it was me she dragged out of the hotel room while her friends pelted me with rotten fruit, like a bloody witch hauled through the streets for all the righteous to look down on.”

  “Jane, I—”

  “It’s a service I do, same as hiring a cleaner or getting your lawns moved, but try explaining that to the bible thumpers. I never ran a brothel, but Davies saw an old school friend leave my place in a short skirt and hauled me in. After Davies put me away on those trumped up charges, this whole village treated me like a bloody pariah. For weeks these old biddies followed me around, screaming about hellfire and damnation. My parents cut me off so they wouldn’t lose face with their posh friends. I couldn’t even get a bloody prescription for the pill because the GP is friends with my mum, and that’s how I ended up with Connor. The only person who understood was Grandma. She knew a woman can’t rely on a man to look after us, we gotta find out own way. And then she had to go and die. And now I have to go grovelling to the Vicar who called me a whore to get Connor bloody baptised, and it’s going to start all over again.”

  “It’s not,” I said, moving my head so that I was in her line of vision. “Listen to me, I get it, okay? My adoptive parents were religious – evangelical Christians. My Dad was the church pastor. They had some ridiculous backwards ideas about all sorts of things, including my chosen career. But the important thing is, their God teaches them to forgive. Only God gets to judge, and they are only supposed to love and accept, even when we’ve completely messed up in God’s eyes, because humans always mess up. If my parents could get past what I am, then you have every right to walk into a church and ask for a baptism, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “That’s different,” Jane said. “You wanted their love and support. I don’t give a flying fuck about what anyone thinks. I just want to protect Connor from the witch hunts until he’s old enough we can move away from this stupid village.”

  “Then come live with us,’ I said. “Come stay at the castle for a while. You’ve already got half of Connor’s stuff there, anyway. You can be the whore who lives with the witches in the castle and overlook them all from the top of the hill.”

  “Don’t you have to ask the guys?”

  “I own Briarwood castle. They are my tenants. If they have a problem – which they won’t – that’s too bad.”

  Jane stared over my shoulder for a long time. Finally she said. “Sure. I guess that’d be fine. As long as it’s not a hassle.”

  “You are not a hassle.”

  We turned a corner, and a tiny church came into view. This was a proper English church – the kind you saw on English TV shows (or “the telly” as Flynn called it). Its faded stone walls and large stained glass window looked familiar to me, until I realised I’d seen the same church emblazoned on the cookie tins lining the shelves of the souvenir shops along the high street. Rose bushes lined the path, their fragrance wafted over us as we approached the open door. Jane looked like she was walking into a funeral.

  I shoved my head inside. It was a Tuesday, so there was no service on. A man in elaborate priest’s robes stood by the altar, peering through wire-framed spectacles at a clipboard while a cherubim woman gesticulated wildly, jabbing a fat finge
r at the paper.

  “That’s Sheryl Brownley,” Jane whispered. “She’s a friend of my mother – the only one I can actually stand. She’s the local florist, and she’s on every committee and community group on the village.”

  Sheryl Brownley turned then, and her ruddy face lit up when she caught sight of us peeking around the door. “Jane, darling! It’s been so long. Come in, come in, dearies. Father McCoy and I were just discussing the floral arrangements for this year’s All Saint’s Day service. Do you have that delightful baby boy with you? Oh, I must have a wee cuddle. And who is your friend? I know every face in this village, but I don’t recognise yours.”

  Jane stepped into the nave, looking as if she was descending into hell. “Hi, Sheryl, it’s nice to see you again. I’ll just unbuckle Connor, I’m sure he’d love a cuddle. This is Maeve Crawford. She’s now the owner of Briarwood—”

  “—the castle, but of course!” Sheryl bustled over and wrapped her arms around me, knocking the window out of me and placing a sloppy kiss on each of my cheeks. “You’re Alline Moore’s girl. We’ve all been so curious about you, gone all these years and now suddenly returned.”

  “You knew my mother?”

  “Oh yes. Your mother was well known in the village. She was beautiful, as you well know.” She studied my face. “You’ve inherited her eyes. My dear friend Agnes Andrews saw you in the pub a few nights ago, and she wanted to come over and chat but you were surrounded by all those strapping young men. You must be careful, or you’ll end up with a reputation, like our Jane here, nasty business, but the Lord knows the truth of her heart. Now Jane, let me at that baby boy.”

  Jane handed Connor over. Sheryl bounced him in her arms, planting a hundred kisses on his tiny head until her lipstick smeared across his cheeks.

  “I’ll leave you guys to talk.” I sat down in the pew at the front, leaving my purse on the bench beside me. Jane stared up at the altar, her face twisting. She opened her mouth several times before she finally pushed the words out.

  “I actually want to talk to you about a baptism,” Jane’s eyes focused on the Vicar. “For Connor.”

  “I don’t really think that’s appropriate—” he started.

  “Oh, don’t be such a wet banket, Peter.” Sheryl scoffed. “I’m sure Jane didn’t mean for all the commotion last time. Come along dear. I take care of all the bookings for the church, anyway. I’ll find you a date. Can you look after Connor for us, dearie? We'll just pop out back.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she shoved Connor into my arms. I couldn’t help but grin at his lipstick smeared face. “I’ll just wait here,” I said, staring up at the altar. “It’s so beautiful.”

  The Crawford’s church in Arizona was nothing like this place. Ours was a huge, purpose-built square building, almost like a gymnasium or a rock venue. There was a lighting rig on the ceiling and a hardwood stage and a projector that took up an entire wall. I’d asked Dad once why it didn’t resemble the pictures of churches I saw in books, with their steeples and bell towers, and he’d said that they were trying to distance themselves from those medieval displays of wealth.

  “Those churches were built to glorify man, not God,” he told me, in his soft way.

  But as I looked at the elaborate carvings on the altar, and the light reflecting through the stained glass windows, and the shiny silver goblets and implements waiting for the service, I saw a little of the might and majesty that confronted a peasant as soon as they entered this place. All of it was designed to leave you in awe, to channel your energy toward thinking about His word. Like the candles and stones in the ritual we performed in the early hours of the morning, none of these objects contained God, but they helped to focus the mind, channel the energy.

  For the first time in my life, I wondered if I might actually understand religion, just a tiny bit.

  Now, that’s a creepy thought.

  My phone buzzed. Kelly’s face appeared on the screen. Oh no, I forgot to call her back. I looked up at the vicar, who pointed to a sign above the choir that read “Turn your phones off in the house of our LORD.’ Sighing, I darted to the back of the church, pressing the phone to my ear.

  “Kelly, hey,” I shifted Connor to the other hand as I settled myself in the back pew.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  Hearing Kelly’s voice brought everything back – the horror of what had happened to our parents, the fact that I’d never see them again, and that I’d never get to show them this beautiful church or discuss the meaning of all the different Church of England rituals. I’d been so caught up in Briarwood and learning about the guys and the fae and my mother and my powers, that I’d barely thought about the Crawfords since I’d broken down in Arthur’s arms.

  Raw grief rushed over me, calling up all the dark thoughts I’d pushed aside. Kelly’s voice in my ear reminded me how far away from each other we were. My arms ached to hold her, to draw strength from her vivacious nature. But she didn’t sound all that vivacious right now. Her voice croaked, and I knew without asking that she’d be crying. Guilt stabbed at me that I’d been off fighting fae and not thinking about my parents and then I couldn’t stop thinking about them. The flood of memories hammered against my skull, making my head swim and my stomach clench.

  “I’m in a church.” I whispered, the grief stifling my voice.

  “A church? I thought you’d never set foot in a one of those again, Miss Rational Humanist.”

  “It’s a long story. I’m here for a friend. What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just sitting here, missing Mum and Dad, and you too.”

  “I miss you, too.” I struggled to get the words out, my tongue weighed down by . “How’s life living with Uncle Bob and Aunt Florence?”

  Silence.

  I tapped my phone. “Kelly? Can you hear me?”

  A pause. “Yeah … um … it’s okay, I guess. They really were so nice to offer to be my guardians. They’re a lot stricter than Mum and Dad.”

  “I remember that.“ We visited Bob and Florence a few times, and it usually ended with Dad hurriedly bustling us into the car after I said something to annoy Uncle Bob. And considering Uncle Bob was annoyed by the fact Muslim Americans still got to vote and he wasn’t allowed to take his pistol to the movie theatre, I had a lot of ground to cover.

  “Be glad you’re not here,” Kelly said, her voice surprisingly bright. “There’s a list of house rules a mile long and I have to spend half an hour every night in silent prayer and they took most of my clothes and books away, but it’s only a year until I can go to college or come stay with you, right?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I might have sold Briarwood by then.” That had always been my plan, but saying the words out loud made my chest squeeze tighter. I’d only been there a week and I was already getting attached. “Why did they take your clothes and books?”

  “No books are allowed in the house that aren’t biblical. And my clothes weren’t modest enough. Aunt Florence went shopping for me. You should see the dress I’m wearing. Even the Puritans would have called it too much.”

  “How’s school?”

  “Dumb, but I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to hear about the fabulous time you’re having in your castle with all those hot guys of yours.”

  “Um …” I glanced up to where the vicar was talking with Jane and Sheryl by the altar. He saw me on my phone and frowned. “I want to tell you all about it, but there isn’t really much more to tell since last time …”

  “Since you kissed the Aragorn one?” Kelly teased.

  I paused, remembering Arthur’s strong lips against mine, the way his kiss tore my breath away. God, that was a good kiss. We hadn’t gone any further, even though we both wanted to. Arthur didn’t think it was fair on the others.

  What would I tell Kelly? Not about the witchcraft, obviously, or the fae. She’d have me committed. But did I tell her about sleeping with Corbin and Rowan, about Flynn and Corbin, Flynn an
d Blake? Would she get it? Would she think it was awesome or would she be concerned I was throwing it around like the Large Hadron Collider?

  Would it just sound too much like I was showing off my fabulous new life?

  But this was Kelly, my sister. I had to tell her something. I need to think about this.

  “Listen, Kelly, I really shouldn’t talk here. The vicar is giving me a filthy look already. Can I call you back a little later?”

  “Sure,” Kelly said brightly. “I want to hear all the gory details. Bye, sis!”

  She hung up. I stared at the phone, in awe of how well she seemed to be handling our parents’ deaths and her new living situation. She always had it so much better than me. Kelly was the laughing extrovert, the girl who could insert herself into any social situation with a smile and flirtatious remark. It was no wonder she was coping okay, even with Uncle Bob and Aunt Florence’s craziness. She hadn’t fallen into bed with several guys in order to deal with her loss.