My chest ached, catching glimpses of him between shoulders and arms and heads. He was hunched over, head down, elbows resting on his knees, and hiding behind his coffee clutched between two fingerless gloves. He was hiding behind a cigarette, wearing a gray wool coat and jeans, no longer an antique piece but finding a place in this modern world.
It was the first time the Heathens, except for Zephyr, had been spotted together in Town Square during the day since the curse broke. Tired flatlanders stared at them from the sidelines, leaving a ten-foot radius between them and the defenseless monsters.
Cruel insults spilled onto the streets, empty to-go coffee cups and rocks hitting them. Most flatlanders were no longer scared. The ones who were hid behind their husbands, parents, or neighbors, watching to make sure it was safe to come out. The Heathens did their best to ignore them, indulged in conversation, far too busy to mind the likes of scorned gazes and disapproving comments.
They were making a statement. They had to be.
They carried on as if they belonged here. As if they weren’t killers but ordinary people enjoying coffee on a dreadfully cold morning without remorse in a town where they’d stolen lives. Almost every resident of Weeping Hollow had lost someone they loved because of them. On any other day, I would have taken their bold disrespect to Augustine and demanded something to be done. But after knowing all the torment and isolation Stone had been through, I was torn. I wanted to kill him for being one of them and murder my neighbors for hurting him.
“There’s another one!”
“Where’s Goody’s son?”
“They’re nothing but boys.”
“We don’t want you in our town anymore.”
“Do to them as they’ve done to us.”
“Yeah, hang them from the Weeping Hollow sign.”
Stone lifted his head, his eyes instantly finding mine.
He once was a man who hardly smiled, hardly frowned, hardly showed any expression at all, but seeing me standing here physically affected him. It pulled him to his feet, the chair screeching back, his cigarette-holding hand dropping to his side, almost slipping from his fingertips.
What we shared was written all over his face.
I know,I wanted to tell him.I feel it too.
This time, a cup crashed into his chest, coffee splashing into his face, but Stone never broke his gaze. Julian looked up at him, then followed what had caught his eye, seeing me standing in the middle of the street.
Beck and Phoenix’s attention followed as well.
Do something, my heart begged, but what a selfish thing to beg for. I was engaged. He was a Heathen. I was a Sacred Sea witch. Everything was different. If he walked in my direction, shoved flatlanders aside, swooped me up into his arms, and kissed the heck out of me, I’d only slap him and push him away. It could never revert back to the way it used to be.
Julian leaned back in his chair, eyes sliding between us, waiting to see what Stone would do, too. Then Phoenix slapped Stone’s leg with the back of his hand to get his attention.
“You good?” Phoenix could have asked Stone. I couldn’t hear him, but I’d seen Phoenix’s lips move, and I imagined this was what he’d say. Stone tore his gaze away and scanned the crowd before retaking his seat. He brought the coffee to his lips, watching me again, people moving between our locked gazes.
Even after I walked away, I felt his eyes penetrating my back and fisting my spine.
I felt him all the way to Blackwell Apothecary.
When I pushed openthe door, the little bell hanging above rang, and the rubber sweep below caught on to the rug. I used the toe of my shoe to flip the corner of the rug back into place as licorice and nutmeg musk drifted around my face.
I closed the door gently, making sure not to rattle the shelves, relieved to find Cyrus’s stalker and not Agatha behind the counter singing. As soon as Jolie saw me, she gasped, swiping headphones from her ears. “Adora.”
Feelings stored in my eyes like leftovers, and I didn’t want her to see them. I turned and began walking down the back of the store, following the wall of walnut shelving stacked from floor to ceiling, blinking the feelings away. Amber jars lined the shelves, their labels faded, some with ink smeared from the printer.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked behind me.
I rounded the wheeled ladder attached to the shelves. “Yes, I’m looking for something in particular,” I said, taking a bottle from the shelf and reading the label. “Witherbane. Ever heard of it?”
“Uh, yes.” She looked at me quizzically. “My mother calls it Nethermind because it’s almost lethal-like to humans.”
“Almost lethal-like?” I laughed, placing the jar back on the shelf.
Silence swelled in the room.
