The contents clambered out, the book, the candles, the dagger.
I glanced back at Kane. He was lying on his shoulder with his legs dangling off the bench, his eyes unblinking and staring ahead at all the items I had always planned to use to kill him.
“Relax and focus on breathing or you’ll only make it worse,” I cried as I dropped to the floor and hurried to shove the book and the candles back into the backpack. “It’s like being stuck in a current,” I continued in a stutter, reaching for the dagger.
It was snatched up from under my hand.
Before I could turn to see who it was, I was yanked off the ground by my neck and my spine was crushed against a hard chest.
“You were trying to kill me?” Kane scraped out, devastation wrapping each word. I heard the unsheathing of the dagger, steel against leather. His fingers tightened around my throat, and I felt his warm breath in my ear.
I pinched my eyes closed, my throat feathery and constricted.
I couldn’t speak. Clawing at his hand, eyes gaping and fixed on the eclipse.
“Out of everyone,” he whispered in a croak. “Why, Adora? I thought you cared about me.” I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t speak. Kane continued, his face wet against my cheek. “And you could have fucking killed me if you didn’t mix witherbane with its antidote.”
Pistachio nuts. It’s heavy on iron and will counteract the side effects, Jolie had said.
“Witherbane and blood.” Kane wiped his nose with the back of his dagger-holding hand. Then the edge of the dagger slid across my cheek.
I should have killed him,I thought. But Stone made me soft.
The day I decided to kill Kane Pruitt was the day I forced myself to believe anything with a heart, whether it be warm and wild or cold and callous, whether we desired to or not, would one day get lost in these thorny nuisances if love had its way. I feared that if I let it, love would sink its teeth into me until I became. And become it I did.
I’d fallen in love, and Kane would argue how love was a lie.
I’d fallen in love, and Cyrus would argue how love made us weak.
I’d fallen in love, and my old self would argue how love was a fairytale.
I’d fallen in love, and Stone would probably call it art.
“Please, Kane,” I cried in a croak.
Kane pressed his cheek against my head. “I really am alone in this world,” he whispered in torment.
CHAPTER 53
STONE
In all thebooks I’d read, thirteen was the number of witches in a coven.
Heathens, while witches, didn’t take part in the total number of Norse Woods. The Heathens personified Norse Woods, soul, heart, mind, and magic. Without the Heathens, Norse Woods would not exist.
The number taking up space in Zephyr’s home was not thirteen.
There were dozens of bodies on floors, in front of the fire, on couches. Coven members and their families, and their family’s family. The elderly, who were too frail and weak to defend themselves, and children, who were too small and scared, and the sick, who struggled, their breaths coming in rugged and out coarse. And, finally, the Heathens, who opened their arms to let them all in, so they didn’t have to be alone and unprotected. Some flatlanders, even, who’d cast scornful eyes and scathing brows for years at them.
Inside, chandeliers were dimmed low, curtains drawn closed, and a full, eclipsing moon crept through the cracks with everything it had.
Husbands gathered before the fire, unable to sleep, drinking brandy in hopes to stow away their fears, making room for bravery so wives could lean on them. Mothers whispered to their children. Things like, “Shh... quiet ... settle down.”
Beck stood beside Phoenix, who was sipping brandy with the husbands and keeping the fire tamed and full, bringing heat to pump into the large room.
Clarence spoke to curious young men about Norse Woods’ history.
Kioni, Winta’s daughter, tended to Mr. Barlow, a ninety-three-year-old artifact with a mouthful of stories to tell, pages and spines tucked between his teeth. Kioni didn’t mind. Anything to distract her from her grief because this was what her mother would have wanted her to do.
