Everly Vexley is present in many of the photos, though hardly ever the center of attention. She looks similar to Sybil but not identical to Barrett. He’s not in many of the photos. The few there are of him take the breath out of me each time.
Seeing his face takes me back to last night in the library, and then my thoughts inevitably turn to Archer.
Both of which I am trying desperately to avoid.
When the moon begins rising through the sky, Clover peaks her head through the door and gives us a kind, but authoritative, smile. “Lem, it’s time for bed. You promised to help Rowyn start pulling off the wallpaper in some of the bedrooms, and she’s going to want an early start.”
She rolls her eyes and flops on her back. It’s more playful than anything. “Why couldn’t the full moon last longer?”
Laughing, I playfully kick her leg and Clover chuckles from the door.
The full moon technically lasts for two to three days, and werewolves feel the effect of it throughout that period. However, it reaches its peak for only a few seconds, making that night more powerful the closer it is to that moment.
Apparently that’s how it applies to Rowyn’s sleep cycle as well. One night of deep, restful sleep before she is back to her normal schedule.
“Maybe you’ll find your own ghost down there,” I say.
She perks up, leaning on her elbows. “Do you think there are more? You would know better than anyone.”
“I haven’t seen any other than Nestor,” I say with feigned disappointment, “but if anyone could find one, it would be you.”
She hops off the bed and points excitedly at me. “You are so right. I’ll report back tomorrow.”
Clover scoffs and rolls her eyes. Very little nonsense gets past Rowyn.
“Good night, Ren,” Clover says. The nickname slides off her tongue easily.
“Good night,” I say and begin cleaning up the scattered photos.
One catches my attention.
It’s a shot of Petra and the women in her coven—Cassia, Isadora, Rhiannon, and Everly—sitting on the front steps of the inn. They’re all smiling and have their arms wrapped around each other.
Petra is at the center, and it’s the happiest I’ve seen her. Her smile is glowing with her hair gently blowing in the breeze. It was taken four years before Nestor went missing.
I stare at it for ten minutes, taking in every little detail and connecting them back to my own coven, when a sudden, numbing cold shoots through my shoulder.
Flinching, I turn around and quickly cover my mouth to hide my scream.
“Fuck,” I quietly seethe. “You scared me.”
Nestor doesn’t acknowledge me, but his eyes stay trained on the photo in my hand. Looking back down, I realize he probably had to watch his coven flee after their deaths and generations worth of Blackthorn witches going mad.
Partly due to the prolonged exposure to his presence.
“Oh, Nestor,” I murmur.
Turning back to him, I reach for his chest, prepared to give him all my warmth for the rest of my days, as numbered as those may be. Rejection shoots through me when he backs up, avoiding my touch.
He floats toward my door, the apparition of him flickering in and out. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed confused by his sudden departure when he goes through the door without stopping.
Staring, I jump in surprise when he comes back through in his glowing orb form. Quickly, he knocks Petra’s journal off the nearby desk and disappears behind the door again.
“Hey,” I call after him before thinking better of it.
With an annoyed sigh, I grab my cardigan and slip on a pair of rainboots. It’s better I keep an eye on him before he destroys a room, getting us both in trouble.
Waiting for me at the top of the stairs, he’s back to his full apparition and moves down them. As carefully as I can be on the rickety old steps, I follow him.
