“You can’t burn them!”
“What?” I ask incredulously. “I’m not going to burn them. But I’d prefer to never go up to the attic again, at least not until we actually get this whole thing figured out.”
“When you saything, do you mean the generational curse?” she asks but steamrolls on before I can answer. “Because I think it’s officially time we stop tip-toeing around this.”
When she leans off the pile, sitting back on her heels, I pull it a little closer to myself.
“I’m not avoiding anything, Rowyn,” I spit. “I’m here—even before I saw that goddamn picture, I was here.Youdon’t have to be.”
My mouth snaps shut and my shoulders straighten, waiting for her anger and abandonment. I doubt Rowyn would ever physically hurt me. Emotionally, all it would take is her walking out the door. After having her by my side for half a week, the very idea of being alone again might kill me.
Offense crosses her features before they steel into something strong and resolute. “I know I don’t have to be here, but I am too. Not even a cursed doppelgänger with an attitude problem is going to run me back to my family’s coven.”
Staring at her for a moment, I try to bite back my laugh but it’s a fruitless effort. Starting as a low, raspy snicker before breaking out into a louder, genuine cackle, I let the sensation wrap through me. Rowyn starts to laugh too.
“You sound like my sisters,” I tell her. “Except I think you like me more than they do.”
She grins wide. “My sister would say I have an attitude problem too.”
“Yeah, right.Youhave an attitude,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t mess with me,” she retorts and puffs out her chest. “Even a small flame can get the job done.”
Shaking my head, another laugh easily falling from my lips, before that familiar chill creeps into the air. Looking around, I almost expect to see Mary Agnes, knowing the thought is ridiculous. Ghosts are tied to the place they died, and hers just happens to be Hemlocke’s main square. There’s no question what is here, even if I can’t see them yet. Picking up on my newfound awareness, Rowyn sits up straighter and watches me. We almost miss the photo flying off the box.
Almost.
If any of the doors were open, I would try to blame it on a strong breeze from the patio but the room is completely shut off to the rest of the world.
From the wide-eyed stare Rowyn is giving me, this most likely means one thing.
A ghost.
Some spirit that’s been locked in purgatory for who knows how long, but my guess would be a century. They haven’t made themselves visible yet—maybe they’re only waking up and aren’t sentient enough to do so.
Lifting the photo and holding it to the crackling light, Rowyn and I lean in to get a closer look. There’s the woman again but she has new company in this one.
She’s sitting on the porch steps with a drink in her hand and a gorgeous, curvy woman next to her. The woman has dark hair and soft, round features. Her skin has a slight contrast to Petra’s, appearing more tan.
My doppelgänger is in a loose fitting skirt paired with a long sleeve shirt with a lace collar and a small round hat. It’s weird to see someone who is an identical image of you, yet I can point out a million differences from this one photo.
We both have the same high cheekbones and sharp features. Even in the last photo, when she was standing between the two men, she looked tall. I’m five-foot-nine, but our wispy, lithe frames accentuate it. She has the same, sad dullness in her eyes I see every day when I look in the mirror.
However, her white-blonde hair is shorter than mine, stopping below her shoulders, whereas mine falls to the middle of my back. Her eyebrows are shaped in a thin line, unlike mine, which I keep trimmed but natural. And she’s wearing a wedding ring instead of a silver choker with a black tourmaline charm.
Her friend is wearing a pretty chiffon dress with a drop-waist, accentuating her full curves and breasts. The long, straight sleeves end in a cuff at her wrist, and the square neckline is high. She wore it with more sensuality than I ever could. The look she’s giving the photographer is downright saucy. My doppelgänger is hiding her smile behind the wine glass she’s holding. She doesn’t look nearly as apathetic in this photo.
“Now,” Rowyn starts, “that’s a Love Witch, if I’ve ever seen one.”
My guess would be the same for the other woman’s powers, assuming she is a witch. She could be a wolf or vampire. Maybe even a human. Mermaids are said to be nearly as alluring as a water witch.
Something about that devastatingly gorgeous look she gave the camera makes me agree with my new friend.
Laughing, I nod and flip the photo. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“June 19, 1921,” Rowyn notes the date on the back.
My eyes are honed in on a different piece of information written above that.
