There’s a small inkling of confusion I can pick up on, and it’s a shrunken down version of the same thing I’m feeling.
What the fuck are we doing in Briarhollow?
The drive took us ten days. We got turned around a few times since the only navigation we had was our magic. Then Sybil’s old pick-up truck broke down in fuckingOhioof all places for a few days. It was the most boring, random town I’ve ever been to. The repose was nice after mindlessly driving for three days straight.
Considering her state, all of the driving responsibilities landed on my shoulders, otherwise we would’ve gotten here sooner.
“Bil,” I start, using my childhood nickname for her. “I’m not sure if this is the place we’re meant to be.”
She turns toward me with furrowed brows. “This is exactly where we’re meant to be, Archer.”
I’m about to say something, anything, to convince her otherwise, but Whisper, my coyote familiar, yips between us at the same time a smallthump sounds through the roof. Neither Sybil or I are startled, knowing it’s only Echo, her Great Horned Owl familiar.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask, losing a bit of patience.
Sybil’s awareness in this state only extends to what’s right next to her, as a natural way to keep witches out of danger during these episodes. She isn’t always sure about other things, like the town she’s in or the date.
“Briarhollow,” she answers. Looking out the windshield, she insists, “We’re right where we’re supposed to be.”
Following her line of sight, I’m not confident about that.
I suppose it could make sense. The last generation of Vexley Divination Witches were born in Briarhollow, but it’s more complicated than that.
Our family was run out of this town a century ago after a tragedy surrounding a long forgotten uncle. He’s been written out of our maternal family, though I’ve always felt a connection to the unnamed man. But it’s hard to defend someone you’ve never met, or know what they did. So I’ve never tried.
“A hundred years is a long time, but not when it comes to witches with a vendetta,” I tell her.
It’s true. Even a small spite is monumental to us. There’s an unspoken code of conduct between witches, and we mostly base it on respect and loyalty for each other. As much as the world has progressed, it still isn’t safe for us in many places so we stay hidden—at least our magic does.
We are creatures from storybooks, just like werewolves, vampires, and mermaids. So, when another witch crosses us, it’s not easily forgiven.
“Maybe I have my own,” she teasingly retorts with a swift wave of consciousness before it fades.
Rolling my eyes, I sit back and rub a hand down my face. There’s no point in arguing with her right now, or asking what the fuck that means—maybe I have my own.
Even if I hadn’t promised my parents to stay with Sybil, a demon would have to drag my body away before I left her in this town alone.
Considering Sybil’s childhood dream to fall in love with a vampire, we found ourselves out in the middle of the night too many times to count. As a result, I have my experiences with a large variety of magical creatures.
She steps out of the car without saying anything. With a low curse, I follow her to the sidewalk, making sure Whisper is close behind.
Sybil closes her eyes and sways in the wind, orienting herself to her new environment. Whisper and I stand next to her, taking in the town.
My interest in my unnamed ancestor has motivated me to research anything I can to connect the stories that have been passed down. There isn’t a lot, and there never seems to be a clear connection.
More often than not, it brings me back to Briarhollow.
However, learning about Briarhollow is a feat of its own.
It’s no surprise the town is damn near abandoned. That’s one of the only things people agree on—if they even know it exists. I’ve emailed the town librarian a few times. He’s mailed me several books on loan and faxed over copies of the texts he wasn’t comfortable sending to a stranger. I never used a fax machine before that, and thankfully, my parents still had one in the garage.
There wasn’t anything revolutionary in there. It was mostly town history that wasn’t related to my ancestors, and anything about the curse is gossip and hearsay—and that’s where the fork in the road shows up.
A majority of people believe the betrayal of the Vexley family is to blame. Others believe the curse was cast out of spite, with the matron’s last breath. Either way, both theories are rooted in the betrayal of a Vexley ancestor.
And then, there’s a small, rebellious group of people who strongly believe that neither of those theories are true—and that there was no betrayal the night of their deaths.
Then, there is the “curse” itself. The Vexley line hadn’t bore a Divination Witch in a hundred years, not until Sybil and me. I’m confident that it all connects, but I’m not sure whether that is the curse making me believe it has something to do with the abandoned inn, or the Blackthorn witches. There are many unanswered questions that plague me.
