She sighs but doesn’t meet my eye.
“We’re in this together now,” Esme adds and leans forward with a sly smirk. “I’m not scared of a little ghost or a possession.”
Squinting at her, I let her take my hand. I get the inkling there’s more to that statement than she’s letting on.
“I told you we’re willing to fight for our home and family,” Clover adds and grabs her sister’s hand before connecting her free one with Esme’s.
Clementine follows suit, fitting her hand into Rowyn’s, encouraging her to grab mine and close the circle.
“No more secrets,” Rowyn adds.
I promise them, “Nomore secrets.”
The half-truth rolls off my tongue easily, but leaves a tingling, uncomfortable sensation in its wake.
Chapter 17
Archer
Not only did Gale offer us a place to stay, but he meant it when he said there was always a place for Vexley witches here. His magic seems to be more similar to my perception than to Sybil’s prophecies, so he was expecting visitors. Despite how welcoming he has been, he’s also been extremely vague about our presence here.
The job doesn’t pay a lot, not compared to some of the larger archives across the world. Access to this one is a bigger reward than anything else I could ever ask for.
Over the last week and a half, I’ve started to search through every history book I can, trying to find anything about my family’s history and what caused the Vexley’s to flee. There are hundreds, dated all the way back to Briarhollow’s creation over three hundred years ago, during the Salem Witch Trials. I’m sure I don’t need all of this information, but I don’t want to accidentally miss anything.
There are a few things I already knew from the books Gale had mailed to me and from whispers passed down my family line. Like the fact that the Vexleys are tied to the Dreaming Willow Inn. They were part of the late matron Petra’s coven, and her family owned the property. There aren’t any photographs of the members. I’ve seen a few of the inn itself—not yet finding the courage to go see it for myself.
It’s inevitable. My magic has been reaching in that direction since Gale mentioned there’s a new Blackthorn witch living there after the former owner passed away.
What I have learned is that Barrett went missing after that last fateful night at the inn. His body was nowhere to be found, and he was mostly written out of my family’s history. He most likely fled, leaving his twin sister behind.
Another thing is that the curse doesn’t affect the town, only the three Gray Witches who have been born since the curse took effect. Gale knew the last owner, Cordelia, and her Chosen, Edmond.
Before Cordelia, only one other Blackthorn witch came back looking for answers twenty years after her parents died; assumingly at the hand of my ancestor, Barrett. She was Petra’s daughter. Just like Cordelia, she found a lover. She bore three children, none with gray magic, before slowly descending into madness—or clinically speaking, succumbed to witch’s fray.
The curse clearly affects the Gray Witches in their line, calling them back to the Dreaming Willow Inn, only to lose themselves in their magic. Whereas the Vexleys, once a strong line of Divination Witches, have all but lost connection to the air element and have become Hearth Witches.
Until Sybil and me.
A loud, dramatic sigh pulls me from my thoughts.
Speaking of the devil.
Looking at Sybil from the corner of my eye, I bite back a laugh at her torturously bored expression. She’s never been drawn to these sorts of studies. I’ve always joked that, if we ever decided to go west, she would have been one of those fortune tellers on some beach town’s pier. According to our mother, the last Divination Witch in our family did just that after the curse and death of her twin brother, Barrett.
“What’s wrong, Bil?” I ask.
She drops the heavy, dusty book she was mindlessly flipping through and looks at me. Every day Sybil is gaining more sentience, which makes me think we’re close to whatever it is that called us to Briarhollow. She’s still getting acclimated to the town and wading through the murky waters of her prophecy. She falls into her trance-state more often than not, and says ominous things like, “we’re late,” andother weird shit.
As if on cue, she blinks and the blankness is back in her eyes. “It’s time, Archer.”
Leaning my elbows on the counter between us, I nudge her hands until she blinks out of that zoned out focus for a second.
“You keep saying that,” I tell her. “Any ideawhatwe’re waiting for?”
She shakes her head firmly. “But it’s time.” Her gaze moves past me and focuses on the front entrance. “And he’s here.”
Something tightens in my chest, unsure if her meaning is as eerie as it initially came out. A second later, I whip around to the double doors pushing open.
