Maybe Petra misses her life with Nestor, or wants to be with him in the afterlife after a hundred years.
Or maybe she’s grieving the face of the man in front of me, not beside her.
For once, I can’t bring myself to feel sympathy for her.
Looking over Archer’s shoulder, I look at the woman who shares my face, and shoot daggers at her.
I hope she’s able to read my emotions as strongly as I can read hers—so she will know everything. All of the isolation, abuse, and heartbreak I faced because of the choices she and her coven made. She needs to feel the anger of not getting the option to have a short life with the man next to me, because I’m forced to deal with whatever business is left over from the two of them.
All I get back from her is guilt and understanding with the undercurrent of yearning that always accompanies Petra’s emotions, even the happiest of them.
Glancing back at Archer, he’s looking around again, trying to understand what’s going on. The next time he turns and his gaze settles on me, I raise my hand and make the same gesture he has a million times.
I place my hand on his cheek as if I could caress him. Even though my hand went through his once before tonight, hope sours in my stomach, and I can’t help but hate myself for it.
It wouldn’t do Archer or me any good to become emotionally entangled in each other—not if my only theory of how to break this godforsaken curse is true. After a week of hiding at the inn, no one else has come up with anything with an ounce of plausibility.
Even without speaking to him, I already have so much affection for this man that I’m not sure I’d survive having to harm him in any way. I mean, how does anyone live through committing such violence on anyone? Even if he were a stranger, I don’t know that I could sacrifice someone for my own wellbeing and live another eighty years.
I’ve been trying to remind myself that my goal is to end the practice of disowning Gray Witches in my family—or at least, giving them a safe coven to be a part of.
Whatever happens to me after the curse is broken won’t matter.
I don’t have to live with the reality of what I’m destined to do, and the inn will be taken care of. There will be a coven to carry on Petra’s legacy with honesty.
“Maybe in the afterlife,” I whisper to Archer and pretend to glide my fingers along his chin, imagining what the short, coarse hair feels like.
Despite the words coming out nearly silent, the wind must have carried them to Petra because her face morphs into anger again. She starts marching forward and I flinch back, pulling away from Archer.
He reaches for me, trying to grab my waist, but I fall onto my back and let out a scream when she stands in front of me. Pointing a finger at my face, she talks belligerently at me.
She’s almost as crazed as Nestor was in my bedroom that night, and I’m positive she’d be worse if he wasn’t holding her tightly to him, trying to pull her back. His touch only angers and disgusts her—all of it consuming me—and she turns around to smack him away. He doesn’t budge.
Archer’s face pops up in front of me, blocking them from view. Each of his hands are firmly planted on either side of my head as he stares down at me with a feral, protective expression.
As much as I hate the reality of it, that’s my cue to end our visit here for the night.
Looking back at Archer, I let myself soak in his handsome face and comforting presence for another second, hating this twisted history we share.
I wonder if Barrett knew the fate he was leaving behind for his descendents when he murdered my ancestors.
Reluctantly, I set my hand on his chest, right where his heartbeat should be.
I let out a deep breath and murmur, “Espercito bannener bannener.Espercito bannener bannener.Espercito bannener bannener.”
When I wake up in my cold, lonely bed, I curl over and sob—even a bit for Petra, as much as I hate the soul-deep empathy I have for her.
Hexate slithers up the mattress from somewhere near my feet, silently coiling herself around my forearm and hand.
Too scared to go back to bed—partly from the fear of seeing him again, but mostly from the possibility of not finding him—I lie in bed, staring out the open window until the first songbirds begin their morning routines, and let the tears quietly fall as I think through every memorable moment of my life this far, wondering how the fuck I ended up here.
My self-pity can only go so far before I force myself to crawl out of bed. I spend some time taking a long, hot shower, then throw on a simple plaid skirt and sleeveless turtle-neck before I go downstairs, looking for the other women.
All four of them are sitting at the kitchen table. Even Esme is here, which means it’s closer to lunchtime.
The kitchen is the room we commune in most often. It leaves the main den for more serious topics and meetings, and the dining room for dinners. It wasn’t really something we talked about, more so just the way it worked out.
Despite how much we’ve cleaned and been able to restore the house with our joined magic, we’ve reached some roadblocks as our spending money dwindles.
