by Teri Harman
cause . . .” He looked down at her hands.
“Because why?” she prompted.
“Because,” his voice was as quiet as the breeze and as fractured as broken glass. “I finally thought my parents were right. That I am somehow . . . evil.” He pulled in a ragged breath. “I didn’t want to risk you looking at me like they did.”
Tears rushed to Willa’s eyes. “Simon,” she choked and lifted up to put her arms around his neck. He pulled her tight against him, burying his face in her hair. The heat of a few tears touched her skin. She’d never seen him cry. “I’m so sorry that they treated you like that. It’s . . . worse than awful. It’s wrong.” Pulling back, she took his face in her hands. “I’ve never met anyone as good as you. You are pure goodness. You have to banish your parents from your head. They don’t deserve the space.” He blinked his wet eyes. “And you have to talk to me. I will never look at you the way they did. I love you. To me, you are perfect. No matter what you do or what happens, I will still be here.”
He laughed, a small, sad sound. Then his face turned serious again. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. Just be here with me. Don’t retreat in there.” She touched his forehead.
He closed his eyes briefly. “I get stuck in there sometimes.”
“I know.” She kissed the same spot that she had just touched. They were quiet for a moment. And then she asked, “So what happened downstairs?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Ever since the cave, my powers have been building, and something about what happened on the cliff made it all spill over. Something about it made me lose control. The pain went away, but there’s a weirdness lingering inside me.”
Willa lowered her eyebrows. “Weird how?”
“I have a headache.”
Her eyes popped. “But you don’t get headaches.”
“I know. And I felt irritated, antsy, while we were talking to Wynter and Rowan. I couldn’t hold back the anger and . . . well, dead clock.” He exhaled.
“What about now? Besides the headache, how do you feel?” she asked, touching his temple.
“Better. Still a little off; I’m not sure how to describe it.”
Willa frowned, moving her fingers to run over his stubbly beard. She shook her head. “Sun and moon, what happened?” Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her hiking shorts and she flinched. With a grunt, she pulled it out. Should have left it in my pack, she thought as she frowned at the text from her mom.
“Your mom?” Simon asked. He stroked her hair.
“Yeah, of course.” She sighed. “What do I tell her?”
“The truth.”
She looked up at him, and he nodded. “Yeah, okay.” She opened the message and typed a reply. Something strange happened on our hike tonight—something magical. I need to stay at Wynter and Rowan’s tonight so we can figure out what’s wrong. Please don’t worry. She hit send and bit her bottom lip. Her mom didn’t respond as quickly as normal. Willa looked up at Simon. “Uh-oh.”
“Give her a minute to think.”
The reply came. Okay. I hope everything is all right. Luckily your dad is already asleep. Will you be back in the morning?
No. We have to go back up to the cliff and do some spells.
Okay. Please text me. Let me know you are safe.
Of course. Willa’s thumb hovered over the send button, but then she decided to add, Love you.
Love you too, came the response.
Willa exhaled. Simon said, “That actually went well.”
She nodded. “Yeah, ‘cause my dad wasn’t involved.” Turning slightly, she threw the phone onto the bed and then said, “Do you think you can sleep?” She touched his forehead, wondering about the strange headache. A curl of worry unfurled in her gut. What happened?!
Simon half smiled. “With you next to me, yes, I think I’ll sleep just fine.” He kissed her.
Willa looked over to the small clock on the mantel of the fireplace. “It’s already two. We better get to sleep if we’re going back up there in the morning. And you better see if someone can take your shift at the diner.” She started to move off Simon’s lap, but he held her in place. “What is it?” she asked as his face fell serious again.
“Thank you,” he whispered softly.
Her heart squeezed. “You don’t ever have to thank me.”
Chapter 21
Waxing Gibbous
July—Present Day
Willa and Simon had fallen asleep quickly, exhausted but happy to be next to each other—even under the grim circumstances. Now, with dawn sluggishly moving into the sky, Willa was trapped inside a nightmare.
She stood on the cliff, looking down on the lake, its surface black and smooth as glass. The night hung about her like a brooding storm cloud. A whispering wind rushed past her, the words flying too fast to understand. Her head began to throb, a knocking of pain on the crown that radiated down through her whole body. Then, out of the night flew the owl, huge and threatening. It dove out of the clouds like a bullet, so close she ducked to escape its hungry talons.
The owl screeched a high-pitched noise of pain. Willa turned to see it stop mid-flight as though it had hit a wall, then fall to the earth with an ominous thud. Willa held her breath as the prostrate bird haltingly turned its yellow eyes to her, beak spread open in a silent scream.
The dream changed, the cliff scene melting away.
She stood in a busy market, in another place and time, ancient and primitive. The smell hit her hard: body odor and human waste, mud, and animals. A horse-drawn cart rolled past her, slugging through the cold mud, the horse heaving forward with the effort. The man crouched on the cart in his filthy, homespun coat didn’t even glance at her.
She was an invisible observer.
Squat timber buildings with crusty thatched roofs lined the muddy street, and people passed busily back and forth. Merchants called out to draw customers to their stores and wagons. A group of children ran past, oblivious to the terrible conditions in which they played. The air was crisp, hinting at fall; and Willa wished she had a coat, her T-shirt and nylon hiking shorts a poor hedge against the chill.
A bell tolled. Something in the deep gong rose gooseflesh on Willa’s arms and neck and caused her head to throb. On the cue of the bell, the townspeople turned away from their duties and began to walk in a mass toward the sound.
Willa followed, pulled along by instinct.
The narrow street funneled the crowd into an open square, an unimpressive stone church at the head, its bell swinging in the tower. The square, now packed with stinking bodies, grew eerily quiet. Willa’s stomach clenched nervously.
One sound cut through the unnatural stillness: a woman screaming, desperate, pleading. Willa’s body and soul turned to ice. She followed the piercing cries, pushing past the crowd that couldn’t see her. When she finally broke to the front of the throng, what she saw brought stinging bile to her throat.
A pyre.
A pole secured in the center.
And a young woman being dragged toward it.
The woman looked a few years older than Willa, more perhaps; it was hard to tell. Her dark brown hair was a rat’s nest around her wild, dirt-smudged face. There were bruises around her golden-brown eyes and dried blood on her wrists and ankles. The rags she wore hung pitifully off her too-thin body. She fought against the armed guards that dragged her to the stake.
Willa stood transfixed, sickened and frozen with fright.
The crowd behind her suddenly burst to life, yelling, “witch! witch! witch!” Willa whirled around, for a moment thinking they were shouting at her, but then she saw the bloodlust and fear in their eyes, all aimed at the woman.
The guards threw the accused against the stake, and bound her with thick rope. She tossed her head back and forth, still pleading with her captors to have mercy. The crowd continued to taunt, and a few even threw food, chunks of bread sticking in her long, tangled hair.
“No!” Willa screamed. No one turned, no one heard. She climbed up the pyre, stumbling, and reached for the knots. Her hands went through them. “No,” she whispered to herself.
Willa backed down the pyre and stood helpless and sick as they put torches to the wood. The fire caught slowly. The woman grew quiet, staring out at the crowd, her eyes desperately searching the faces. The crowd yelled for her death, like hungry dogs at a carcass.
Willa could sense that the woman was a witch, magic flowing in her veins. Do something! Save yourself! Use the magic! As Willa searched the woman’s face, instinct told her something was wrong, that somehow the woman could not use her magic to save herself. What did they do to you?
The flames gained strength, crawling toward their victim, fumbling over each other, fighting for the first taste. Willa fought the panic racing in her veins. When the smell of burning flesh hit her nose, she turned and vomited.
The poor woman didn’t scream or cry out, her face now strangely serene, making it all the more awful. Willa moved around in front of her and stared at her angelic features, memorizing her face. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.
The flames ate away at the witch’s legs and climbed her torso, but she didn’t flinch. Willa wondered if somehow she had already died. Terrified, she watched the flames skitter up the woman’s hair, crowning her in fire for a moment before claiming her face.
Willa looked away.
From behind her a voice called out. At first, Willa didn’t bother to turn, her body stiff with shock. Then the voice, deep and resonating, yelled again, “No!” Willa spun to see the crowd parting to let a man through. He ran forward, his black cloak billowing out behind him, and stopped before her.
After so much filth and ugliness, Willa’s breath caught at the sight of this man’s face, pristine and masculine, like a perfectly shaped stone statue. Though beautiful, the sharp cut of his jaw and the odd color of his eyes made him subtly sinister. His eyes were the color of stars: not white or black or gray, but each at once, and alive with light. His long hair was a deep yellow, neatly tied back from his bearded face. He towered over her, his broad chest and intense presence taking up so much space.
His fists curled at his sides. The guards approached cautiously, and the man raised his hand, hurling the guards through the air to crash onto the church steps. The crowd panicked. The man—the witch—threw another blast of magic at the peasants, and each of them collapsed to the ground, unconscious or dead—Willa couldn’t tell, but feared the latter.
Only the crackling sound of the wood broke the silence, an icy chill in the air. Willa hugged her arms around her chest. The man moved his hand forward, swept it over the flames, extinguishing them instantly. Willa’s stomach turned again at the sight of the blackened corpse of the woman. The man walked forward and pulled her body into his arms. He carried her like a child, tucked into his chest.
He dropped to his knees next to Willa, who watched as he adjusted the charred corpse and put one of his hands on her head. Pieces of her blackened clothing and skin flaked off under his touch. He closed his eyes, his face suddenly tense with concentration. The eerily familiar gesture sent another wave of cold down Willa’s spine.
After a moment he opened his piercing eyes, now full of agony. The agony spilled out of his eyes and turned to anger on his chiseled face. Willa stepped back, frightened and fascinated all at once. Carefully, he removed a necklace from the burned body, placed it around his own neck and dropped it inside his shirt.
He stood, the woman’s body falling apart in his arms. A ripple of cold moved off him and chilled Willa to her bones.
Then he turned and looked her directly in the eyes. Her heart stopped, breath deflated.
“You should not be here,” he said darkly in a voice that burned her face. An icicle of pain stabbed through her head.
All went black.
“Willa!” Simon yelled, shaking her as firmly as he dared without hurting her. He’d been trying to wake her for ten minutes. “Willa, wake up!” His heart beat frantically. Why won’t you wake up?
Willa’s eyes snapped open, and she began to scream. She pushed away from him, moving toward the end of the bed. “Willa, it’s me. It’s Simon.”
She stopped, crouched low on her hands and knees, ready to spring away, eyes wild and big as they darted around the room. “Simon?” she said in a weak voice.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. You’re safe.” Simon inched toward her.
She inhaled raggedly. “I thought it was him.” Her eyes continued to move around the room, wary.
“Who, Willa? You were dreaming. A bad nightmare.”
She finally focused on his face. “Yes. A nightmare.” She fell into his arms, shaking.
“I’m so sorry,” Simon said as he held her close against his chest, trying to calm her. “This one was bad. It took me ten minutes to wake you up. And you threw up.”
She pushed back. “What?” Then she turned to look at the mess down the side of the bed. She blinked several times. “That’s never happened before. I’ll have to take the quilt to be cleaned,” she said absently and then buried her face in his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey,” he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face, “Hey, no. You don’t need to be sorry. Are you okay? What did you see?”
She looked at him with urgent eyes. “It was just . . . awful. First, it was the poor owl on the cliff, and then a woman burned at the stake. But the man . . .” She flinched, dug her fingernails into the skin of his arms. “Ugh. My head is killing me.” She pressed a hand to her forehead.
“What man?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at Simon, eyes narrowing. “He was a witch—a powerful one. He loved the girl. He killed them all.” She gasped. “Then he looked right at me, spoke to me.” She shivered and again looked at him closely. “He kind of looked like you.” She touched his hair.
A chill moved down Simon’s spine. He hated the wild, fearful look in her eyes and how she rambled, not really making sense, her thoughts clipped short. She looked around the room again, checking the dark corners. Her body would not stop shaking. He hugged her again. “Okay, it’s over. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I’ll make you some tea, and we can sit outside until you feel better.”
When she didn’t move, he lifted her into his arms. He’d never seen her look so small, so child-like, as though the dream had robbed her of something. He hoped she could get it back. “Come on, my Willa.”
He stepped into the dark, quiet hall, her small body in his arms.
“He carried her,” Willa whispered. “Just like this.” She turned her face into his chest and started sobbing. “Her body fell apart in his arms.”
A cold shadow moved over Simon’s heart.
Chapter 22
Waning Half Moon
September 475 A.D.
Bartholomew carried her torched body as carefully as he could. The foul, unbearable smell filled his nose, mouth, and lungs; his eyes watered. He marched out of town and over the hillside before collapsing under his grief. His knees hit the hard earth and more precious pieces of her body fell off, each one like a slice of his heart cut away, never to be repaired.
Moments, a few small moments, he thought. If only I’d arrived sooner, then you, my love, would still be alive. Time is the cruelest of masters, forever torturing the heart. He glanced down at her black and red face, deformed, melted, and bile rose in his throat. He gagged; it shamed him greatly to have to look away. Tenderly, he shifted her body to one arm and removed his long cloak. He cast it out before him and it settled to the earth. With aching reverence, he laid her body in the center and wrapped it slowly.
“Brigid,” he whispered her name.
Kneeling before the bundle, Bartholomew gripped
her necklace in his palm. It had survived the fire with only a slight scorching of the silver. He’d given it to her when they’d married. He’d given it to her for protection, enchanted it with a spell, a strong one—or so he thought.
Her death could only mean one thing: another witch had betrayed them, helped in her capture, bound her magic so she could not escape. Brigid was strong, incredibly powerful. This should never have been possible.
He lifted his eyes upward, to the half moon sharing the sky with the sun. “How could you fail me?” he whispered between clenched teeth. “How could you betray your most loyal subjects?”
A small sliver of light curled through the air to touch his cheek, to comfort and caress, but he turned away. The day grew cold around him.
“I should never have gone away,” he whispered, both hands pressed gently to the bundle. “I stayed too long.” He paused and began to cry. “I should have taken you with me.”
A memory poured into his mind, both elixir and poison at once.
A week before he left, on his way back from pasturing the sheep, he saw Brigid swimming in the pond near their home—a favorite pastime of hers, but one he rarely witnessed. Quietly, he concealed himself behind a willow tree and watched. Her slim body, tiny yet strong, glided through the glassy water with ease. Sunlight pooled on the water’s surface and followed behind her in long golden ribbons.
Bartholomew’s breath caught in his chest as Brigid emerged from the pond, her body dripping, shedding water. Her skin, whiter than sheep’s wool, glistened, and her long dark hair clung to her curves, flowing down her back and over her chest like a royal robe. Even after ten years of marriage, her body thrilled him, fascinated him, called to him.
The leaves above him rustled, and before he had time to look up, one of the long branches wrapped around his arm, holding him tight. Brigid’s laugh rang out. He turned back to see her walking toward him, still with only her hair for cover. “Are you spying on me, husband?”
