The Castle of Water and Woe (Briarwood Reverse Harem Book 3)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Dread stabbed at my gut. There were too many secrets in this house for Rowan to be wandering around unchecked. What’s he doing?

  SIXTEEN: ROWAN

  They’ve got to keep their magical stuff around here somewhere.

  In one of the rare moments when he spoke about his family (usually after one-too-many glasses of Arthur’s mead) Corbin told me that after Keegan died, his parents had totally broken away from magic. They burned their family grimoire and all their ritual implements on a big bonfire and left Briarwood behind them. But I didn’t believe him.

  Magic was in our blood. It pulsed in my veins – a hum that rose from deep in the earth and thrummed through my body. You couldn’t just get rid of it. And Corbin’s parents knew the dangers of the fae. Even if they’d renounced their magical ways, no way would they take a chance that the fae might come after their daughters. Corbin’s protective air magic simmered in their veins – they would protect their family at all costs.

  That grimoire was around here somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, it would have a record of what happened twenty-one years ago – something that could help us.

  I pulled one door open, revealing a linen cupboard. Feeling around behind the towels revealed no hidden doors or lockboxes. I shut the cupboard as quietly as possible and crept up the stairs.

  On the landing I could hear Corbin laughing with his sisters in one of the rooms. The mirth in his voice tore at my heart.

  I crept past the girls’ bedroom and pushed open another door, finding a darkened room with drawn curtains beyond. I slipped inside and shut the door after me.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and shone it around in the gloom, looking for an altar or a shelf of books. Instead, I found a bedroom.

  A teenage boy’s bedroom, with two beds and a shelf of action figures and science fiction novels. Cases from fantasy computer games. Two playboy posters and Chelsea flags dotted the walls. Names spelled out in red wooden letters hung over each bed.

  On the left, CORBIN. On the right, KEEGAN.

  My throat went dry. I stared at that second name until the letters blurred and ceased to have meaning. Between the beds sat a small nightstand crowded with photographs. I picked one up, looking at a picture of Corbin aged about thirteen – with an adorable gap-toothed smile – wearing a Scouts uniform, a red rucksack covered with band patches at his feet. His arm hung casually around a boy a year or so younger, wearing the same uniform and holding a blue rucksack that looked brand-new. He had Corbin’s dark hair and bright, intelligent eyes. Both boys looked excited.

  There is was, right in front of me, the reason Corbin’s shoulders stooped with the weight of the world. Keegan. The boy I’d never met whose life and death hung over every aspect of my life, who kept Corbin tethered to Briarwood and Maeve in the vain hope that keeping them safe would absolve him of the guilt he had no reason to feel.

  It was six years ago, but Corbin stubbornly refused to cast off the blame for Keegan’s death.

  Anxiety tugged at the back of my head, pressing against. If you really loved Corbin, you’d be able to heal him. You’d be able to make him see that he didn’t have anything to be guilty about. But you’re so completely useless. You don’t really love him, you’re attracted to him because you’re broken and warped and when he sees that he’ll kick you out of Briarwood and you’ll be back in the gutter. And it will be exactly what you deserve, because what even is the point of you?

  Fuck.

  My throat tightened. The more I tried to shove the thoughts down, the more they pressed against my skull, shoving out all other sense. I forgot about searching for the grimoire, forgot about being in Corbin’s parents house and the fact they hated me. I cast my eyes around the room, searching for something to count. Counting made the voices stop.

  The figures.

  He’ll never love you in that way, because who would love a fucked-up delinquent who hears voices in his head and counts everything to stay sane? One day he’ll find out the truth and you’ll never see Corbin or Maeve again—

  I dropped to my knees in front of the bookshelf, my eyes darting across the rows of elaborately painted D&D figurines and transformers. I touched the head of each one as I counted, one… two… three…

  The anxiety loosened its grip on my windpipe, and I gasped in a breath. Four… five… six...

  “Rowan!” Corbin called.

  Shit.

  I dropped the photograph and rushed to the door, opened it a crack and peering out onto the landing. Corbin passed by, heading toward the stairs. I slipped out of the door and pulled it shut behind me. There was no sense in hiding what I’d been doing. “Here,” I said.

  “You weren’t in the bathroom?”

  “I … got lost on the way back.”

  “Really?” Corbin lifted an eyebrow in a joking way, but his eyes flashed. “Walking up the flight of stairs didn’t give you a clue?”

  I shrugged. “You know me. I’m pretty clueless.”

  Corbin sighed. “Mum is already freaking out, especially about you being here. If I give her one reason for her to kick us out—”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  His face softened. He waved a hand at me. “Come on. The girls want us to play board games with them.”

  We spent an hour sprawled across the sitting room rug, a game of Catan spread out in front of us. We had the same game at Briarwood, but Arthur and Corbin got so competitive it wasn’t nearly as much fun. The girls squealed with delight every time they got to place another city or collect a big haul of resources. Flynn wasn’t there making inappropriate “wood” jokes. It was so nice it made my stomach hurt.

  My shoulders itched, sensing a presence behind me. Every time I looked over, Bree Harris stood in the doorway, watching me with hawklike intensity.

  I didn’t blame her, not after what she’d seen the last time we met.

  Corbin’s father arrived home around seven. He was a don in nearby Oxford, so he came up the front path in his academic dress, looking like a character from Harry Potter. The girls met him at the door, leaping all over him while he tried to wrap his weary arms around their squirming bodies. Emptiness echoed in my head as I watched the warm family scene. This loud house, those gorgeous girls, the smell of warm sausages wafting from the kitchen … it was everything I’d always wanted.

  Corbin gave up all of this – this joy, this love – for the coven, for me. He had everything and he gave it up because he believed it was the right thing to do. If I’d had this I’d never have been strong enough to turn away from it, especially not for a burnout like me.

  With burning shame I remembered the person I was when Corbin found me. A street punk with a heroin addiction and a power I couldn’t control. I resented Corbin for dragging me away from London and forcing me into rehab. I deliberately failed, twice, just to prove to him that he was wrong. I brought drugs into Briarwood – something he forbid me to do – and tore up a priceless tapestry during one of my fits.

  Flynn and Arthur wanted me out of the castle. I didn’t blame them – all they saw was a dangerous, unpredictable addict who had a vendetta against tapestries. I must have destroyed thousands of dollars of priceless antiques in those first few months.

  But Corbin never gave up on me. Always he was there beside me, at all my rehab sessions, talking to my counsellors, patiently waiting for me to get my shit together.

  Eventually I did, and when I emerged from the drug-fuelled haze, a pair of shining dark eyes greeted me, filled with such pride and love that I’d never been able to look away from them since.

  But without the drugs, the anxiety crept on me, and it was getting worse, especially since maeve had turned up. The voice wailed at me day and night that I was an imposter, I wasn’t supposed to be there, I wasn’t strong enough or good enough to be part of the coven, and I would never have the love I so desperately wished for.

  Eventually, Corbin’s dad extricated himself from his daughters and hung up his coat and gown. He stood up,
and his eyes flashed with pain when he noticed his eldest son.

  “Hey Dad,” Corbin’s soft voice betrayed his hope.

  Wordlessly, Corbin’s dad nodded his head, then pushed past Corbin and headed to the kitchen. “It’s dinnertime.” he called to the girls. “Wash your hands.”

  Corbin’s shoulders sagged, but when he looked at me, his face was as kind and impassive as ever. I moved toward him, but he stepped back and shook his head.

  “We should get going,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Yes,” his mother nodded vehemently, her eyes darting toward the kitchen. “Traffic going back to London will be slow. You’ll want to catch the next bus.”

  She didn’t ask us to stay for dinner. I’d seen her place an enormous toad-in-the-hole into the oven. There would have been plenty to go around. But Corbin’s dad—

  He didn’t even acknowledge Corbin’s presence. How could he refuse to even see his son? Couldn’t he see what that did to Corbin?

  “Can I just go say goodbye to the girls?”

  She shook her head. “Put your shoes on. I’ll bring them out.”

  “If you change your mind about what we talked about—”

  “Goodbye, son.” Corbin’s mother stepped forward, raising her arms slightly, as if she was going to hug him. But halfway there she seemed to think better of it, and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder instead. She turned and went into the kitchen, and a moment later appeared again with the girls in tow.

  “Corby, come back soon!” Tessa wrapped herself around Corbin’s leg.

  “And Rowan, too.” Bianca wrapped her tiny body around my leg. Her warmth seeped through my trousers. I bit back a rising lump in my throat and patted her shoulder, not knowing what to say.

  “Girls, don’t keep your brother. He’s got to catch the bus now.”

  Reluctantly, the girls let go of our legs and crawled back behind their mother, their earnest faces questioning Corbin, begging him to explain why he didn’t live with them, why he couldn’t stay for dinner and dessert and bedtime stories.

  Corbin blinked. Without a word, he turned and stormed through the door, disappearing down the path without waiting for me. He didn’t look back.

  “Th-thank you for your hospitality,” I whispered, turning away to hurry after him.

  “Don’t you ever come back here again,” Corbin’s mother hissed at my back. “Corbin may be lost to us, but I won’t have Tessa and Bianca exposed to the likes of you.”

  My dreads slapped against my back as I fled the house. Corbin wasn’t on the sidewalk outside, and panic turned my veins to ice before I spied him at the end of the street. He sat on the curb, his face in his hands.

  I ran to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Beneath me, his skin heaved. A sob? But Corbin never showed his emotions like this. After a moment, he lowered his hands. His face was dry.

  “You saw that room, didn’t you?” he said, not looking at me. His voice wasn’t choked up, wasn’t sad, just resigned.

  “Yes.” I could never lie to him.

  “It’s not even our real bedroom. At Briarwood, we’d each had our own rooms. They only bought that house after ...”

  “I know.”

  “They keep it like that – a shrine to the two sons they lost that day. Isn’t that sick? And they didn’t lose me. I’m right here.”

  I had so many things I wanted to say, but my tongue wouldn’t form the words. Who was I to give him comfort? I didn’t have a family. I had no right to pass judgement on his.

  “We shouldn’t have come,” Corbin kicked a loose stone out into the road. “It was a waste of time. They won’t even talk about magic.”

  “You had to try. Besides, you made your sisters happy.”

  “Yeah.” Corbin looked up at me then, and the first genuine smile I’d seen in days lit up his face, brightening the dim grey sky. “This must seem so ridiculous to you. Tell me the truth – you think we should just forgive each other? We should just bury everything that happened, like we buried Keegan.”

  I nodded. I’d told him that a hundred times. He was so lucky to have a family. It seemed so stupid for them to be divided over this. Corbin’s parents left him all alone with his guilt and his grief. How could they not see it? It was written behind his eyes.

  “You’re not responsible,” I said, for the millionth time. The words floated away, meaningless and useless, like me.

  Corbin shrugged, but the shrug didn’t come across as carefree. Not at all. “We should get going. If we hurry, we’ll just make the next bus. I’ll text Flynn and let him know everyone is on their own for dinner. Maybe Blake will finally get that curry he’s been harping on about.”

  That was Corbin, always thinking of others, always being responsible. I know he did it to distract himself, because in the quiet moments – when night fell and the house went to sleep and he had no one to watch over or care about – his own nightmares began.

  What I didn’t know was how to help him.

  SEVENTEEN: MAEVE

  As soon as Jane and I got back to Briarwood, we went to the library and filled the others in on what happened.

  “You could curse them, you know.” Blake held up a plate piled high with Rowan’s cakes and pastries, shovelling the sweet treats into his mouth with barely a thought to proper mastication. The trail of crumbs across his black shirt indicated he’d already made a sizable dent in the stack. “Make them all grow boils or turn their toenails into beetles. It’ll be a hoot.”

  “Brilliant idea, Sherlock. That would totally convince them I’m not an evil witch.”

  “Why does everyone keep calling me Sherlock?” Blake demanded, waving an eccles cake in the air. “Is it some kind of witch insult?”

  “This should explain everything.” Arthur pulled a thin book off the shelf behind Corbin’s desk and tossed it at Blake. I glanced at the title as Blake opened it with jammy fingers. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. “Now, what are we going to do about Dora?”

  “I think one of you guys needs to talk to her. She thinks of you like her own sons. The only way she’s going to accept me is if one of you convinces her that I’m like the daughter she never had, and let me tell you that’s going to take some serious smooth talking. While you’re at it, try to get her to understand that it isn’t the eighteen hundreds and Jane is free to do whatever she likes with her body.”

  “I could just compel her to believe that,” Blake mumbled through a mouthful of cake crumbs. “Problem solved.”

  “Sounds great—Hey, give that back, you little scamp.” Jane wrestled a book back from Connor’s grasp.

  “Not going to happen,” I said. “Magic caused this issue with Dora, so magic isn’t going to solve it. And maybe it’s okay in the fae realm to run around messing inside people’s heads, but if you want to be a member of this coven, you will never, ever force someone to think or do something against their will. You got that through your skull?”

  “It’s lodged in here, Princess.” Blake tapped the side of his head. “You need to relax more. Maybe if I ran my tongue over your nipple, it would calm your nerves—”

  “My nerves are just fine, thank you.” I flopped down on the sofa and folded my arms across my chest, hoping Blake couldn’t see my nipple standing hard and pert through the thin fabric of my dress. Don’t think about how much your body craves Blake. Get this conversation back on track. I glared at Arthur. “So you’ll talk to Dora?”

  “I’ll try. But not today, okay? I have a feeling if we don’t get through these books before Corbin gets back, Dora will be the least of our problems.”

  “I agree.” I sat down on the sofa next to Blake and grabbed a random book off his stack.

  “As fun as all this Harry Potter wand waving and chanting medieval Latin is fascinating, I think I’ll leave the research to the actual wizards. I’m going to go try and find that other woman Sheryl mentioned.” Jane jiggled Connor on her hip as she headed for the door. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be down i
n the kitchen making some calls. You’d better hope like hell there are still some eccles cakes left, fairy boy, or there’ll be trouble.”

  The library descended into silence, the only sounds the shuffling of leaves and Blake’s chewing. I flipped aimlessly through the book in my hands. It seemed to be some sort of treatise on the magical properties of various crystals. I could barely focus on the words. I knew we needed to do the research, but I hated sitting on my butt (or arse, as the guys said) doing nothing. Historians looked for the answers in books. Scientists conducted experiments.

  Which reminded me. All the scientific equipment I’d purchased to monitor the gateway was still sitting up in my room. In all the chaos, we’d forgotten to set it up. If we knew more about the gateway and how it actually worked, that might help us find a way to block it permanently.