“Varvara Nikolaev,” Nadine said with a passable Russian accent. “I usually call her tatushka. She was … she’s a great neighbor. I think she would’ve helped me, but by then, I’d already run away and I was too scared to go anywhere near my house again. So I went to a youth shelter instead. A counselor noticed me researching sorcerers, and he set up my meeting with the druid.”
“What happened then?”
Her expression softened. “I had no idea who he was. I was scared of him, but more scared of my parents. I told him everything. He listened, then …” Her tension melted away, her spine bending and shoulders relaxing. “He said I could go with him, and he promised I’d be safe.”
“He didn’t give you the ‘walk away or come with me and never return’ line?”
“He did, but I didn’t want to go back so it didn’t bother me.”
“What about now?”
She blinked in confusion.
“Do you want to leave?” I clarified, the words quiet but intense. “You went with him when you were scared and vulnerable, but if you could leave here and still be safe, would you?”
“I don’t want to leave. I like it here.”
“But …” Frustration burned through me. I knew I shouldn’t push her, but I couldn’t stop myself. “He got you out of your parents’ reach, but that doesn’t make him a hero. He’s using you for his own ends, just like he’s using everyone else here. Don’t you want to escape?”
She gazed at me for a long moment, then rose to her feet and picked up the basket of roots.
“You don’t get it, Tori,” she said, her tone surprisingly kind. “I don’t need to escape. I’m not trapped here. No one is.”
My hands clenched into fists, but otherwise I didn’t move as she walked to the door.
Nudging it open with her foot, she glanced back. “If you want to leave, just ask him.”
She vanished into the house, but I stayed where I was, glaring at the sunny valley. Not trapped here? Just ask if I wanted to leave? Yeah, right. Maybe she believed all the previous captives who’d disappeared had gone off on their merry way to start a new life elsewhere, but I knew better. The Ghost wouldn’t let his ex-captives wander into the wider world where they could spill the beans about him and his creepy cult.
His worshippers couldn’t see the bars around them. They thought they were here of their own free will when it was all a cruel manipulation.
But what the hell was I supposed to do about it?
I bleakly pondered the question until the clatter of the door startled me out of my thoughts. Chatting excitedly, all the Ghost’s devotees filed out of the house, and my frown deepened. Morgan and Terrance exited last, just behind Nadine. She waved cheerily as the group filed down the stairs and onto the path.
“Hey!” I jumped up. “What’s going on?”
As the others continued down the track, some carrying baskets with the distinct look of an upcoming picnic, Morgan hung back, her nose wrinkling the way it always did whenever we spoke.
“Where’s everyone going?” I demanded.
“We’re heading into town,” she explained shortly.
“Wait.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re going into town? Just … going? He’s allowing it?” Ugh, now I was doing the “he” thing too.
“Yes. Though, to be clear, you are not allowed. He didn’t give you permission for a day trip.” She checked her watch. “We’ll be back, hmm, after midnight. We’re going to the cinema for a late movie.”
“To the cinema?” I spluttered.
Mistaking my shock for disappointment, she patted my shoulder patronizingly. “We take a trip every month. Maybe he’ll let you join us next time.”
“But—”
“Have a nice day.”
I was still gawking when she hastened away. Snapping out of it, I ran down the steps as she jogged to catch up with the others. “Wait! You’re just leaving me here by myself?”
Rounding the corner of the house, I almost fell on my face in renewed shock. A big white van was parked on the grass, the mythics already loading inside it. Terrance sat behind the steering wheel, and as I stood there like an idiot, Morgan hopped into the passenger seat. The side door slammed shut and the engine rumbled to life.
I could do nothing but watch as the van drove toward the trees where an obvious, if overgrown, track cut through the forest. There had not been a road there yesterday. Was I losing my mind?
If I was, I was losing it real good, because once the van had disappeared among the trees, the dirt road got harder and harder to see until, three minutes later, the forest had reclaimed it. I wasn’t even sure where the road had been anymore.
Goddamn it. Maybe Nadine was right. No one here was trapped—except me.
Stomping furiously, I circled back to the porch. The sun blazed, the beautiful blue sky stretching between mountain peaks. I hadn’t seen this many consecutive sunny days since I’d moved to the coast, and it annoyed me that it was so nice out. It should have been dark and gloomy. Maybe thunderstorms. Or hurricanes.
I glared at the front door. I didn’t want to sit in the empty house by myself, listening to the silence. I wanted to be in that van, heading into town—whichever town, it didn’t matter—where I’d have my first real chance of escaping.
But that bastard knew I’d be gone in a heartbeat if I got the chance.
I stormed away from the house. For half an hour, I meandered about the property, eventually ending up at the paddock fence. Bracing my elbows on the wood, I observed the horses and cattle, grazing serenely. As hopelessness overwhelmed me, stupid tears stung my eyes.
“Do you ride?”
I almost screamed. Whipping around, I half fell into the fence, my heart pounding. I’d thought I was alone. But no, there was one person left, one I’d forgotten to count—and the last person I wanted to deal with right now.
Chapter Thirteen
The Ghost stood a step away, his eyebrows furrowed over bright green irises. He’d transformed yet again. Instead of a black-clad villain, he wore a white t-shirt tucked into fitted jeans, and a coiled rope hung over one shoulder. I scanned him from his tousled black hair, over his tattooed arms, then down to his feet.
Still clutching the fence and vaguely afraid he might tie me up with that rope, I wrinkled my nose. “Cowboy boots?”
“Riding boots,” he corrected, annoyance flickering over his features. “I asked if you ride.”
“Oh. Uh. ‘Ride’ as in ride horses? That’d be a very big no.”
He shrugged, stepped past me, and jumped the fence in one smooth move. I watched him go with my jaw dragging on the ground for the second time this afternoon. I’d assumed he’d be gone today.
“What are you doing?” I called.
Without looking back, he waved one hand, but I had no clue what that meant. After a moment’s hesitation, I clambered over the fence and into the pasture.
As he strode through the grass, he whistled sharply. The horses’ heads came up, and with prancing steps they trotted over to him. I stopped a safe distance away as he patted the horses and gave them cursory examinations, checking for injuries or something, I supposed. After a few minutes, he looped the rope around a tan-colored horse’s head, tied a makeshift halter, then walked off again. The horse followed, hooves thudding.
Hands shoved in my pockets, I followed him and the horse into the shade of the barn, where he tied the end of the rope to a metal loop on a post. He disappeared into the tack room, where saddles lined one wall, and returned with a handful of grooming brushes. Though I was standing right there, he said nothing as he lined up the brushes on a stall door.
Equally silent, I observed as he brushed the horse down. My attention lingered on the flex of his muscular arms and the shift of the dark tattoos on his back, visible through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt.
“Not hiding your face today?” I eventually asked. Did I lose points for speaking first?
“Ev
eryone is gone for the day.” He worked the brush over the horse’s flank and dust puffed from its coat.
“Everyone but me,” I snapped. “Why couldn’t I go too?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Don’t trust me how? That I won’t run off? What about the others? You don’t think they might run off?”
“They might, but if they do, I don’t care. They can’t identify me.”
Cold apprehension battled with disbelief, and I didn’t know how to respond. “Nadine can.”
He switched brushes and rubbed down the horse’s legs. “She, unlike you, doesn’t want to leave. And she, unlike you, trusts me.”
My hands clenched, fingernails digging into my palms. “You’re right. I want to leave. Let me go.”
He straightened to his full height, those unreadable green eyes turning to me. “I can’t do that.”
“I knew it,” I hissed. “I knew you were full of shit. You aren’t rescuing vulnerable mythics and giving them a safe home. You’re no white-knight hero.”
With one hand trailing on the horse’s chest, he ducked under its head and vanished around its other side. “Never said I was.”
“Nadine worships you,” I spat accusingly.
“Your point?”
“You—” I gulped back my fury before I said something that would get me killed. “You’re scum.” Well, so much for holding back.
He said nothing, and after a moment, I heard a quiet sound over the scratch of the brush on the horse’s coat—humming. He was humming as he groomed his horse. He held my life and my freedom in his hands and he couldn’t even acknowledge me? Rage splintered through me, one more overwhelming emotion on top of the helpless impotency and simmering fear of the last thirteen days as his prisoner. My composure disintegrated, irrational temper igniting in its place.
“Hey!” I yelled.
The horse’s head jerked up, its ears flattening to its head. It half reared, the lead rope snapping taut. The Ghost caught the rope and pulled the horse’s nose down as he stroked its neck and crooned. Ducking under its head, he stalked toward me.
A wave of fear quenched my unreasoning fury, and I backpedaled as he closed in on me. My back hit a stall door. He stopped a foot away, towering over me.
“So you want to leave.” His rumbling voice was quiet and dangerous, threat hanging in the air like when we’d first met. “Are you ready to talk first?”
“Talk?” I whispered soundlessly.
“Are you ready to share the truth, Victoria?” He loomed closer. “You aren’t a mythic. You aren’t related to any mythics. You haven’t dated any mythics—not seriously enough to leave a mark on your life. You have no obvious ties to the mythic community, but you showed up at the shelter pretending to be a diviner. You talked about magic classes and dark arts. And you agreed to go with me even though you think I’m an evil bastard.”
I lifted my chin. “You are an evil bastard.”
“Never said I wasn’t.” His fingers caught my raised chin, pinching my jaw. “How about the team of mythics who swarmed the park during our meeting? Who were they?”
I swallowed, my throat bobbing. He’d noticed too much. He’d guessed too much. I should’ve known the guys invading the park hadn’t slipped past him.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” I asked harshly. I wanted to jerk my head away from his hand, but I was trapped against the stall door. “Why make your offer?”
“I didn’t know if those mythics were enemies, allies, or strangers to you.” His fingers slipped off my chin and he stepped back. “You were hiding something, but your anger and desperation—those were real. So I took a chance.”
I sagged against the stall door, then pulled myself together. “You believed me because I was angry?” I asked scathingly.
“I didn’t believe a word out of your mouth.”
He stepped into the tack room and returned with a saddle blanket that he laid over the horse. He then brought out a saddle, a leather halter hanging over his shoulder. Flipping the saddle over the horse’s back, he wiggled it into place, then reached under the horse’s belly for the cinch strap.
“I don’t understand,” I muttered.
His hands paused in the middle of buckling the cinch. “I’ve been taking in abused, broken, and abandoned teens for years. I know the signs.”
Horror crystalized inside me, followed by furious denial. “I’m not broken!”
“Seemed like it that night.” Pulling the lead rope off the horse, he put his arm over its neck and guided the bridle onto its head. “Whatever your story is, you don’t need help the way the others did. You’re strong enough to take care of yourself.”
My emotions tumbled over each other, and I didn’t know what to feel first. He thought I was strong?
After adjusting the bridle, he flipped the reins over the horse’s neck, then gave the saddle a final tug.
“You don’t need to be here, but I can’t let you leave. And you know why.” He grabbed the saddle horn and swung onto the horse’s back. His gaze slashed across me. “I took a chance on you, and we’re both paying for it.”
He put his heels to the horse’s sides. With a toss of its head, it clopped past me and out into the sunshine.
You know why. Yeah, I sure did. He might not have guessed I’d been bait to lure him into the open, but he knew I was aware of his reputation. Most of his captives, if not all, knew nothing about a rogue called the Ghost. Even if they rejoined the mythic community later, they’d never connect this place with rumors of a child-napping dark arts master whose face, name, and class were unknown.
Me, though. I knew who he was. I’d seen his face. I was one of only a few people who could link the green-eyed druid and his hippy farm refuge to the infamous Ghost.
He would never let me leave this place alive.
Feeling numb inside and out, I drifted out of the barn. Sunlight blasted my eyes, but I barely noticed. I was trapped here forever. He’d never let me go, and if I tried too hard to escape, he would kill me. He’d have no choice. I was only alive because … because he didn’t want to kill me. That’s what he’d meant when he said we were both paying for his misjudgment. He’d taken on the burden and the risk of keeping an unwilling prisoner here.
I climbed onto the pasture fence and sat, watching him canter the horse the length of the field and back. He rode with easy grace, his strength softened by the gentle way he guided his mount. What kind of evil rogue would put himself through this much inconvenience to avoid killing one girl when he already had so much blood on his hands?
I sighed. The answer was obvious: He wasn’t an evil rogue.
Oh, he was definitely a rogue. He was clearly into some bad shit. But he wasn’t evil. His “captives” were protected and happy. They lived here willingly and could leave whenever they wanted—their trip into town proved that. He’d said himself he didn’t care if they ditched the farm. They didn’t know his name, face, or reputation, and I’d bet if he didn’t want someone to find this farm, they never would, even if they’d been here before.
The fear I’d sensed from the mythics wasn’t fear of him. It had been fear of me. Fear of who I was, why I was here, and how I might destroy the fragile peace they had found in this place. They wanted to protect it—and him. Maybe they didn’t worship him because he’d brainwashed them, but because he’d genuinely earned their respect.
After several laps around the pasture, he walked his mount over to my perch. The horse’s sides puffed, and perspiration shone on the Ghost’s skin, dampening the neckline of his white shirt. He sat comfortably, reins held in one hand, as smooth and confident as Kai on his motorcycle.
“Can I try?” I blurted without thinking.
His head snapped toward me. “You want to ride?”
“Um. Actually, no, I changed my mind.”
I might’ve imagined the glint of amusement in his eyes, but either way, he swung out of the saddle and dropped onto the ground.
“Come ove
r here, then.”
I leaned back, another protest hanging on the tip of my tongue. Swallowing it, I hopped off the fence and cautiously approached him and the tan horse.
“Take hold of the saddle horn,” he instructed as he pulled the reins over the horse’s head to hang from the bridle.
I grasped the leather knob at the front of the saddle. The horse was much bigger than I’d realized—the saddle was level with the top of my head, the stirrup dangling at waist height.
Warm hands closed around my waist and the next thing I knew he was lifting me. I barely got my leg over the horse’s back. As my weight came down on the saddle, the horse shuffled sideways. I clutched the saddle horn, eyes wide.
The Ghost nudged my leg forward and adjusted the stirrup length, then guided my foot into it. “How’s that?”
“Uh, good, I think.”
Holding the reins in one hand, he circled around and adjusted the other stirrup. I slipped the toe of my shoe into it.
“Heels down,” he told me. “Sit up straight.”
I pushed my heels down. The horse shifted and I wobbled. The ground was a long way away.
“You’re slouching.” Moving to my side, he put his hands on my lower back and stomach, his touch firm but gentle. “Tilt your hips forward and put your shoulders back.”
Obeying the pressure of his hands, I adjusted my posture and felt way more balanced. His hands slid away and with a clucking sound, he guided the horse into an easy walk.
As we paced a wide circle, I frowned at the top of his head, his dark hair mussed by the wind of his earlier ride. I did not get this guy. If he wasn’t a dastardly villain and he wasn’t a cult leader—at least not in the nefarious sense—then what was he? What did he get out of rescuing mythic teens and rehabilitating them?
He pulled the horse to a stop and scanned the pasture, tension stiffening his shoulders. The horse’s ears flattened and it arched its neck, blowing a loud, nervous breath.
My hands tightened on the saddle horn. “Is something wr—”
The horse reared. I held on for one terrifying second, then pitched backward.
Dark Arts and a Daiquiri (The Guild Codex: Spellbound Book 2) Page 12
