Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mischief Night Necrosis

My raincoat keeps my body dry, but I walk barefoot into the woods. Matthew walks beside me. In one hand, he carries a basket full of end-of-season flowers we plucked from my garden, and in the other, a tall black umbrella. He holds the basket almost at arm’s length.

“It’s okay if they wither a bit,” I assure him. My feet make squelching noises as they hit a patch of mud. But I don’t mind. I readjust the weight of my own flower basket. “That would be more fitting for the season anyway.”

“Given how poorly your ancestors reacted to my presence last night, I don’t think it’s in my best interest to show up with a bunch of dead flowers for them,” he says, holding his basket out one inch farther. I laugh but my breath stutters. My hands are clammy and I know I can’t blame the rain. I wrap my arm through Matthew’s, scooting under the umbrella with him and try to absorb some of his warmth.

“We’re not far now. The gate will be visible soon.” Just as the words leave me, the trees part and an old stone wall comes into view. In the center of the wall is a wrought iron gate with welded herbs and other metallic plant sculptures wrapping around the rods. I take the basket from Matthew’s hands and place a single, blue-tipped lilac aster on top of a mossy stone just outside the entrance.

“This,” I say to Matthew as I push the gate open, “is Goodwin Graveyard.”

The graveyard is not very large. Only about thirty of my ancestors are buried here. The scent of damp earth and old stone surrounds us. Three large oak trees are the kings of this burial ground, their restful shade normally casting peaceful shadows over the graves. Today, I eye the shadows nervously. A twig snaps somewhere out in the woods. My head whips around, my eyes darting as I try to place the source of the noise.

“You’re safe with me,” Matthew says, taking my hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I know.” I nod. “Let’s just get this over with.”

With Mom, this had always been a divide and conquer task. She would start at one end of the graveyard, I the other. Each of us, with our baskets, making small bouquets of flowers to sit on the graves until Christmas. But with Matthew, and his refusal to touch the flowers we picked, it’s up to me to place a bundle at every headstone.

Cassandra, Eloise, Morgan —I read the names as I go, greeting each of them with respect. I offer them the final blooms of my garden. Multicolored purple and black dahlias, ice-white camellias, roses that blend red and pumpkin orange, all tied together with gray lace.

Matthew stands behind me as I work, his face serene, but I don’t miss the way his eyes scan the forest. I am bundling four roses together to place at my great-aunt Agatha’s headstone when a thorn catches me on the ring finger.

“Ow.” I wince, immediately sticking the finger into my mouth and sucking the sting away. Matthew is instantly by my side.

“I’m fine,” I say before he can ask after me. “Just a pinprick.”

“Let me see,” he says, gently taking my hand into his. My ring finger is still bleeding.

“A bit more than a pinprick, I think,” he says to me with raised eyebrows.

“Please,” I scoff. “It’s easily dealt with.”

I reach into the basket of flowers at my side and grab a bright orange calendula. I pluck a single petal from the head and wrap it around my wounded finger. I hold the petal in place with my other hand and let out a soft hum. The temperature of my finger increases ever so slightly before fading. I let the petal fall away. It floats to the mossy ground, orange and red against the earthy green.

“Good as new, see?” I say to Matthew, holding my finger out for him to inspect. The tiny cut is gone, only the barest point of pink left behind.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing that,” Matthew says, staring at my hand in wonderment.

“It’s really so simple.” I laugh. “You could definitely do it, with all your seemingly endless power.”

He looks at me dubiously.

“I think not,” he says with a shake of his head.

“Have you ever tried? To heal?” I push back. Truly, it boggles my mind that a hexan as talented as he would be so demure.

“No,” he admits slowly.

“Let’s have a little experiment, shall we?” I say. I stand up and wipe the dirt off my knees. I hold my arm out toward Matthew, exposing the still healing scratches on my forearm.

“Place your hand here,” I say to him, pointing to one of the smaller cuts. “And try to heal it.”

Matthew takes half a step back from me.

“Kate …”

“It will be fine.”

“I can’t just do it the way you can. I need something to sacrifice,” he argues. I dangle the mostly undamaged calendula flower in front of him.

“So do I,” I remind him, placing the flower in his hand. He studies it and then my arm.

“I’ll have to use some shadow magic,” he says softly. “Won’t that bother you?”

I shake my head calmly. He lets out an uncertain breath but then places his free hand on my arm, above the scratch. He holds the flower aloft above his heart and closes his eyes.

“Good,” I say. “Now focus on the energy from the flower, the healing and life it holds in its cells. The energy will call out to you. Answer it. Then direct it to the damaged skin.”

I feel the heat on my forearm, tingling, almost stinging, but not painful. Matthew makes no sound, but his forehead is wrinkled in concentration. Eventually, the stinging fades. I pull away as Matthew opens his eyes. We both look to my arm, where the skin is scratch-free and baby soft.

“You did it!” I say proudly, beaming at him. “It seems you’re just as quick a learner as I am.” He smiles back, but there’s a pained expression in his eyes.

“What’s wrong? You did wonderfully,” I try to reassure him. I look to the calendula flower in his hand. It’s wilting, crystallizing like the rose he had given me last night. My smile fades as my eyes land on Matthew’s hand.

A thin blueish-black stripe runs down the back of his hand, following the line of his veins.

“What happened?” I gasp. I grab his hand and pull it toward me. He winces and I ease my grasp as I inspect the mark. To my horror, it looks like a small sliver of his skin, about the size of my scratch, has died and turned necrotic.

“Matthew,” I say in a horrified whisper.

“As I once said, if I heal, it seems to do more harm than good.” He pulls his hand out of mine and gives it a stretch, studying the black mark himself.

“Will it go away? Will it heal?” I ask, my voice wavering.

Matthew shakes his head. “I suspect not. Death is death. But it won’t spread. Unless, that is, you have other cuts you’d like me to heal.”

His voice is teasing, but I feel sick to my stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumble. He reaches his other hand out and cups my cheek.

“Don’t worry. Now we know. And besides, it’s just another mark for my new collection.” He gives me a cheeky grin and rolls up his sleeve to show off the bronze scar. It has settled into the skin and now looks almost like a metallic tattoo. The only giveaway to its true nature is the sound the raindrops make as they plink off the adhesive. He grins at me, but I can’t find it in myself to return his smile.

“How many more bouquets?” Matthew asks, running his fingers along my jaw. “I’m rather eager to get you back home,” he admits, his eyes sparkling. His tone is light but his shoulders are tense. The clouds above us are darkening, the rain growing colder. The sun must be getting low.

“We can leave now,” I whisper. I want to be back home. I want to be warm, dry, and in bed. And I want him.

Matthew pulls away from me and shakes his head. He looks toward one of the graves pointedly. The one closest to us. My stomach sinks.

“Not that one,” I say meekly.

“She’s your mother, Kate.” His voice isn’t admonishing, but I burn under his disapproval.

“I’m not ready. We lay the garden offerings as a sign of respect. It wouldn’t be real if I did it now. The intention would be misused.”

He nods his understanding and I relax.

“Then I’ll do it,” he says simply.

“What?” I start with surprise as Matthew bends down and grabs several of the flowers in the basket.

Working quickly, he ties them up with the gray lace. The edges of the petals are already starting to wither as he walks over to the grave. He kneels, placing a hand on the headstone and whispering something I can’t hear. I stare at him, open mouthed, as he honors the witch who banished him for over a decade. The witch he has not stopped criticizing since he arrived. Despite my own anger toward my mother, my eyes mist over at his humility, his desire to see the family tradition fulfilled even when I am incapable of it.

My heart swells with so much love for him I almost have no more room in my lungs to draw breath. The only flicker of pain I feel is the sight of the dark line on his hand, a permanent injury I caused in my own stupidity. If I could do anything to undo that damage, I would.

I start at the fierceness of the thought and continue to stare at his hand, placed on my mother’s grave. She too had loved a man so strongly she would do anything to protect him. Her partner of many years. The father of her children. Her warm hand to hold in the dark, cold night. My mother’s name, etched in stone, looms at me. What she did was wrong. It was selfish. But as Matthew draws his hand back and stands up, a part of me finally understands her.

He turns around and I am there. He takes a step back in surprise at my sudden nearness, but I don’t let him move far from me. I grab the front of his sweater, now damp from the rain, and pull him toward me. Our lips meet and all the tension inside me goes quiet. His surprise ends as he returns the kiss. He wraps one hand up into my hair, tangling it in my braid. Our lips part for a moment, and I take a deep breath, touching my forehead to his for just a moment. Our skin is feverishly hot—both of us.

“Thank you,” I say to him, almost in a whimper.

“God, what spell have you put me under?” he whispers back. He kisses the corner of my mouth and then runs his lips down my neck, letting out a long, low groan as he does so. Warmth and anticipation pool inside me. One hand still in my hair, his other explores my body, along my waist. I cling to him, savoring the light pressure from his fingertips as they travel up the purple fabric of my blouse, leaving stinging pleasure in their wake. I can feel his excitement, the lustful tension in his muscles. My head lolls back, drizzling rain pattering on my cheeks. Matthew’s lips find mine once again, crushing down on me.

A crow calls from the depths of the forest. The sound makes me jump. I pull away, and for a brief moment my senses return to me.

“We can’t … not here,” I say quickly. I look around in horror, at the graves of my grandmothers. Matthew laughs but nods.

“Take me home,” I implore.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says definitively. His eyes are sparkling once again, and the sight of his smile makes me want to fly.

He grabs my hand and pulls me away from the graveyard; the baskets of flowers and umbrella are left abandoned. His own breath is ragged, his skin flushed as we run together. Every so often, I fling a hand out to a tree just to gain a sense of direction.

As the break in the tree line comes into view, our pace quickens.

“Damn this, close enough,” Matthew huffs in frustration, turning and picking me up into his arms. We kiss under the tree canopy, and the rainy forest comes alive around us. I swear I can hear the very sound of life thrumming through the veins of these woods, the sound of mushrooms and moss growing, sparking with energy.

“Matthew,” I say, laughing and pulling away from his adorations, “it’s only a little farther.” I try to gracefully untangle myself from his arms, still keeping one of my hands clasped in his, and now it is me who pulls us forward.

The rain around us suddenly takes on the salty smell of the sea. I pause at the tree line. There is a figure standing on the back porch of my cottage.

“Miranda,” I breathe, the carefree giddiness draining from me.

I step away from Matthew and walk through my garden. My sister stands on the stoop alone, holding the empty pancake tray and syrup boat in one hand, a polished black umbrella in the other.

“I thought you might need these back,” she says, looking at the dirty dishes in her hand as I walk up the steps. “I knocked but you didn’t answer.” Her words are accusatory, as if I’d been ignoring her, despite the fact that she just saw us walk out of the woods.

“Sorry. Matthew helped me decorate the graves. We were just returning.”

All my excitement has vanished, but my skin is still warm and red from the run. Miranda looks me up and down, and I become painfully aware of my partially unbuttoned blouse and mussed hair.

“Indeed,” she says with a frown. She holds the pile of dishes out to me without a further word.

“Thank you,” I say, shocked at her having trekked down to the cottage to return them.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asks impatiently. “It’s freezing out here, Hecate.”

“Of course,” I say, pushing my back door open and stepping aside quickly. I follow behind her, and Matthew closes the door behind me. We cross the hallway and into the front room. I give a small mournful glance at the closed door of my bedroom as we pass by. If only.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask Miranda, trying to steady my thoughts.

“A London Fog, please,” she says with a polite smile, though her grip on her umbrella is white-knuckle tight.

“Of course,” I say again, taking the umbrella from her and shaking it out.

“I won’t be long, I just need a moment to warm myself.” She walks over to the sitting room and stands near the fireplace. For a brief moment I shoot a look of panic over to my writing desk, where our mother’s Grimoire is sitting out in the open. Miranda’s sharp eyes are bound to notice it. But if I make any move to conceal it now, I will only draw her attention.

Matthew studies my face, trying to parse my panicked look. I turn away from him and head to my stove. I pour some milk into a saucepan and throw in a couple bags of Earl Grey tea along with a dash of vanilla extract and a few teaspoons of sugar.

As the milk warms, the cottage is silent, save for the creaking of my stove and the crackling of the fire. Occasionally, Miranda hums to herself, but the notes are too quiet to identify.

I listen intently, waiting for the moment she stops and screams at the sight of the Grimoire atop my desk. I honestly don’t know if she would immediately tell the elders. How could I explain it to them? Would they believe me? Would Winifred back me up or accuse me further, demanding to know why I hadn’t destroyed it after she told me to?

As I shakily pour the London Fog into one of my delicate china cups, I realize that if Miranda sees the book, there is zero chance I will celebrate my birthday without being excommunicated.

I steal a glance at Matthew, sitting on my couch near Miranda, as I walk over with the cup. His eyes are on me, his brow furrowed as he tries to discern the tensions in my shoulders.

With slight terror, I realize he won’t let the elders within a hundred feet of me without a fight, if it came to that. Maybe that’s how the Tower card comes into play. I want to roll my eyes. Of course, the destruction and torment would be brought on by Miranda.

I stop walking, finally registering the notes Miranda is humming, more loudly now as I approach. She is staring at Matthew. Her green eyes glimmer in the firelight, and her intention reaches out across the room, beckoning Matthew to look at her, to become intoxicated by her. Horror runs through me.

“Stop it,” I hiss at her, letting the cup fall from my hands. Matthew lunges forward and catches the falling porcelain before it smashes into the wood floor. Hot liquid pours over his hand and splashes onto the tops of my feet.

“Kate?” He looks up at me, worry etched in his voice. Miranda looks at me as well, defiant.

“How dare you,” I say to her through gritted teeth. “How dare you try to Siren a guest in my house.”

Miranda rises from her chair. “I did it because you needed proof.”

“What’s going on?” Matthew demands to know, setting the cup down quickly on a side table. “Are you all right?” He turns to me.

“Look at him, Kate,” Miranda urges. “Look at his eyes. They are clear. He wasn’t affected by my song at all.”

“So? Your attempt to gather him into your thrall failed.” My relief is short-lived and replaced quickly by rage. Of all the incomprehensible things Miranda has done to me, this might make the top of the list.

“Do you know what Margaret always said about men who couldn’t be Sirened, Hecate? She said those are the men with the blackest hearts. Incapable of devotion.” Her tone is imploring, almost desperate.

My temples begin to throb, and it gets harder to breathe. I stare at Matthew, searching his eyes for some sign of a trick or act. But I see only his worry and confusion.

“I know what you are,” Miranda says, turning to him. “The sea glass told me this morning.” Out of her pocket she draws several of the stones she had scattered onto the dumb supper table. They have all turned black, like obsidian.

“He’s a traitor, Hecate,” she says to me while still staring him down. “The stones whisper of betrayal and lies. Deception and the stench of death. I don’t know where you found this scoundrel, but you need to turn him out of your home, now.”

“Don’t listen to her, Kate,” Matthew turns to me, his own eyes as equally desperate as hers. “Your ancestors … they’re confused.” Miranda barks out a laugh at these words. Matthew eyes her angrily. “They are!” he insists.

“Get out,” Miranda hisses. “Before I make you get out.” The sea glass in her hands begins to vibrate and hum, similar to the notes she had been singing before.

“Kate,” Matthew grabs my face, pulling me to look up at him. “I’m here to protect you, I swear it. You can’t let her banish me.”

“How dare you touch her!” Miranda yells, yanking my arm to pull me away from him. Pain shoots up my shoulder as she rips me away. I let out a cry of hurt. Matthew whirls around and snatches Miranda’s wrist.

“Enough,” he growls. Miranda is forced to release me. I fall to the floor from the force of her tug, my whole left arm singing in pain.

Matthew’s eyes are filled with rage as he stares at Miranda, the beautiful blue of his irises grows darker, morphing into an indigo-tinged black. She meets his gaze defiantly for a moment, but then her face contorts with anguish. The black sea glass falls from her hand and scatters around next to me on the floor as she lets out a long, low cry. The skin on her arm near Matthew’s grip turns a bruised sort of dark blue. Her veins fill with inky shadows that slowly work their way up to her elbow, leaving necrosis in their wake. My sister shrieks in agony, her legs collapsing beneath her.

“Matthew, stop!” I sob.

Immediately, he releases Miranda. She falls to the floor beside me, cradling her decaying wrist. I stare up at him, terrified and confused. He steps away from her and rushes toward me, reaching down to gently lift me to my feet, but I scramble away from him.

“I’m sorry. She was hurting you,” he explains.

“She was hurting me ? Look at what you’ve done to her!” I shout at him. Matthew doesn’t respond, but his stare is one of heart-wrenching sorrow.

“He’s … lying … to you.” Miranda sobs, still holding her arm to her chest. “Keeping … secrets.”

I hold Matthew’s gaze. “Be honest with me.”

“I have only ever been honest with you,” he pleads with me.

“You have kept things from me,” I insist.

He sighs in frustration. “There are certain things … things I can’t physically say, Kate.”

“No. No more of that.” I shake my head. “Either you tell me the full truth, or I won’t stop Miranda from casting her banishment.”

He stares at me in shock. I force myself not to look away, but the hurt in his eyes makes me want to sob. But I need to know the truth. He looks around wildly, as if desperate to find some alternative solution. After a moment his shoulders sag in resignation, and my heart clenches with fear. He looks at me with determination and begins to speak, choosing his words very carefully.

“Fine. I’m going to tell you my four absolute truths, Kate. You have to promise you’ll believe me.” His eyes bore into mine.

“No … don’t trust him,” Miranda whimpers.

I look at them both. My heart feels as if it’s ripping in two.

“I promise,” I say to Matthew.

He grips my shoulders and draws me into him. I don’t resist despite the pain.

“First, you should not go through the Containment tomorrow. You will need every ounce of strength in you, come sunset. Second, no matter what is about to happen to me, this cottage will protect you. Sleep safe and sleep soundly, but do not leave after nightfall. The darkness is dangerous. Do not try to Shadow Walk tonight. Third,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, gritting his teeth as if the next words are almost painful to say.

“My family and I are descendants of the King Below, sworn to serve him,” he manages to say, choking on the words. My blood freezes. “When you failed to Guide Margaret across the veil, he realized the extent of your mother’s betrayal and commanded my father to come to Ipswich to train you. My father refused. I came instead.”

The very breath is knocked from me. I knew it. Knew he’d been keeping secrets, knew he was wrapped up in all of this. Every conversation he sidestepped, every intuition I ignored, all of it had always led to this moment. But hearing the truth aloud is so much worse than I’d anticipated. The fire behind us shudders and shrinks. Dark shadows fill my cottage, and from far off in the distance, hellhounds bark. I look toward the noise and shiver in fear.

“Look at me, Kate. Look at me,” Matthew’s deep voice calls me back.

“Fourth,” he says as shadows seep down the walls and reach out toward us. He leans down and presses his lips to mine, gripping my shoulders tightly. My heart shatters. The kiss lasts less than a second before he breaks away.

“I love you,” he whispers against my lips. A wind picks up and shadows overtake the room. My eyes try to adjust to the darkness, but it is black as pitch.

“Kate?” Miranda cries somewhere in the dark, though her voice is drowned out by the howling in the air. Before I can shout out to her, the shadows clear. The firelight emerges again, and warmth returns to the room. Silence. Miranda is still huddled on the floor. And Matthew is gone.