Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

November 1st

I wake with a scream. Miranda and Celeste both shriek above me. I am lying on a couch in the library. The air smells of smoke, and haunting waltz music plays from the ballroom.

“Hecate!”

“You’re awake!”

“What the hell happened?”

My sisters talk over each other as I calibrate myself, still reeling from the sight of blood bursting from Matthew’s heart.

“You’re okay?” I say, looking over both of them. The edges of Celeste’s coat are singed and Miranda’s arm looks a bit worse for wear, but otherwise they seem unharmed.

They both nod.

“When you collapsed, all the shadows disappeared,” Celeste says.

My dress is damp and smells of salt. Incense burns in ceramic pots around me. Tarot cards are spread out in strange orientations on the floor by the couch. And half-empty vials of saltwater sit on the side table.

“What did you do to me?” I say, a crazed giggle escaping my lips.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Miranda says with a huff. “We tried everything we could think of. Celeste even tried to cook from Mom’s book.” She wrinkles her nose at some unpleasant memory.

“How long have I been out?” I ask, listening again to the violins and chatter outside the library door.

“Hours,” Celeste says, running a cloth over my face to dry it. “It’s well past midnight.”

“Why is there music playing?” I ask. My sisters both look at each other.

“Well, when the darkness retreated, everyone else assumed the danger had passed. No one seemed overly concerned that you collapsed. Winifred wouldn’t even help us. She just said ‘Kate’s on her own now,’ ” Celeste says. She crosses her arms and grimaces. “The coven decided not to waste an evening of celebration.”

I blink. “They’re partying?” I say aloud. Celeste nods.

“Everyone has been enjoying themselves. They’ve all been acting a little loopy since Miranda served your birthday cake. But don’t worry—she saved the last piece for you.” She gestures over her shoulder. Sure enough, over at one of the reading tables, sits a piece of our Samhain china with a thick slice of the chocolate caramel apple cake. “We had to fight several of the elders who wanted it after you passed out. But Miranda protected it fiercely.”

Miranda is frowning as she listens to us speak. She neither acknowledges nor denies the efforts that Celeste is claiming.

“I passed out and the elders immediately tried to eat my cake?” Again, I want to laugh.

“Enough,” Miranda snaps at me. “Do you want to tell us what exactly happened to you?”

“Miranda,” Celeste warns disapprovingly.

Miranda’s face is deadly serious as she looks at me, but I can’t help the series of laughs that burst from me. I laugh to keep from crying. But tears do come. First one, then two. They spill over between my amused snorts, and then suddenly I can’t quite catch my breath. And more tears fall as my laughter turns to heaving sobs.

I am immediately drawn into an embrace. Both of my sisters’ arms wrap around me. Miranda sits down next to me on the couch and pulls me into her chest. Celeste, who is sitting on her knees by the couch, lays her head down into my waist. And they both hold me as I sob. Neither asks questions, neither demands I cease.

Every so often, Miranda whispers to me, “It’s all right. It will be all right.” But soon enough she stops speaking, and I am left to cry in peace. I don’t know how long I weep before I start talking, but eventually, with shuddering breaths, I tell my sisters everything that happened in the world below.

“I can’t believe we almost lost you,” Celeste says shakily. “All while the coven dances blissfully outside the doors.”

“Mom was really there?” Miranda whispers, her own eyes wet.

I nod.

“All our foremothers were. I couldn’t have defeated the demon without them.”

“I misjudged Matthew,” she admits. “To subject himself to such a horrid fate to save you. He must truly have loved you.”

I wince at her use of past tense.

“How will the Pacific Gate react when they learn their heir is dead?” Celeste asks with a horrified whisper. She and Miranda exchange worried glances at the thought of an inter-coven war.

I bury my face in my hands. I can’t bear to think of Matthew as dead. Not yet. But the image of the dagger piercing his heart makes me shudder.

“Hold on,” Miranda says to me. She rises from the couch and quickly walks out of the library. Celeste and I wait for her to come back. I notice that the music has stopped, and while there are some random peals of laughter, the general chatter has ceased.

The door opens quietly, and Miranda comes back into the library, carrying a steaming mug. She also picks up the china plate holding my slice of birthday cake and walks back over to the couch.

“Eat,” she insists, thrusting the plate toward me. I take it instinctively. More gingerly, she hands me a cup of hot cocoa. Several ghost-shaped marshmallows are floating around in the warm chocolate bath.

I look up at her.

“You’re cold and in shock. You need to eat,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say, surprised. I take a sip of the cocoa. It’s an instant packet mix but delicious all the same, and the marshmallows melt slowly in my mouth.

“Come, Celeste,” Miranda says. “You need rest. We all do.” She stares at me pointedly. “When you’ve finished, go upstairs and get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to leave Kate,” Celeste says. Miranda glares at her, but Celeste doesn’t budge.

“It’s all right,” I tell her. “I’m tired. No more Shadow Walking tonight. I promise. Sleep well.”

This placates her a bit. Reluctantly she rises, letting go of my hand. The past hour may have been the longest I have ever gone maintaining physical contact with my sisters.

“Kate.” Miranda’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see her standing at the door. Celeste has already left. “Tomorrow, after we settle everything with the coven”—she stares at me for a moment—“we can go to Salem Library and try to find more about hedge craft. If we can convince the archives to share the Books of the other hedge witches, then perhaps their notes will help train you in the other half of your practice.”

My eyes widen with surprise.

“I’d like that,” I say to her. She gives me a polite but warm smile before leaving the library and shutting the door.

All alone. My natural state. And yet, the crushing sense of loneliness bears down on me. I grab my plate and walk over to the windows that look down toward the sea. I cannot see the ocean; it is much too dark for that. The storm from earlier in the night has cleared, and the stars are shining, but I can sense the huge cloud of fog rolling in off the water. The window is beginning to frost from the rapidly dropping temperature.

The stars blink out one by one from the fog. I take a bite from my slice of cake. The familiar sense of good fortune spreads through my chest. The dark night doesn’t seem quite so oppressive after all.

I set the plate down on a stack of books.

I don’t want the cake’s magic to make me feel better. Not yet. Not when I’ve lost him. Not when I let him die for me. I sit on the windowsill and watch the inky blackness of the night shift from pitch to indigo, to deep gray. The hours pass. All I know is that if I break my meditation on the sky, the heaviness of it all might become too much. It’s not until the first whispers of dawn break through that I come back to myself. I don’t want to be in this oppressive house any longer.

I tiptoe out of the library. The manor is silent. All around the entryway there are witches passed out, sleeping happily on the floor. Winifred, Rebecca, and Ginny all lie together on the fainting couch just beside the door. Three generations of Bennet witches sleep soundly, clasping one another’s hands. My anger toward Winifred and all her secrets can wait for a different time.

I quietly open the front door and immediately bite my lip at the bitter cold of the morning. It’s like ice on my skin. The ground is frozen, and I walk carefully down the hill to my cottage. The entire estate is covered in the densest cloud of fog I have ever seen. The morning is still a deep blue, but the sky is turning brighter. Less than half an hour from dawn.

I wrap my green wool cloak around me more tightly. The fog wets my curls to the side of my face, and my breath comes out as thick as wood smoke. Several of Matthew’s carved pumpkins have been carried by drunken revelers down different parts of the path. Their snuffed-out candles and black frozen faces smile up at me as I walk to my cottage. In a bush off to the side of the worn path is my warty devil. He has the sweetest of all the faces. I quickly grab him and tuck him to my chest. A shifting of movement catches my eye.

Winifred.

She stands just a little way down the hill from me. No longer in her large gown, she wears a simple white nightdress with lace sleeves. I turn back toward the Manor. I hadn’t heard her follow me out.

“Win?” I say, walking close to her. She stares out at the forest. “Winifred?” I call again.

She turns to look at me, and her hair moves slowly, as if blown in an underwater breeze. Just like Margaret. Just like Mom’s.

“Oh my God,” I breathe as I stare at her ghost. She gives me a sad but calm smile.

“It is done then?” she asks. “The King Below is gone.” Her voice is close and far away all at once.

I nod, still shocked into silence.

“Then my time has come,” she says quietly.

“Why is this happening?” I say. My chest constricts as if I am about to cry. But no tears come. Perhaps I have used up all my available tears this night. “Were you sick? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Winifred shakes her head. “No, Sweet Pea. This was my deal with that wretched creature. She reaches out to smooth one of my curls, but her hand pauses, and she draws back.

“I could feel my time coming in my late twenties. When Rebecca was only a baby. The meta-magic was getting harder to control. Every time I used it, it took bigger and bigger pieces of me. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my daughter motherless so early in life. So, I followed in the steps of several other Atlantic Key meta-magic witches. A simple trade. Magic for time.”

She bites her lip, hesitating before continuing.

“I begged the King Below to extend my life, to shield me from death. In return, I gave him the unused magic I took from witches during their Containment. It gave him a little strength. Kept him going. Without me, he would have faded decades ago.” She stops speaking.

I’m silent for a long moment, tightly gripping the pumpkin in my hands, nails digging into the flesh.

“You’re the reason our coven’s magic has weakened, aren’t you?” I ask eventually. “The Containment—just a ruse?”

No, not just a ruse, but the very cause of our dwindling power. If I hadn’t already experienced a barrage of emotional whiplash during the past twenty-four hours, I know I’d be screaming at her.

Winifred won’t meet my eyes.

“I did what I thought I had to do to give my daughter a happy life,” she says.

“And what of my mother, your best friend?” I snap. The urge to cry has left me, but a hollow ache still pinches the center of my heart.

Winifred nods, expecting the question.

“When Sybil was desperate to save William, I made her the Grimoire and brought her to the King Below. As he had directed me to do.”

She looks down at her hands, as if the shame of all her actions has finally hit her.

“She went to him eagerly at first. But after her change of heart, she convinced Margaret and me to help shield you from death. Margaret never thought it was right. She always wanted you to know the full extent of your powers. But Sybil made us promise. For years, your mother and I towed the line. We tried to see how many holes we could poke in our deals without everything blowing up. Not letting him know for certain that we were working against him.”

“You played your part well, it seems,” I say quietly. “Seventy-five years is an achievement for a meta-magic witch.” Fifty years of which had been spent draining our coven of magic. But I don’t say that part out loud.

“Indeed,” Winifred admits. “But now that he is gone, all the remnants of his magic will fade from the land above. Your mother’s book will turn to ash in the coming days if it has not already done so.”

“And you?” I ask.

She looks at me for a long moment. “And I must now pass on. Through the veil. If you will let me.” Her voice falters on this last sentence, a note of fear and uncertainty in her trembling words. She turns her back to me and stares again at the forest. The fog is heavy, but through the outline of the trees, figures move, ghostly and ephemeral. A soft collective whisper rises above the canopy. Not malevolent or frightening. Welcoming.

I clutch my warty devil to my chest for comfort. Part of me wants to tell her to go rot. But even in the face of all her selfish deeds, I can’t punish her in such a cruel way.

“Too many spirits have had to claw their way through the veil these past centuries. Let’s allow it time to heal, shall we?” I say gently.

I take a deep breath and rest my hand on Winifred’s shoulder. The energy of death swirls through my fingertips, stinging and numbing, but not painful as it had been with Margaret. She lets out a long sigh, and a freezing pressure builds in my limbs. I try to find the same sense of calming rightness that comes over me whenever I Shadow Walk. That same sense of confidence I feel when Siphoning. I close my eyes, breathing through the tight squeeze. My internal fear and resistance give way. The pressure eases.

I know I am alone before I even open my eyes. The foggy hill sits bare of life, save for me and the warty devil. My hand, still outstretched, reaches into empty frigid air.

I gather my arms beneath the fabric of my cloak, trying to find extra warmth, and the moonstone talisman falls free. The all-consuming black mark of necrotic energy is gone. But it is still that same distorted verdant shade I’d seen on Halloween morning. The silver streaks are more apparent now, thicker against the forest green. Yesterday morning, I’d thought the silver flecks were the mark of the King Below, a sign that he was coming for me. But he’s gone now. So why are they still present?

I look back out toward the forest, toward the spectral figures shifting through the fog. Three figures, made of the shadow and light between the trees, meld into an embrace before fading into the misty background.

“Rest well, Win,” I whisper. Her sins will be revealed in time, and the coven will rebuild.

I look back down at the talisman with its green and silver threads blending together. Maybe the silver isn’t from an outside influence at all. Not the King Below. Not a curse.

It’s me.

This past week, I’ve communicated with the dead. I’ve Shadow Walked. I’ve Siphoned to heal Miranda’s arm and defeat a trickster god. My magic has changed. It’s gained dimension and become something new. I run my thumb over the swirling surface of the moonstone and watch as the green and silver dance together, spiraling down into infinity.

The cold air bites at the skin on my hand. I shiver again. A fire will be my first necessity when I get to my cottage. I can only hope Merlin has found some warmth burrowed into the quilts of my bed. Yes. A fire first. Then tears. And perhaps a special tea to help me sleep dreamlessly for a long while.

I quickly run up the steps of my porch and through the creaky wooden front door. I slam it shut and inhale sharply, trying to breathe off the cold. The air inside is not as frigid as I thought it would be, much to my relief. In fact, it’s almost warm.

I turn around. The roaring fire crackling in my hearth is the first thing I see. The man sitting on my couch is the second.

“Hello, Kate,” Matthew says, gently lifting a dozing Merlin off of his lap. He places my cat onto the adjacent seat and slowly rises. He is wearing the same suit he had worn to the dumb supper. It is perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight, each crease of the seam in its place, but he’s rolled the sleeves up his forearms. His hair on the other hand, is wildly untidy, as if he has been running his hands through it, lost in thought.

I can’t breathe. He doesn’t say anything else as I stare at him. He stands perfectly still in an almost nervous fashion. My feet have a mind of their own, and I give in to the magnetic pull. Slowly, I set my warty devil on the marble coffee table and inch closer to Matthew, studying his face. His eyes meet mine, but we both remain silent.

Is he an apparition? A spirit like Winifred and those I had seen in the woods? He doesn’t have the same silvery sheen as them. He looks flesh and bone enough. His right arm isn’t even desiccated anymore. It is fully formed and healthy. His left arm still bears the copper scar of his fight with the hellhounds. I reach out and touch the shimmering orange lines that run up his forearm. He’s warm. My heart quickens at his soft intake of breath at my touch. I look up at him.

“How?” I wonder aloud, gesturing to his once decayed arm. I almost don’t care. Almost. But the impossibility of it stops me from throwing myself into his arms in relief.

“All part of the perks of my new position. Though I did choose to keep your additions,” he says appreciatively, admiring the copper grooves that I am currently tracing with one of my fingers. He lifts his arm up. I don’t stop him, but I also don’t let go. His hand cups my cheek. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I feel the familiar rough edges of his skin.

“How are you here?” I ask. I have no strength to speak above a whisper.

“It’s Samhain,” he whispers, his eyes not leaving mine. Slowly, he runs his thumb over my lips. “The veil is weak. I can walk the realm of the living until sunset.”

“And then you will be gone? Until when? Beltane?” A tear falls from me, and it’s both in deep relief and deep sadness. At least I haven’t lost him forever. But what hell will he be subjected to in the meantime? He studies my face for a moment, brow furrowing.

“Yes. If that is what you wish,” he says with a nod.

“Do I get some sort of say in the matter?” I ask.

Matthew smiles again, though it is tinged with uncertainty. “Well, if you agree to be my hedge witch, then I can stay with you.” He reaches down and grabs a mug off the coffee table.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of brewing the necessary tea. Smoked barberry root bark, damiana, crystalized juniper berries, mugwort powder, and moonvine freshly harvested from your garden this morning.” He holds the mug out to me in offering. The tea is the color of sun-ripened plums. Strongly steeped with all the ingredients we’d picked up from the Raven & Crone.

I want to erupt with joy. I also want to laugh deliriously at myself for the depression of the last hours.

“All I have to do is drink this?” I ask. “And you’ll stay with me?”

“If you would have me, yes. I would stay with you. For the darkest months of the year, I would be by your side in the land above. Keep you company. Keep you safe. Keep your bed warm, if you wish.” He chuckles. I can’t help my own blissful grin.

“And then come spring?” I ask after a moment.

Matthew frowns.

“Come Beltane, I must return to the land below. But as the hedge witch, you would be free to cross the veil as you please. Any time of year,” he emphasizes.

I run a hand down the lapel of his suit, appreciating its silky texture. “Well, I do enjoy my alone time,” I say. Matthew laughs quietly, watching my hand fiddle with his outer layer of clothing.

“Yes, I know,” he agrees.

“But I often find the summer months are rather lonely,” I say, looking up at him. He meets my gaze. “And you are the only person I’ve met who improves the silence.”

His smile widens with pride.

I want to pull him to me, cover his face with kisses until my head swims from lack of air. But there is business to settle.

“I will be your hedge witch,” I whisper to him. His smile is so brilliant that my heart aches.

“I want nothing more,” I say, taking the mug from him, “than to keep you here with me. To ease your burden. To belong to you. To be yours in every way.” I drink. The flavor is bitter and earthy and absolute perfection.

Matthew’s smile disappears, and his eyes flash with desire. He is staring at me in the same way he always has since the day we first saw each other. The fire is dying in the hearth. The fog is pressing up against the windows of the cottage so that the world outside doesn’t exist. Only we exist. I can’t stop myself. I drop the empty mug, ignoring the sound of it breaking against wood. I reach out to Matthew and pull him to me.

I kiss him fiercely, the grief and horror of the previous night exorcized by the feeling of his lips on mine. He wrenches me closer, deepening the kiss. And it’s like finally coming home after being lost for days on end.

And then I am grabbing at his clothes, forcefully unbuttoning his shirt, and he helps me as I pull it over his head and throw it to the side. I reach for him again, wrapping my arms around his neck. I want to bury myself in him. But I pause and stare at his naked chest.

Around his neck is a delicate chain with a small key that hangs loosely down to his stomach. It’s quite transformed from the gaudy adornment of the previous owner. I reach out to touch it gingerly, my fingers brushing against his stomach. He doesn’t move to stop me. It’s cold against his warm skin. Tiny letters are inscribed on the blade of the key.

H. G.

My initials.

“To prove I am yours just as you are mine. Partners in guarding the veil. Gate and Key.” he whispers as I stare at the necklace.

I look up at him and see my want and feverish desire reflected in his face. We stare at each other, our breath heavy. Then we collide again, desperate after even that briefest of separations. He unties my tartan wrap dress, pushing it off my shoulders. It caresses the length of my body as it falls to the floor. I pull the pins out of my hair and let my wheat waves fall down to my hips.

He grabs my face, pulling me toward him, and kisses me again, desperately. His arms find their way around my hips. With surprising strength, he lifts me off the floor. I immediately wrap my legs around his waist. Every inch of him presses on every inch of me. I am filled with a longing and excitement so exquisite I can hardly breathe.

Outside the cottage the forest has come alive with the rising sun. The morning larks begin their November symphony. Still, only a blanket of white fog can be seen through the windows. I hardly notice any of it as Matthew continues to hold me. I kiss him, thrilling in the way it feels to be wrapped around the heat of his body. For a moment, he pulls away from me, and his eyes meet mine.

“To tell you I love you more than life would be a heretical understatement,” he whispers.

“I think the feeling might be mutual,” I say with a smile, squeezing my legs around him tightly.

We both laugh and he kisses me again. There is relief in this kiss. That same relief I had seen in his eyes as I let him take the key in the forest. I softly brush my fingers through his hair and run my other hand down his neck and shoulders, thriving in the energies I can sense pulsing through his body. I bend down and place a soft kiss at the base of his throat. His relief disappears and shifts into something more fervent, desperate. His arms tighten around me. He turns away from the fire. And the worlds and veil around us fade away as he carries me into the darkness of my bedroom.