Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

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W hen I step out into the chilly fall air, I take a deep breath, savoring the sting of the cold air in my lungs. Slipping my other arm into my backpack strap because I don't know how far we're walking, I turn to Saint. "So, how do we get to your place?"

Saint steps up beside me with the Wyldharts trailing him. "Portaling is easiest. It's a bit outside of town."

"Oh, I see now. You're taking us to your serial killer cabin in the woods," I respond, just to mess with Saint a little.

Saint sputters and turns to me, ready to defend himself. When he sees the teasing grin on my face, he shakes his head at me. "Yep, you have me all figured out. So, wanna go on a hot date to my murder shack?"

"Sounds like a screaming good time," I deadpan. Bastian cackles, and Malachi huffs a quiet laugh. Xander's silent behind me, probably finding me annoying as usual. My smile droops at that thought.

Saint says, " Aperire." A portal with red sparks ringing it flares to life. Now that I have my memories back, I remember that each mage has their own unique magic color. Saint's is bloodred. My dad's was navy blue. Aunt Molly's is violet, and Uncle James's is deep green.

I always used to wonder as a kid what my magic color would be, but I guess I don't have one since I'm a wolf. When I was younger, I never really gave much thought to being a shifter like my mom. Since I grew up in a mage town, I always assumed I'd have mage magic as an adult. I'm still not exactly sure how I have a biological wolf mom and mage dad, but that's a mystery to solve another time.

Mages use Latin words to focus their magic, making spells easier to cast. A mage can theoretically perform magic without a focus phrase, but it would be a lot harder. I've never seen anyone do magic without saying something in Latin before. Aperire means to open, which is why mages use it for forming portals. To close one, a mage just has to release the magic that's holding it open, no spell needed.

Even with my memories back, I still hate the feel of portals. I'm surprised mages haven't figured out how to make this type of travel more pleasant yet. Steeling myself for the sticky sensation, I walk through.

When I pop out on the other side, I come face-to-face with a classic red brick colonial house. It's two stories, perfectly symmetrical, and has three dormers dotting the gray roof. White columns, trim, and the front balcony and black shutters give the house a timeless feel.

Saint's home sits in front of a familiar forest. Although the oak, elm, hemlock, and pine trees are bare for the winter right now, I can picture them as they would be in the fall. This forest is a riot of red, orange, and yellow leaves in October as the trees prepare for harsh winters.

"Is this on the McAlister estate?" I ask Saint when he comes through after the Wyldharts.

"Yeah. I couldn't bring myself to rebuild where our home used to be, but I still wanted to live on the property." Saint rubs his chest and stares off in what's probably the direction of his old home. After a moment, he strides determinedly toward the attached garage.

He enters a key code into the garage side door. Mages love human technology almost as much as regular humans. While mages can do all of the same things technology can, it requires power. Each mage has a finite amount of magic, and that amount differs from mage to mage. Once their magic runs out, mages are essentially human until the magic replenishes. How fast their magic comes back depends on how strong the mage is.

By using human technology for mundane things—like building entry, light fixtures, security cameras, phones to communicate, and fridges to store food—mages can save their magical energy. That way, when a mage needs a spell for more difficult tasks that technology can't do, like portaling, they have more than enough magic for it.

The door swings in with a creak. We follow Saint into the dim but surprisingly large garage. He puts in another code to open the door to the main house. Leading the way inside, Saint pauses in the mudroom to take off his shoes. I also take off my shoes but keep my backpack on.

After exiting the mudroom, I step out into an open-plan main floor, with the kitchen, living room, and dining room all one space. Dusky blue walls complement the natural white oak floors that run throughout the airy space. Large windows and a set of French doors that lead to the backyard let the early afternoon sunlight pour in. Vibrant green plants dot the main floor, ensuring it doesn't feel clinical or cold.

"Your house is gorgeous, Saint."

He chuckles. "Thanks. I didn't design the inside, though. Molly, Fi, and Emmy handled that for me. Otherwise, the whole house probably would've been decorated in shades of black and red."

My mouth curls up in a smile remembering teenage Saint's bedroom. It was indeed decorated entirely in black and red, which are his favorite colors. "I'll have to tell them they did a great job next time I see them. Where should we set our stuff?"

"Upstairs. Follow me." We follow Saint up the natural white oak stairs. My feet sink into the soft gray stair runner as I ascend. There's a bank of doors at the top of the staircase. Saint points to the one on the far right. "That's my room. The rest of these are guest rooms. You guys can pick whatever rooms you want. You're always welcome in my room, little shadow, but I figured you might want some space to yourself for a bit."

I give him a small nod. "I would. Thanks, Saint." While I love spending time with my newly remembered family, it's a lot being around so many people. I've been essentially on my own for so many years, only really hanging out with Ava in the evenings. Interacting with everyone again is pretty overwhelming.

He dips his chin in acknowledgment before slipping into his room and shutting the door.

Malachi steps up behind me and places his warm palm on my lower back. I lean into the touch slightly. "Pick whichever room you want, baby girl. We're good with any of them." Shrugging, I head to the room next to Saint's. Expecting the Wyldharts to follow, I'm surprised when Malachi stands just outside the threshold. "We'll give you some time to decompress. If you want company, just come get one or all of us."

I nod again, and Malachi closes the door to my temporary room behind him. Padding across the plush light gray carpet, I drop my backpack on the silvery upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. A sage pin tuck comforter sits on the bed, along with matching shams and a few gray and white decorative pillows. Generic nature photos line the walls. Light wood nightstands that frame the bed are the only other furniture in the room.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I realize I have no clue what to do with myself. I'm not tired, but I don't really want to sit alone with my thoughts. I know I'll have to fully process everything eventually, but I'm trying to put it off for as long as I can. I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to deal with all the pain and heartbreak in my memories.

Hopping up from the bed, I decide to go get something to drink. Quietly opening my room door, I start toward the staircase when hushed voices snag my attention.

"Can you stop fucking sabotaging yourself for five goddamn minutes?" Bastian hisses from the room two doors down. I creep closer to the door until I can peek in the partially open doorway. While still hidden from view, I can see into the room. Xander's sitting on the navy comforter, his hands shoved into his blond hair. His elbows rest on his knees, and his head is bowed. Bastian's pacing agitatedly in front of Xander.

"I don't need or want your help, Bastian." Xander's voice is colder than I've ever heard it. I flinch from the disdain dripping from his words, even though it's not directed at me.

"Bull fucking shit! You clearly need my help because you keep fucking things up with pretty girl. It's like you don't want to be happy!" Bastian whisper shouts in exasperation.

Xander shoves to his feet and gets in his twin's face. "Because I don't! I don't fucking want to be happy because I don't deserve it!" Xander roars.

Bastian stumbles back like he's been hit. "What?"

"I don't deserve to be happy when I let my twin get hurt for years and didn't do a damned thing to stop it!" Xander shouts, his voice breaking at the end. He closes his eyes and tips his head up to the ceiling, trying to gather himself.

"You were just a kid, Xan. You didn't know," Bastian tells him softly, reaching a hand out to comfort his brother. Xander shakes off his touch and paces away from him, his shoulders hunched almost protectively.

When Xander turns back to his brother, his mouth is twisted in a grimace and his eyes shine with so much self-hatred it makes me physically hurt for him. "I should've fucking known!" Xander yells. "You're my twin. I should've known something was wrong. I did fucking know something was wrong, but I didn't care enough to find out because I was a selfish little shit."

"Xander…." Bastian starts but trails off like he isn't sure what to say.

"Don't, Bastian. Just fucking don't. Save whatever excuse you've come up with for me. It. Was. My. Fucking. Fault." Xander pounds his fist into his chest with enough force to bruise after each word. "It was all my goddamn fault."

"What are you talking about, Xander?" Bastian asks. "None of it was your fault! It was all on Father Simon."

"Why did Father Simon torture you? Because you were a twin. Who's your twin? Me! Without me, he wouldn't have had a reason to hurt you. But I'm even more at fault for not stopping it. I knew something was wrong. You were even more withdrawn than usual after it started.

"But you know what I thought at the time? I was fucking annoyed at you! Mom and Dad made me spend more time with you in hopes of getting you out of your shell. That cut into my time with my friends. My friends also made fun of me for having a loser twin, and I wished you weren't my brother. All while you were taking beating after beating silently to protect me. I know he threatened you with hurting me if you told anyone, Bastian. I know that's why you didn't tell Mom and Dad."

Bastian scrubs one hand over his face. "It wasn't your fault, Xander. He was a sick fuck who probably would've found an excuse to hurt me regardless of if I had a twin. As for resenting me, guess what? You were a child who had the emotional intelligence of one! You had normal thoughts and feelings about it at the time." Bastian clenches his jaw before softly admitting, "Yeah, I kept it a secret to protect you, but that was my choice. You aren't responsible for that."

Xander's already shaking his head in denial before Bastian even finishes. "I am responsible. For all of it. And there's nothing I can do in this life to make up for it. But I'm damn well trying to do everything I can for you. I know I've let you down so many fucking times. I've almost lost you so many fucking times." Xander's hoarse voice gets stuck in his throat. He has to swallow a few times before he can continue. "But I'm trying to do everything I can to make you stay here. Because I need you. We need you."

Tears spill down Bastian's face as he hears the gut-wrenching anguish in Xander's voice. "I'm not going anywhere, Xan," he whispers. "I know I fucked up as a teen, but I'm not leaving you."

"But you wanted to." It's not a question. Xander's resigned voice shakes as he states that fact.

Bastian hangs his head. "At one point I did, yeah. I wasn't really thinking about anyone else. I just needed it all to stop hurting."

"I wasn't enough to make you stay." Xander's voice sounds so small, almost childlike.

"Xander…." Bastian hunts for something to say, but I'm not sure anything will help Xander right now.

Xander shakes his head back and forth before clawing at his throat. "I can't—" he croaks, breaking off midsentence. "I can't fucking do this right now. I'm sorry." He dashes to the door and throws it open. His wide eyes meet mine. I brace myself for him to lash out at me, but he doesn't say anything. Xander just brushes past me and sprints down the stairs.

I hesitantly walk into the room to see Bastian on his knees, his face in his hands. He looks up with red-rimmed eyes. "Go after him. Please."