32. Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty One

Skyla

T he next morning, I woke up to Asher still wrapped around me while Liam is wrapped around him from behind. They are both sound asleep, and I don’t want to wake either of them, so I slip out of bed as quietly as I can. When I reach the door, I’m amazed that they are both still passed out as I grab my phone and close the door.

I wait until I’m in the backyard, hopefully far enough away from everyone that I won’t bother them. And they won’t bother me.

The signature facetime ringtone echoes in the morning air as I wait and wait for a connection. Finally, it goes through, Steph’s panicked face filling up the phone.

“Sky? Is everything okay? What happened?”

I don’t bother trying to reassure her that everything is fine because, honestly, I’m not so sure that it is.

“Was mom a witch?”

She looks stunned at my question for several seconds before she speaks.

“What? A witch? No, of course not. Why would you think that?’

“Apparently, that’s what people in Salem think, or at least suspect. It’s what Horris Hutchinson thinks.”

Her eyes squint before understanding dawns on her.

“The eldest member of the Hutchinson family? He’s still alive?”

“And kicking,” I answer. “He asked me if I bleed black.”

Steph’s brows furrow at that. “Why on earth would he even ask that? If you did, you wouldn’t be standing here. Especially after the ceremony.”

My eyes bug out at her response. “Steph, no one bleeds black! What the fuck is this shit?”

Her mouth opens and closes before she shakes her head.

“It’s just what we were taught growing up, hun. What we were told was the truth. You’d be amazed what Brethren kids are taught and warped into believing.”

“I’m sure it’s extensive, but I want to know exactly what happened to Mom. Horris said that the Coven was becoming stronger right around the time Mom died. Did she help them? Was she one of them? Give me something here, Steph. While you’re safe, tucked away in London, I’m in the goddamn lion’s den and I can’t even get a straight answer out of the one person I’m supposed to trust wholly.”

She closes her eyes, letting out a deep breath as she shakes her head.

“Your mom was not a witch, Skyla. Trust me. We were both born and raised inside the Brethren; our lineage traces back to the right side of history.”

“So, she could have picked it up?” I challenge.

“She didn’t,” Steph snaps. “She would never. Her death came at a high pressure time in our world, and no doubt was a cause because of that pressure. Your father was always a short tempered prick, as was Putnam. I’ve told you before, you can’t convince me it wasn’t one of them.”

I shake my head, running my fingers through my hair as I look at her.

“Why did you keep all of this from me? All these years?”

“What would it have changed, Sky? No matter how much you hate Henry, you still have to see him. You still have to play the part. I knew if you heard the truth, you wouldn’t be able to do what it takes to survive, and I need you to survive. I can’t live without you.”

Shaking my head, something still feeling off in my gut, I blow out an irritated breath.

“So, that’s it then? There is nothing more to tell me? Nothing more that you know?”

She shakes her head sadly, and I wish I could believe her. I really do. Maybe I don’t because I already feel so betrayed by this person that I always thought to be open and honest. Maybe I don’t because I’m emotional and desperate for some kind of sense to come out of all of this. Or maybe I don’t because I know deep down, there has to be way more to it. To my mother’s death, to the Brethren, to this supposed ‘Coven,’ whatever that is.

Clearly, I won’t be getting anything more out of her, though. Shaking my head once more, my finger goes to the end call button.

“I gotta go,” I say as I hang up the phone.

“Wait, Sky—” she calls out as the signal goes dead.

“Who was that?” Ronan asks, making me practically jump out of my skin as he steps onto the back porch, two mugs in his hands.

I let out a heavy breath, watching as the frigid morning air displays the path before it dissipates. Ronan offers one of the mugs to me and I take it happily, tasting the comforting flavor of apples and cinnamon on my tongue, hold the sedatives this time.

“Steph,” I answer as I take a step.

He nods. “Everything okay?”

I don’t answer for a moment, my mind running wild with thoughts and questions before I look up to him.

“Do you think my mom was a witch?”

Ronan’s face doesn’t react for a few seconds before he responds brusquely.

“No.”

I wait for him to elaborate but when he doesn’t, I lean forward.

“Noooo?”

“Why do you think she was?” he asks.

“Something Horris Hutchinson said last night. He made it seem like everyone thinks she’s one. Like people expected me to bleed black at mine and Asher’s ceremony.” I say with a scrunched up nose.

Ronan is careful with his words as he nods.

“There were some who…had theories. My father was crazed back then, intent that we had more witches among us. For years, he had women slaughtered for just looking a little off. The hysteria from the trials didn’t die in 1693, it evolved.”

“So, your father was the one who killed my mother?”

His head moves back and forth. “I’m not sure. That’s who I suspected when it happened, but then again, he never did his own dirty work. It’s more likely he sent an eliminator after her.”

“Like Vincent’s parents?” I ask.

He gives me a pained wince and nods.

What’s worse? The idea of your father, father-in-law, or boyfriend’s parents being responsible for your mother’s death? I’ll give you a spoiler, all of them fucking suck.

“Why are you so sure that my mom wasn’t a witch?” I ask, pushing again.

“Her maiden name isn’t in the book,” he says simply.

“Book? What book?”

His jaw sets like he realizes he said something he shouldn’t have. I watch as he seems to have an internal battle with himself before he speaks.

“Thomas Putnam’s journal.”

“He had a journal? And you’ve read it?”

He nods. “I have. The first entry was written in 1682, and the last page was in 1699, a few days before his death.”

“He kept the same journal for almost twenty years?” I ask.

He nods. “It wasn’t like a daily entry or anything. Only his innermost thoughts. It’s a family treasure. Christopher keeps it practically stitched to his hand, much like my father did. When we were young, and my father would go to the country club or something, Christopher and I would break into his office and read it. I was a lot younger, so it bored me, but Christopher became obsessed with it, much like my father and his father before him. I wouldn’t doubt that he has the entire thing committed to memory.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

Ronan looks out over the backyard before gesturing to the house. I move inside with him and once the door is shut, he begins speaking again.

“Most of the entries are personal, speaking about his family, an unnamed woman he was in love with, things like that. However, when his daughter Ann was essentially responsible for the trials in 1692, he rarely wrote about anything but that.”

“Like what?” I ask, oddly curious and desperate for more information.

“Lists of suspects and the reasoning behind it. People that were tried and acquitted, those that were tried and executed, and those that were tried and died before they could see judgment.”

My nose wrinkles up at that.

“That’s awful,” I say with a shake of my head. “And he had family names listed in there?”

Ronan nods. “All of whom were executed or banished from Salem Village. Though, they never really left.”

“The Coven?” I guess.

Ronan tilts his head to the side curiously.

“What do you know about the Coven?”

“Besides what the name implies…nothing. I’d guess it’s the group you all have hinted about since I got here. The ones that the Brethren are constantly fighting against.”

He doesn’t agree. Then again, he doesn’t deny it, either.

“I want to know more,” I say.

Ronan winces. “It’s better if you don’t. If the wrong people find out you’re digging, it’ll make you look suspicious. Make no mistake, my brother is even more deluded than my father was. If he even suspects you have an interest in witches or—”

“I don’t have an interest in witches. I have an interest in finding out what happened to my mother, into what these families I’m living alongside are capable of. I’m interested in uncovering the truth.”

“The truth is all a matter of perspective,” Ronan says cryptically.

Wesley moseys into the kitchen, a sleepy smile on his face that quickly falls away when he senses the tension in the room.

“What’s going on?”

We are both quiet for several seconds before Ronan speaks for me.

“Skyla is asking questions about the Coven. She wants to know more.”

Wesley is already shaking his head when Ronan continues.

“And I think she has a right to.”

“What?” we both ask simultaneously.

“We all got to learn our history; it was practically beaten into us. You were not given that advantage. So, let’s rectify it.”

I nod, a little shocked he gave in so easily.

“Get dressed. We’ll leave soon,” he says as he looks at me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“The town’s library.”