Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

She knew his exposed body and the conversation and the resulting handshake had affected her too deeply. And not just because a lot of the things he'd said had left her puzzling over them. Or because that contact had been weird and intense enough that she could still feel it for hours afterward. Or because he'd walked away the way he had. No, there was also what happened in the middle of the phone conversation she had later that day with her mom.

Her mom asked, "So how are things going?"

And her first instinct wasn't to say, well, my mortal enemy is a werewolf, or hey, just so you know, Gram was a half witch who never told me I have magical powers. Or even just a normal update on non-mind-blowing things like: I found a downstairs toilet under the stairs that Gram was weirdly using as a cupboard.

Instead, she almost blurted out, Seth Brubaker made my hand go really hot. Then it looked like I made his hand go really hot.

As if that mattered. As if it even remotely measured up to anything else that had happened. You should be asking your mom if she knew anything about this witch business , her mind scolded her. Though of course she knew why she didn't.

There wasn't a chance in hell her mother had any idea.

And even if she had, Cassie knew her mom wouldn't have believed it. Her mother was the most practical person alive. Both her parents were. Their advice, after the whole high school business, had been to simply become a different person so it would never happen again.

"Things like that never happen to thin, well-dressed people," her dad had said, without looking up from his paper. And that was the reason she'd moved across the country the second she could. It was why she'd relied on Seth for the kind of support her parents should have given her, just as he'd relied on her for the freedom his parents had rarely allowed.

So relaying any of this—including the hand thing—was pointless.

She simply told her mom that she was staying longer than she'd planned, that she was having fun catching up with old friends, that she had sublet her apartment so it didn't matter anyway. Even though she hadn't. She'd just let it go, figuring that she would use the money from the sale of the house to get a new place.

And at this point she wasn't even sure if she wanted to do that.

I think I might have to live here now, she almost said at the end of the conversation with her mother. But of course she couldn't explain why, so what was the point? It seemed better to just end the call and carry on trying to muddle through all of this in whatever way she could.

Which basically meant a lot of not daring to read the little stack of journals she'd gathered and set on the kitchen table. And not sleeping, because now the rocking chair might really be alive. And feeling relieved again when Seth showed up the next day.

Even though she didn't want to be relieved at all. She wanted to be closed off, and guarded, and cautious. But instead, when he said, "So should we go inside and make ourselves comfortable?" she actually almost told him sure .

More than that, in fact. She didn't think twice about saying sure. It felt like the most natural, casual thing in the world to simply go ahead. Like they were kids again, like they were buddies. Instead of the utterly deranged adult enemies they'd become.

He did that awful thing to you, she told herself.

And then she put the brakes on so hard, he almost crashed into her as she made her way up the porch steps. She heard him screech to a halt behind her, followed by a blurted out, "Whoa, easy there. I almost had you."

And, okay, she knew he meant I came close to knocking into you . Yet, somehow, she just couldn't shake the idea that it had a double meaning. He almost hoodwinked me , she thought. Then proceeded accordingly.

"You know what? I don't think we should go in the house," she said, as calmly and firmly as she could. Though somehow, it still came out too loud, and sounded sort of panicked. He actually held his hands up on hearing it. And he pretty much jumped back.

"Well, all right," he said. "You tell me where you want to do this."

"Outside. On the porch."

"So the swing then."

He pointed to it—the rickety, old white bench tucked cozily under the roof of the porch to her right. Almost hidden from view, and just the right size for two people to squeeze onto together. Though of course, as soon as she considered all these things about it—how closed in it was, how small—she knew it couldn't be a contender. "There's no way I'm facilitating that much contact with you."

"Oh come on. That's not so much more contact than a handshake."

"What are you talking about? It's loads more. Our arms would touch."

And all that weird, probably one-sided heat would happen again , she mentally added. Then shook it off to concentrate on what he was saying.

"You say that like arms are way worse than hands somehow."

"Because they are. And even if they aren't, well, there are other things that could happen. Loads of things. Really bad things."

"And what? You think I'm going to do those bad things to you?"

"Don't say it like I meant sex, you massive dillhole."

"Dude, I would never think you meant sex. In fact I feel pretty sure you see me as utterly null and void in that regard. Just completely smooth below the waist, like a kind of evil Ken doll," he said, and when he did he gestured to this supposedly smooth area. As if to help illustrate this completely reasonable concept.

Even though it wasn't reasonable at all.

It was so astonishing she didn't know what to say about it. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Like all possible words had died a death in the back of her throat. And she knew it wasn't just because he had imagined she thought so little of him.

It was because of how he clearly thought of himself.

Somehow, he was able to see himself as unattractive. He could accept that idea, despite being as attractive as he objectively was. Even right now, this early in the morning and days after massive trauma, it was all there. The way the dappled light made his wide-set eyes look so honey-pale and dreamy, how his hair fell across his forehead soft as butter and black as spilled ink.

And he wasn't wearing the leather jacket.

He had a plaid shirt on. A really warm, cozy-looking plaid shirt, of the kind he used to wear.

Bet it feels like fur against your cheek , she found herself musing. Then had to immediately overcompensate, for ever thinking those things about his face and clothes.

"Well, you're right. I do think of you like an evil Ken doll," she said.

But he didn't even seem perturbed by her agreement. Like it was just a given to him.

"So then what's the problem?" he asked, in a way that sounded genuinely baffled. So baffled, in fact, that she almost couldn't think of a good-enough answer. It took her a second to work out exactly what her objection to sitting close together was. And when it came it felt more mealymouthed than she would have liked.

"I just don't want to get too cozy," she eked out, and felt relieved when he didn't seem to notice anything was amiss.

"Right. Of course. That makes sense."

"I mean, things are sort of okay between us. But this is still just a deal."

"Yeah, I totally get that. You don't want to be best buds over one touch."

"Exactly. Exactly. So, you know, I will be here on the porch steps," she said, and pointed to them. Then when he nodded, she pointed to where she thought he should reasonably seat himself. "And you go sit over there."

"Sit over where?"

She gestured harder. "Look where I'm showing you."

"I'm looking, but all I see is a bird bath at the very end of the garden."

"Right. Because that's what I mean. You can totally perch on that."

He looked back at her, on the word "perch." And she could tell by his expression that she'd gone too far. It was pure you can't be serious . Like he was brewing a snarky comment about it. And sure enough: "So you're wanting to do this via semaphore."

"We're not going to need semaphore over that distance."

"No, you're probably right. I'll just search my pockets for my handy travel megaphone instead," he said, and oh the teasing smile he gave her as he did. It looked like he was sucking on a sour candy.

And it was this that made her almost laugh.

She had to bury it under some semiserious words, quickly.

"You know I can demote you back to mortal enemy any time."

"Oh, you mean I've recently had a promotion? What's my position now?"

"Standard enemy," she said, with a surety she wasn't certain she felt. She had to add more caveats, just to firm it up. "Which is just basically the same thing, except I don't plot your untimely demise in my spare time. Instead, I come up with creative ways to keep you at arm's length."

"Well, you're doing a great job. I am really feeling the length of your arm, no question about that. But just know—I am totally dedicated to this company, and absolutely ready to work ceaselessly for a chance to move up through the ranks."

He saluted on the end of those words. And now her amusement was really fighting against her rigid face muscles. She had to look away, to hide the grin that tried to burst through all her defenses. But of course, he caught it anyway.

"That was really charming, wasn't it," he said.

Like the annoying puppy dog of a man he was.

"It's less charming if you say that it was, Seth."

"Right, right, I'll stop while I'm ahead and just find a not-too-close spot to sit," he said.

Then proceeded to search in the most impossibly goofy and adorable manner she could imagine. He pointed at things and shook his head to himself. Started toward parts of the yard before visibly indicating they would be no good. One hand went to his chin; he ran the other through his hair, puzzled.

In the end, she had to break and find him a goddamn lawn chair. And even after she had, he was super careful about placing it. He waited until she had taken a seat on the porch steps, and gestured that closer was okay. And only then did he set the rickety thing down, and sit.

Or at least, he tried to sit.

Because, oh boy, did he struggle to get his enormous self into that tiny seat.

He had to ease himself down, gingerly, as it creaked and groaned. Then he just kind of squeezed himself in, between arms that didn't want to accommodate his meaty thighs. It was like seeing an elephant trying to ride a tricycle. All she could make out around his enormous arms and his enormous shoulders and his juicy butt was the green canvas, bowing under his weight beneath the chair.

And even that was barely visible.

Because his legs were so long they'd sort of formed two massive pillars in front of everything. His knees were practically in the way of his face. She had to tell him to lean back and sit with them spread right out—though of course she regretted it once she had.

Now she had to talk to him while he was all sprawled before her. Like a model, posing for his centerfold spread in a nudie mag. And that was… well. That was a lot to deal with three seconds before he demanded she kick her brain into gear.

"All right. So hit me with your questions," he said, while she was still floundering. She had to spend way too much time pre tending to search for the notebook and pen she knew she'd stashed in her cardigan pocket, just to reach something like composure.

And even then, she couldn't come out with anything good.

"Honestly I don't even know what I wanted to ask now."

"Head full of penises and awkward hand touching, huh?"

And nudie mags full of men with their shirts riding up , she answered mentally. Then had to somehow reply without seeming the least bit flustered or uncomfortable. "Little bit, yeah. Or even, you know. A lot."

"If it helps, mine is too. I'd forgotten what it was like to talk like this."

"Yeah, I guess it must be hard to have long, weird chats with people when you might accidentally become a man beast at any given moment. Or they might become a man beast at any moment."

"Well, kind of," he said, as he wobbled his hand back and forth in the air. "But that wasn't what I meant."

"Okay. So what did you mean then?"

"That only me and you were this way with each other."

It didn't seem to take him anything at all to say the words.

But it took a lot for her to hear them. She felt her stomach lurch into her feet the second they were out. She had to pretend to scribble something in her notepad, just so he wouldn't see the naked shock all over her face. And only when she felt sure that she was calm and normal did she meet his gaze and say what she had immediately wanted to.

"You can't possibly really think that," she tried.

But he just snorted. "I don't see why not."

"Because we were never like this before. When we were kids."

"You can't be serious," he said. Then when he saw she wasn't smiling, or laughing, or anything of the kind, he carried right on. "Cassie, that's all we were. Just forever talking at a million miles an hour about the weirdest things, filling each other's heads with nonsense, always cracking each other up."

As soon as he said it, she remembered just that. She saw herself having to use the inside of her T-shirt to wipe away the tears of laughter streaming down her face. Felt what it was like to have him nudge her with his elbow, and point to something weird to snigger over. Heard the sound of his wheezing, braces-smothered laugh in her head.

Then felt so much warmth toward him she couldn't speak.

Because he had known they'd had something special. He knew it, and he acknowledged it. It didn't even bother him to accept it. Or consider that maybe they even still had it now. Even though they'd didn't, they didn't. She would not accept that it was true.

"Yeah, but you aren't cracking me up now," she said, but god it sounded weak. So weak that it took him no effort at all to wave it off. To roll his eyes at her.

"Oh come on. I've seen you force down a laugh about fifty times."

And what then? He was right.

So now she had to face that he was. By being completely ridiculous.

"Okay, but in my defense, I did not know you could see that happening."

"Did you also not know that it was happening to you at the time?"

"No, I did. I just… it was just that I—"

"Wanted to pretend a little longer that our connection was nonexistent, or that I found it nonexistent, or at the very least that it's still completely dead in the water? Because you know, if you want I can pretend that too."

She shook her head, frustrated. "I'm not asking you to pretend."

"Then tell me what it is you do want."

"Just call it something more fitting to the place we currently are."

"Okay," he said, and she could see him thinking. Like he was really trying to consider all of this carefully before he answered. "So… we have the ability to get along in a reasonable manner."

And that was good. That was great. She could deal with that.

"Yeah, that'll do," she said. "Now carry on telling me supernatural stuff."

"It's kind of hard to when you're still mad."

"I'm not. I'm okay."

"Cassie, we might have been downgraded from connected to barely getting along. But I can still read something that simple when it's all over you. It's as clear as it ever was, just—you know. With an extra sprinkling of witch glow."

He waved a hand around the general shape of her. Though it took her a second to realize why: because he meant that last bit literally . And, okay, now she actually was mad. Or at the very least, taken aback. "Oh my god. So I glow now? I actually glow?" she gasped.

Then she had to watch him try to avoid saying yes.

Even though there was no way out of it now.

"A little, yeah. It's kind of golden. Shifts in and out when you move," he finally said.

Kind of sheepishly, but unavoidable all the same.

"So like I'm surrounded by holographic glitter of some description."

"More like a mist. That sometimes sort of hums."

"And what exactly am I humming? Show tunes?"

He smothered a laugh. "It's not a song. It's just a soft single note."

"Jesus, that sounds like a dial tone . I'm an ancient phone, awesome."

"You're not an ancient phone. You're just you, with magic."

"And you're sure about that. You're sure I'm a witch."

She hadn't meant to ask it. She wasn't even sure why she did.

It was too obvious, too undeniable, too clear even to her.

Yet still, when he nodded and said, "I am," she felt every inch of her body bristle and prickle. And for just a second, she thought she could see what he'd described.

That glow, around all the bits of herself that she could see. All the bits she had spent a lot of time learning to love, and about which she now found herself wondering—why had it taken so long? Because when her rounded shoulders and plump cheeks and the curve of her cleavage were touched by that light, they looked unbelievable. Glorious.

No matter what anyone has ever said, you are beautiful , she thought, as she turned this way and that. Then as she did, she heard it. Faint, but still unmistakable: a sound, low and sweet and somehow intense all at the same time. Like the song at the start of the universe , she thought, weirdly. And then had to think about something else, quick.

"Do you think my grandmother was sure about what I was too?" she asked, eyes still on her fingers and the faint trails they made in the air. Though she looked up when he answered.

"You know she must have been."

"But she never told you about me."

"No. She just said she understood what I was, and that she would help me."

One of his shoulders lifted. No big deal.

Even though it kind of was. Or at the very least, it was missing a lot of details.

"But why?" she had to know. "How? How did she figure it out?"

"Well, finding me naked in her garden might have been a clue."

"After you were mauled by something, you mean."

He hesitated. Went to answer, visibly, then stopped.

Like he was thinking really hard about what to say. Like doing so was causing him some difficulty. And when he finally spoke, he was strangely halting about it. "No, no it was later. Kind of a while after I first… got turned. Because after I did I didn't really know. I didn't realize what had actually been done to me," he said, finally. And then it made sense. There was trauma from whatever had done this, obviously. Maybe even amnesia, if his blank, vaguely disturbed expression was anything to go by. But then it cleared, and he looked back at her. And he added, "I mean, nothing at all really happened to me for a long time. And then boom. My bare ass is in her face."

So instead of pressing him on it, she kept things as light as he'd tried to make them. "You're really not beating those sleeping-with-her allegations, Seth."

"Yeah, as soon as I said it like that, I regretted it." He shook his head ruefully. "I should have gone with the fact that my butt at the time was still 90 percent massively hairy, muscular werewolf."

"Honestly, I don't think that helps you."

"Probably not, no. But it's what happened."

"And then what? She told you all about what you had become?" she asked, and though she tried to stop herself from leaning forward, she couldn't. It was impossible. He had her completely hooked now. Just ravenous for what came next.

"She told me what she knew. The ways you can be turned—sometimes from a bite, sometimes from an ancient curse, sometimes a spell or a potion. Though all of them mean you basically end up the same way. In fact, the only difference is that you can get it reversed if it was magic done to you. But I don't think that really applies to me," he said, almost as if he were musing to himself. Then he seemed to refocus back on her. "Everything else is the same for all wolves, though. Heightened emotions make you transform, things don't always go back the way they should, it gives you weird instincts and enhanced reflexes and senses even when you're in human form."

"So, like, you chase sticks now and can hear dog whistles."

He shot her a withering look. "I can hear dog whistles. I do not chase sticks."

"You sure? Not even once, almost?"

"Never."

You little liar , she thought, automatically.

Because, yeah, maybe they weren't connected the way they once had been. But she could still read him, just as well as he could read her. She could hear what he really meant when he went too firm on a single word. And she could see it, too, in the way his head shake seemed so sure, but that same surety didn't quite reach his eyes. No—his eyes were all wince and oh wow, this is not convincing at all .

So she couldn't resist giving him a little push.

"I don't know. Maybe we should test it. Like you tested me," she said, and stood, searching for the exact thing she needed.

And there it was, in the corner of the porch. Just waiting for her to get it.

"But I didn't test you," he protested. "I just wanted to prove that I was right."

"Okay, so we'll call it that when I grab this fallen branch here."

"No, don't grab the fallen branch, Cassie. Cassie, just. Wait a second," he said, as she stooped to snag it. Then she strolled back to the porch steps, in time to watch him already struggling to resist. His hands were actually squeezing the chair's arms, hard enough that his knuckles had gone white. And the way his eyes were trained on the stick…

It was wild . It was ridiculous. It was impossible to stop herself.

"Or instead of waiting a second, I could say, ready, boy. Ready. Fetch ," she said. Then she drew her arm back, and threw the branch as hard as she could. All the way across the garden and into the tree line.

And oh, the sound that came out of him when she did. It was like someone trying to say the word "fuck" around a mouthful of gravel. Somehow he managed to hiss the f at the start of it. But by the time he got to the k there was almost nothing left. The letter just sort of sputtered out, between incredibly gritted teeth.

And even when he managed to get his reaction mostly under control, he still couldn't say anything normally. He had to squeeze words out, around jaw muscles that seemed to have locked into place. "See," he said. "I totally did not do it."

"Yeah, but how hard are you clenching every muscle in your body right now?"

"I'm not clenching them. This is just me being my normal, non-clenched self."

"Seth, if this was normal people would worry you'd pooped your pants."

"Yeah, well, they wouldn't need to. Because I've just squeezed my butt cheeks together so hard I think they've fused into one smooth globe," he said, because of course he couldn't maintain the lie. He had to let it out, and he did. All in one big relieved and half-laughing breath that had her laughing too.

Though she felt bad afterward.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have made a joke of it," she said.

But he shook his head, waved her off. "No, no. I'm glad you did. It's good to find it funny with someone," he said, in this contented sort of way. Though what he was contented about only raised other questions. Ones that had kind of haunted her for a while now.

Who did he spend his time with?

"So there's no pack that you're a part of, then," she said, and he shook his head.

"There aren't really packs, the way you get in movies and stuff. No alphas, no betas, no omegas. Although you know it usually ends up with, like, werewolves hanging out with other werewolves, that kind of thing."

"But you don't want to do that either."

Again, she saw a hint of hesitation. Then, in a strangely steely voice, "No. No I don't."

"Because you hate what you are?"

"I don't hate what I am. I mean, I hate some things about it. The pain of turning, the inability to control it, the weird injuries. The fact that I searched for years for solutions to the pain and the inability to control it and the injuries, and all I had to show for it was getting scammed out of a thousand dollars by a vampire who sold me tomato juice sprinkled with glitter. And, of course, whatever your grandmother could cobble. But, I mean, you have to know that I find the rest of it completely cool and awesome."

"So tell me why no wolf buddies."

He looked away. "The other ones in this area—they're just. They're not… good people. They're not good wolves," he said, and seemed to hesitate again before continuing. As if what he had to say was difficult to express, or maybe something she wouldn't understand. "They do… mean things. And harass people. Or threaten to harass people."

He had to know, though, how easy it was for her to relate to something like that. "You mean like the Jerk Squad used to do to us," she said to help him. But that just seemed to make it worse. Now he was rubbing the back of his neck. He wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Kind of, yeah."

"So I should definitely avoid local wolves then."

"You won't have to. I made sure they won't ever come near you," he said, suddenly so grave about it that her heart tried to flutter.

Though she held it in check. She reminded herself of other similar promises he had made in the past. I won't let those jerks hurt you again, he'd whispered, once, as he applied a Band-Aid to some war wound they had given her. A book they had thrown, she thought it had been.

But whatever it was, it hadn't mattered.

He'd huddled with them and whispered about her barely a year later. Stopped talking when she got close. Carried on when she was far enough away. And things like that? Well, they cut worse than the corner of a Stephen King hardback.

They made her sink into silence.

And when she finally spoke, it wasn't to believe in his solemn vow to look after her.

"Do you still see those jerks?" she asked. Sure that he was going to shrug in response. More happy than she would have liked when he didn't.

"Never. I haven't since a little while after that night I did what I did," he said firmly enough that she could believe him. She could let that remove a weight from her mind. And even more so, when he continued. "All the things I thought they were, all the things I thought they might help me get—it was all just bullshit anyway. I mean currently, my main source of income is selling goblin droppings to weirdos. I live in my dad's old condemned hunting lodge. And I still feel like I have more now than I ever did when I hung out with them."

After which, she kind of had to fight not to thank him.

In fact, it was only the other wild things he had said that saved her.

"Dude, a second ago you told me you were happy being a werewolf. And now you're telling me that being a werewolf means you have to collect poop for a living and live in a place that has horrible dead-animal heads on every wall?" she asked. Convincingly, too, because he didn't even seem to notice how full of hearts her eyes were.

He just gave her a withering sort of look. "Okay, for starters, I took the dead-animal heads down and gave them funerals," he said. So now she was thinking of how much they had wanted to do that as kids. Though it was fine, because he didn't seem to clock that she was doing that, either. "And for seconds, I don't consider the poop thing a career. Being a supernatural being is what I wanted to be when I grew up, and that's what I am. And that is only reinforced by stuff like goblins giving me their weird butt marbles."

And now she did know what to say. She leaned forward and practically gasped it.

"Their poop comes out like marbles ?"

"Swear to god."

"That's incredible."

"It is," he said. Then, pointedly, " All of this is. And that's why I'm okay, even if there are downsides like not having much money and living in a monument to my shitty father and sometimes wishing I had someone to be a dork with about it."

Like me , she thought. I'm the dork .

And just as she was mentally dismissing that idea, he went and proved it correct. "You know, you're asking me an awful lot about werewolves, and who I am as a person, and not a lot about witches. Or anything else, for that matter. I thought you'd super want to know about other stuff that you can hardly believe is real," he said.

Like he was just dying to get into it all with her.

And that was terrifying. But it was exciting at the same time.

Too exciting to refuse. "Well, you know," she said. "I was getting to it."

"You're scared to find out, aren't you?"

"Last night I slept in the closet so the boogeyman couldn't get me."

He let out a little half laugh. Spread his hands, like, whoa there. "Okay, then, you can rest easy. Because there is no boogeyman," he said. Though how reassuring that really was felt debatable at this point.

"Yeah, but there are goblins."

"Yep."

"And ghosts."

"As far as I know, yes."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you've never seen one."

"Apparently you can't see them. They just do stuff."

"And you think that's going to make me feel less terrified about this."

"I did, until the words came out of my mouth. Then I realized I'd just told you invisible dead people make possible unnamed horrors happen around you," he said with a wince.

Which of course only made things worse.

"You didn't use the word ‘horrors' before."

"Yeah, but I know that's what you're thinking."

"And am I right to be doing so? Do they, like, thump up your stairs and then throw you around until you're dead? Or pull you into the television? Because I have to tell you, it's not like when Poltergeist came out. The TVs were massive then. Now they're so small and thin, it's gonna be hell getting me in there. They'll have to run me under a steamroller first."

He went to answer her then. But she could see he didn't know whether to laugh or be serious about it. His face was half amuse ment, half distress—so she felt it best to reassure him. "It's okay. I was trying to be funny," she said, and was glad she did.

He all but burst out with what he had clearly been holding back.

"All I can see behind my eyes is you being slipped into a television like a letter into a mailbox," he said, voice threaded with amusement. Before composing himself enough to actually answer. "Which they do not really do. They're mostly not violent, I think. They just move furniture around and try to communicate using whatever they can get their hands on."

"So, like, refrigerator magnets and Scrabble tiles."

"We have phones now, Cassie. They can type things."

"Right. Right right right. That makes sense. This all makes sense," she said firmly. While nodding. In a way she knew wasn't convincing in the slightest to him, even before he responded.

"I feel like you're just telling yourself that."

"Because I am. This is all unhinged."

"Yeah, I know. It gets easier though."

"It must. You're so matter of fact about it all."

"Well, when you see your millionth weird thing, it becomes a little less startling," he said, in a way she knew was meant to be reassuring. But honestly, all it did was kick up a hundred more questions.

"Right, but how do you see the weird things? Do they, like, just start appearing because you're a werewolf? They sense your werewolfiness and are just all, ‘Hey, hello, here I am, the friendly pooping goblin that has been living under your stairs this whole time?'"

"Okay, I just gotta say goblins are not friendly."

"Noted. Good to know," she said, as she jotted that down.

Fast, because he was already on to the next thing.

"But other than that, yeah, you're pretty much right. Once you become a supernatural being or creature, and you accept that's what you are, you will see things humans either won't or can't. And that will either be because certain stuff will now just be visible to you, or other beings and creatures will drop their wards and hiding methods now that they know you're safe."

"So that's why things didn't appear to me before. Because I hadn't accepted it," she said, almost to herself. Though, bless him, he answered anyway.

"Pretty much, yeah. Though I think you were already starting to see, once you were back in this house. You must have been, because usually things don't go the way they did in the basement around humans. It can happen. I can turn—but it's never clear to them what's really going on. I just look sick and maybe stuff gets destroyed and then in the paper the next day someone says I must have hulked out on some new super drug. Or maybe they forget entirely, and blame massive, rabid raccoons," he said, after which she tried not to gape.

"So supernatural events can, like, warp someone's perception?"

"They can warp a human's perception, yeah. Anything else—cobble, witch, being, creature—no."

"And this isn't just because Hollow Brook is on some kind of Stranger Things upside-down kind of deal, right? Like, it's everywhere. All over the world. This whole time everything just living alongside humans and looking like something other than what it is?" she asked, then regretted putting it so ridiculously. She sounded ridiculous, she was sure.

But he just nodded. He nodded .

Jesus , she thought. That is some next-level power . Though she couldn't focus on that right at this moment. She had to focus on the other issue with all of this. "And now I'm going to get it full in the face. All the time. Constantly."

"Probably. Though you don't have to be scared. Most things aren't going to chase you up the stairs and then try to eat your foot," he said—a little sheepishly, it seemed to her. Like he thought that was the thing that had troubled her. Instead of everything else being the actual culprit.

"Okay. Okay, but could you maybe list the things that might possibly?"

"Well, I guess trolls can be kind of aggressive. But only if you cross the bridges they live under without their permission. They might, like, make you answer a riddle if they catch you. Oh, and I know gargoyles don't really like witches. I think at one point there was some kind of feud between them—but even that you don't really have to worry about. They mostly make themselves stone ornaments on buildings and then stay like that for centuries. They aren't likely to be around Hollow Brook," he explained, slow enough that she could scribble the main points down.

Might need to learn the answers to some riddles , she wrote. Then she jotted down the thing about gargoyles, with an instruction to stay away from old, fancy buildings. In fact, she went further. She started noting down other questions she wanted to ask, and things she wanted to google, and had almost filled a page and started on a new one when she realized.…

He had gone quiet. Very quiet. Like in the middle of his rambling, he'd run up against something he thought it might be a bad idea to say. So she cocked an eyebrow at him. "Anything else?" she asked. And he quite obviously squirmed in response.

"Um, not that I can think of."

"Okay, but you're totally lying."

"Honestly, I'm not. That's truly it."

"If I get murdered by whatever it is, you're gonna really regret saying that."

That got him. She could see it did the second she said "murder." He sort of went all stiff, like he was thinking about such a thing happening. Before he finally shook his head, as if he'd reassured himself it wouldn't. Then went to reassure her about it, too. "Demons don't murder anyone. They just maybe try to drag you to hell," he said.

Only there was absolutely nothing reassuring about that at all .

"Yeah, but that's massively worse. You see that this is worse, right?"

"I do, but in my defense they almost never come to this plane of reality."

"Seth, I don't care how often they visit. I care that hell is apparently real ."

"Well, yeah, of course it is. I mean, I don't think it's like in re ligious fables with the pits of fire and the red devil-looking things pricking your butt with pitchforks. But you know. It does exist in some form," he said. And had the nerve to do it in this scoffing, why on earth are you so shocked about it kind of way. As if she were being the weird one here.

When obviously it was him.

Did he not know it was him?

"Right," she said. "And you get what that means."

"Yes, sure, absolutely I do."

"But you're still calm about that."

"Well, why wouldn't I be?" he said, laughing.

As if he genuinely did not get it. He didn't know.

So she leaned forward. And made her voice firm and low. And spelled it out.

"Because this isn't just like some little vague idea of an afterlife, where maybe you move furniture around after you die. This means there is genuinely something beyond this plane of existence. That there is some sort of being or beings that created the universe, and they have a place, a good place, probably full of whatever the opposite of those demons you just mentioned are. And that we go to either there or the other one, or maybe something in between, when we die. All of which is dependent on whether or not we're assholes," she said, as clearly and simply and kindly as she could.

Then she watched his expression slide from breezy and half listening, to something that could only be described as horror. His eyes went so wide she could see the white all the way around the irises; his lips parted as if to say something, but no sound came out. And even though she could see he kind of wanted to stop staring at her, he didn't seem able to do it. Like he'd been frozen in place.

Which only meant one thing, of course.

"You've never actually thought about that at all, have you?" she said.

And to his credit, he managed to answer her. "No, but now to make up for it I'm super thinking about it a lot ."

"Do you need me to hold your hair back this time?"

"It's more like—just don't let me land on my face if I pass out."

Funny , she thought. Only then she noticed: it seemed like he was actually going to do it. He appeared to be slowly curling over and sliding forward, in a way that made her jump up off the porch steps. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. I'll get you some cushions to fall into," she said, and started in the direction of the front door. But he stopped her. He held up a hand.

"No, don't leave me, don't leave me. I think it's already happening."

"Well, just breathe. Breathe and think about other things."

She mimed taking big breaths.

Took a step closer to him, in as comforting a way as she could.

It didn't help, however. Now he had his head in his hands.

"I can't," he moaned. "My brain is full of my own doom."

"No doom is going to happen."

"Of course it is. I'm a jerk ."

"Come on, you're not a jerk, Seth."

"Oh my god, you think I'm so much of one you're lying about thinking I am to make me feel better about the probability that I'm going to spend eternity having my butt pricked by devils," he said, and oh she wanted to laugh at that. She even suspected he was trying to be funny.

The thing was though: she also knew he meant it.

He really did think he was that horrible. Specifically, he thought he was that horrible because of what he'd done to her . And that kind of made it a lot less amusing, a lot more gut wrenching. She took a couple of more steps forward and almost reached for him—even though he'd stopped sliding out of the chair.

And she definitely had to come up with better reassurances.

"But you just said that devils didn't prick butts," she tried.

To absolutely no effect at all.

"Yeah, because I was trying to make you feel better. But I don't know how to make myself feel better. Myself doesn't listen to reason. It just wants to panic about being endlessly tormented by imps, for being horrible to my best friend," he said through his fingers.

So she tried again. Harder.

"I don't think imps are really going to happen over a high school prank."

"Don't downplay it. That's not going to make me not go to hell."

"Okay then, maybe I forgive you. Now you won't."

"Of course I still will—because we both know the forgiveness you just offered isn't the least bit real. It can't possibly be real, considering I haven't done one single damn thing to earn it."

He dropped his hands. And that was bad, because it meant he was staring directly at her now. He could see everything she was doing, and oh boy oh boy everything she was doing felt like way too much. She couldn't seem to breathe normally; she was pretty sure she'd started trembling.

And not just because he'd so casually accepted the concept of earning it.

No. It was because all she wanted to do was tell him he already had.

That it was enough to know he wanted to. To know he believed that his contrition alone didn't just grant it.

And the effort it took to not say any of that was intense . It felt like trying to hold back a truck with one hand. She was sweating within seconds, head swimming with all the reasons she should go ahead. But also all the reasons it would be a terrible idea. The moment you let him in, he can hurt you again , her mind whispered.

Which was true, she knew it was true.

But god, it tasted so bitter. And in the end, she had to say something .

"Maybe it's not me you have to earn it from. Maybe whatever is out there has to decide, and you know what? I'm willing to bet that they think you're doing okay. That you're doing a good job. You're trying, and I have to believe in a higher being or beings that is okay with trying," she said, wincing a little when her words got too close to her own feelings. But glad anyway that she'd done it. She'd told him he was doing good things in some sort of stitched-together way. Then got to tell him this too: "And not just for you. For me too. Because I know that I can't always do the right thing, exactly. Not even if I want to."

Though of course he couldn't quite get what she meant by the last part.

"You always do the right thing, Cassie," he said, soft as anything.

While she died a little inside.

"No I don't. Sometimes I just. I can't."

"But I bet you have your reasons."

"Maybe. And if I don't, well. Guess we're sitting next to each other in hell."

She laughed. Because she was joking, obviously. But when she looked at him, he wasn't rolling his eyes at the gag. Instead, his expression was all warmth and surprise and delight.

"That is weirdly the most comforting thing you've said so far," he said.

And oh, the way that made her feel . It lingered in her, all the way up to the moment when he had to go. Then once he had—once she'd shut the front door on his retreating back—she leaned against it, and said aloud the thing his happiness had made her want to say.

"God-like entity, if you are indeed out there please know that no matter what I say to him, I truly forgive Seth Stanley Brubaker. So whatever you do to me for keeping that fact from him, you shouldn't do it to him. I accept his sorry, wholeheartedly, and in that way spare him whatever hell there might be."