Chapter 13

Kate

With his free hand, Tanner yanks the metal mask off of his face. The wolf ears on his hat are pressed flat in annoyance, and his shadow peers down at me from the ceiling. Ebon trills and ruffles her feathers.

"Thank fuck I had you on a leash," he grumbles, clomping down the steps and tossing me onto the lumpy sofa. Tanner rubs both of his huge hands over his hair and down his face before he gives me a look. It's half righteous anger and half ... well, it's hot and makes me shift uncomfortably as I sit up, still clutching the skull. "You're a tough bitch, and I like that. But Jesus fucking Christ, you have a death wish or something?"

"What about Brooks and Marlowe?" I ask, telling myself that my concern has nothing to do with the ritual we performed last night and everything to do with going home. That spell really dug into my blood and my heart. I feel ... obligated toward these guys. This coven shit is foisting a sense of camaraderie on me that they absolutely do not deserve. "We can't just leave them out there."

Tanner shakes his head at me, moving into the kitchen and retrieving a wooden spoon from one of the drawers. He brings it over and tosses it onto the couch beside me, ocean-fog eyes burning. He wets his lips as he looks me over.

"They'll show up," he says, but he doesn't sound entirely sure about that. "Or not. Ain't nothing we can do about it now except to get you cleaned up and started on the spell prep."

I stand up, frustrated and angry and wet with gore. The move startles Ebon into the air, and she finds a unicorn horn—or whatever that dead thing is—to perch on.

"Can we go out, create a diversion or something? Like you did before?"

Tanner steps close to me, unconcerned by the blood and rot on my skin.

"I'm not letting you risk yourself like that." He laughs, but it's low and edgy, like he's concerned but trying not to show it. "There's no safeword for this shit, North. If I have to tie you up to keep you inside this house, I'll do it."

I close my eyes and seethe. When I open them, I find Tanner waiting patiently in front of me. He doesn't seem to care much about getting home, not like the others. Makes me think that his motivations are a little bit different.

"Then why don't you go out and create a distraction while I bathe?"

Tanner laughs at me again and shakes his head, reaching up to sweep his hat off. He tosses it on the sofa beside the wooden spoon.

"You really think I'd go out and risk myself like that? What if I died? What would happen to you? I'm not leaving my woman alone to fend for herself in this hellscape." He turns away from me and heads toward the stairs in the back of the room. "Best course of action is to stay here and wait. Going out will only make things worse."

I grit my teeth, but I set the skull aside and follow him. Even with worry gnawing at me, I can't stand the smell of my own body right now. I just need it all off. Pretty sure there are maggots—

Nope. Don't think about it. Don't do it, Katelynn.

"I am not your woman ," I growl, careful to skirt around him so we don't accidentally touch. I don't think he'd actually try to fuck me in this state, but I'm only eighty-percent confident that I'm right. Tanner gives me a look, like he knows something I don't. And then he smiles. Fifty-percent confident.

"Yes, you are," he tells me, like it's not even an argument or a debate, just a fact. "But you tell yourself whatever you want until it settles in."

"I'm going to cut your balls off in your sleep," I murmur, and he laughs again. He has a big laugh, but it's husky, like velvet. I shiver.

"At least you'd be touching 'em." That's the last thing he says, following me into the cave and offering to help strip my blood-soaked clothes. "Doesn't count if I initiate the touch," he explains, and I sigh.

Getting blood-drenched leather pants off is not an easy task.

I'm stripped down to nothing, and without Marlowe around, the water is cold. Doesn't matter. Tanner and I clean ourselves up, and then dress in furred robes until we get upstairs. He digs another set of pants from a wooden chest, and even though they're a little big for me, I put them on. I slip into my bra, but I can't find my shirt.

Doesn't matter, I guess.

Tanner hands me the wooden spoon he got out earlier.

"Dig the corpse pumpkin outta that skull and add it to the cauldron."

While I scrape the wood against the bone, I apologize in my head to whoever this skull belonged to. What a way to go, lost to the Witchwoods and killed by the Hag, dropped into a pit of corpses and left to rot. I push the thoughts from my mind, focusing on the task of freeing the orange fungi from its macabre home.

Tanner gathers ingredients and lays them out on the table, taking the cauldron downstairs to fill it with water and hauling it up with arm muscles bunching against the strain. There's no way that thing weighs less than two-hundred pounds.

He hangs it up, starts a fire like he's an outdoor survival expert, and starts to add jars and bottles and powders. With each ingredient, the smell changes, and so does the color of the smoke. Pink and then purple, red and then orange. Purple again. Black. White. Green. Sometimes, it swells and blooms like a small explosion.

And still, we wait.

No Brooks. No Marlowe.

"If they die, we have to look for new members, don't we?" I ask softly, wondering if I'm going to be stuck in the Witchwoods until my old life is an impossibility, and the world has become something unrecognizable. Oh, Flick. Please go home with Georgia. I worry about Stix, and my grandmother's house. That's all I have left of my family, that house. My pets.

"Nope. If they die, we'll live out the rest of our natural lives here." Tanner doesn't even look at me, shirtless and barefoot, dressed in another pair of leather pants. Only, these ones are brown and covered in charms that jangle when he walks. "Raise our kids, try to make a go of it."

"Kids? I'm not having kids with you." But that's not the worst of what he's just said. If ... Brooks and Marlowe are dead then I'm never going home? "We can't find new people to fill their spots in the coven?" I clarify, and even the question sounds sacrilegious somehow.

Tanner doesn't answer me this time, like he can tell that I already know the answer to that.

I finish scraping out the corpse pumpkin and dump it into the cauldron. Tanner gestures to my bag, and I know what I need to do. The fern fronds. The moss. They both scream in agony when I drop them into the boiling water. I won't lie, that makes me feel super shitty. I hope they don't actually feel pain.

"Can I kill the slug before I drop it in?" I whisper, looking between the slime-covered jar in my hand and the hot water. "Boiling something alive, I can't do that."

Tanner consults the old tome on the table, the one that I strongly suspect was written by Brooks' own hand. After a few moments, he nods, and so I take a knife and put it through the slug's head. When I'm sure it's dead, I toss it into the water along with the snake's remains.

I stand on one side of the cauldron with Tanner on the other. We both look up and our eyes catch. It's been a while. Too long. They're fucking dead, aren't they? Dread fills my mouth, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

"Did any part of you ever like living here?" I ask Tanner, and the corner of his mouth lifts up, that silver scar tugging at his handsome face.

"No rules here, I like that," he says, his gaze taking me in with a hunger that he doesn't bother to hide. "I don't give a shit about my family. Hell, I hope they're all dead." He crosses his arms over his inked chest, and I try not to stare. If I do, he'll notice and he might take it for more than it is. "Only reason I wanted to go back was to find a wife." His smile widens. "Now that I have one, I care less about getting out."

"Whoa there, East, " I murmur, rubbing at my temples. "First, I'm your woman, and now I'm your wife? You need to chill out a little bit."

"We're a coven," he tells me slowly, like that's explanation enough. "You're telling me that if you were to find yourself trapped here, just you and me left in the world, that you wouldn't be at all interested?" Tanner steps around the cauldron, invading my space.

I refuse to give up an inch to him, and he knows it, his smile widening.

"Being trapped here, and being free back home are two entirely different things," I say.

He clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

"That's not an answer, Kate. " Tanner reaches out with two fingers and pushes on the cauldron. The bubbling liquid inside sloshes dangerously close to the edge. "And if it is, it's almost like you're telling me that we'd be better off here."

My gaze narrows, hardens. I curl my hands into fists.

"If you dump that cauldron, I won't care if we are the only two human beings left alive in the Witchwoods. I'll flee you the first chance I get and start a new life somewhere else."

Tanner seems to contemplate that. He actually stands there with his fingers on the cauldron, considering. I don't know if he came into the Witchwoods like that or if he was warped by the magic or the stress of this place, but his morals are not black-and-white.

I swallow, but in the end, he releases the cauldron and moves away to stand in the circular entrance that leads to the hallway. There are doors on either side, those spiral stairs at the end of it. Tanner crosses his arms and waits there, like he's expecting Marlowe and Brooks to come from that direction instead of the front door.

Nobody comes from anywhere.

It's just me and Tanner and a boiling cauldron—for hours.

I don't let myself think about the consequences of losing Marlowe and Brooks. The rest of my life bound to these woods, fighting to survive with every breath and sleeping the world away.

Tanner offers to get us something to eat, and I accept. He feeds me tough venison jerky and fruit juice and hard bread. The couch is ruined from the gore I brought with me earlier, so we sit at the table together, neither of us talking.

"I'd expect a man who was interested in me to, you know, talk ," I tell him after a while, and he lifts his head from his meal, a slow smile etching its way onto his handsome face.

"Is that how it works in the time period you come from?" he asks, but I can tell right away that it's meant to be a joke. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, studying me. "I'm not sure there's much for us to talk about. We'll have to build new memories together instead."

My heart jumps strangely, but I shove it back down. Loneliness is a poison, one that can make even the strongest bottle of arsenic look appealing. I can't do that to myself, fall into whatever Tanner's offering without really thinking it through first.

Chances are that when we get back, he'll disappear. Not that I mind. I'm planning to tell them all to fuck off if ... you know, the other two aren't dead. But if they aren't and we somehow make it home, they're not staying with me. I won't let them.

"You come across as a man with loose morals," I tell him honestly, sipping my juice. It's caught somewhere between strawberry and watermelon with dashes of lemon and mint. It glitters, and it glows, but I waited for Tanner to drink two glasses before I tasted mine, so I'm sure it's safe to drink.

"Ahh, so that's what's bothering you," he says, gaze shifting to the hearth and the fire he started when it began to grow dark outside. I can't see anything, but there's a clock on the wall and Tanner said that the sun sets at the same time every day. He would know better than I do. "You're afraid that when we get back, I'll take off."

I was thinking that, but I just shrug my shoulders.

He leans in toward me, putting one huge arm on the table. His tattoos pull at his skin, writhing like living things, vines and flowers and stars woven together and shifting like they're alive. I stare at those until I realize he isn't going to speak until I look at his face.

"I take this shit seriously, Kate. I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

"Whenever I start thinking that you're alright, you add on a little extra to your sentence and ruin it entirely." I look away from him, trying to think about things from the eighties that I like. "Bonnie Tyler, Total Eclipse of the Heart. "

"Huh?" Tanner sits back and when I look at him, there's a streak of confusion on his face. "What the fuck? Is that the sort of music you're into?" He puts both hands over his mouth and leans his head back. I think he might be laughing at me.

I'm not embarrassed. My grandma loved that song, and I don't care if he likes it or not. At least he knows what I'm talking about.

"Fine. I know plenty of other songs from the eighties. What did you listen to?"

Tanner drops his head and places his palms on the table, leaning in toward me. His eyes shine.

"You lookin' for things we might have in common?" he asks, lips twitching. "The sex wasn't enough?"

"Sex is a good starting point for a relationship, but it doesn't do you any good if someone is sick or hurt or depressed. It doesn't save you from a strong storm, doesn't drive you to doctor's appointments, doesn't appreciate the passage of time in wrinkles and memories." I exhale sharply, and his brows pinch together like he's considering what I just said.

"Oh, baby, who hurt you?" he asks me, but our conversation is interrupted by a sound from downstairs. Tanner is out of his chair faster than I can register what's going on, and he heads for the hallway and the staircase, putting himself between me and whatever might be coming up the steps with wet, soggy thumps. "Took you long enough, Christ," is what he says, exhaling sharply.

Tanner steps aside, making room for a bloodied Brooks and a very angry Marlowe. The latter throws his bow onto the ground, the already splintered pieces scattering across the floor. He makes his way over to me, sopping wet and dripping.

I stand up, and he backs me into the counter, slamming his palm down on its wooden surface. With a shaking hand, he reaches up and jerks his mask down his face.

"Did you hear a word that I said?" he breathes, his eyes dark with rage. There's no pupil, just a pit of black in the center of too much white. His brows are up, and his lips are pursed. He's bloody, too, and it drains down his forehead in pinkish rivulets.

"I—"

He doesn't let me speak.

"I told you not to risk yourself for that fucking pumpkin, didn't I?" Marlowe is dripping cold water all over me as he intimidates and pushes, obliterating my space. I tighten my lips, but I'm not sure how to respond. He slams his palm into the counter again. "You could've fallen into the Pit and drowned in corpses. Been eaten by the Hag. Would that have helped our case?"

Ah. He's upset because if I die, he can't go back. Makes sense.

"I got it, didn't I? We're going home, aren't we?" I retort, shivering as water droplets hit my chest and run down between my breasts.

"By the skin of our fucking teeth ," he breathes out, voice growing quieter, eyes getting wider. He's terrifying like that, and I know I can't trust Lo for shit.

"I saved you," I add, because it feels like he doesn't care, that he didn't notice. I don't know why, but that bothers me.

"Why?" he whispers, still up in my face, his voice a slinking menace that wraps around me and makes me shiver again. His hat is covered in black lotus and lily pads, a tiny frog peering at me from the top of one.

Because you're my ticket home. Because you're a human being. Because ... because ...

"You're broken and sad and angry," is how I reply, and Marlowe rears back like he's been slapped. He turns and paces the floor, kicks his bow, curses under his breath. When he drops his head, dark hair falling into his face, I leave him be and turn to Brooks.

He's waiting with his arms crossed, bleeding and dripping a puddle onto the floor. His metal mask is already off, his expression steely and fixed on me.

"Do you want to be the leader of this coven, North?" he asks me, his voice calm but restrained. He's just barely holding back his rage as he stalks toward me. He doesn't invade my space quite the same way as Marlowe, but he certainly doesn't keep a respectable distance either.

"What?" I ask, and Brooks shakes his head. The eyes on his hat squinch shut in frustration, crinkling the black suede fabric and making the charms on the brim jingle.

"Either you follow my orders, or you fight me. I won't go easy on you because you're a woman, but I will give you a fair chance, just like I did with Tanner and Lo. So, what is it? Do you want to be the leader or do you want to fucking listen to what I tell you?"

I'm so mad that I'm shaking all over again, but I'm also so relieved to see them alive that some of that rage is tamped down, making it manageable.

"I wouldn't know the first place to begin as the leader," I grate out between clenched teeth, and Brooks steps back, shaking his head. "But you already knew that."

"Right. So when I say go back to the house with Tanner and don't interfere, what the fuck are you going to do?" He raises a brow and waits for me to respond. It takes every ounce of my pride to do it.

"Leave Marlowe to die and obey your orders," I whisper sarcastically, knowing that as soon as we cross back over to the real world, that I'm done with this man. With all of these men.

"Exactly." Brooks turns away, dismissing me as he studies Tanner, studies the cauldron. Nods. "Good. Let's get this done quickly, and we won't have to sleep for another month. There's not much time left before the lullaby."

Brooks strips his shirt off and tosses it aside. It hits the floor with a soggy thump as he begins to dig through the items on the counter, tossing them into the cauldron without even looking at it. Marlowe spends a few moments gathering himself and then does the same.

When they're finished, all three men stand around the cauldron and turn to me.

I know without even asking that I need to stand in the north. So I do. Brooks leans in and spits into the mixture, and the other men follow. I don't argue or ask. Monkey see, monkey do.

"I'm glad you're both alive," I say, even though they walked in with their cocks swinging and their aggression surging. There was a reason for it, I guess.

The room is silent as all three of them study me again. Three huge bodies, austere expressions, ink and muscle and magic. I can smell their sweat and the blood that may or may not belong to them, the oddly fragrant drift of the cauldron smoke.

"Yeah?" Brooks asks finally, reaching past me to grab a goblet off the counter. "Then maybe you won't throw a shit fit over this."

He shoves his pants down his hips, spits into his palm, and then fists his massive cock with his hand. I inhale sharply, nostrils flared, but I don't move from my spot.

"The goblet is a representation of the divine feminine," he tells me, stroking himself. "Do you know what the divine masculine is represented by?"

"A knife?" I guess, trying not to stare but struggling to keep my eyes on anything but the slick slide of his rough palm down that veiny cock. They're just so blatant about this stuff, and that's not how I was raised. My family wasn't prudish or anything, but it was generally accepted that sex stuff stays in the bedroom and isn't talked about much.

I shift on my feet.

"Good girl," Brooks tells me dryly, pumping himself a little harder, a little faster. He's looking at me even though I've fixed my own gaze on the cauldron between us. "You sure you don't want to help me out? Make this go faster?"

I look up to meet his eyes, and I know that I was right: he doesn't like me much. He is genuinely asking for my help because we're out of time, and I hate that.

"Do it yourself," I tell him, because my pride can only stretch so thin.

"If we don't make it tonight, will you still have a house next month?" he wonders aloud, and I grit my teeth, stepping toward him and closing my fist over his crown. Our eyes meet, and I realize that I do want him to like me. I don't know why. Generally, I can't be bothered with people who don't like me. I am who I am, and I can't force a connection that isn't there.

But this? Something about this feels wrong.

With our eyes locked together, I slide my fist down his cock until my hand meets his. Brooks releases himself, putting two big hands on my shoulders. I'm surprised when he goes for the straps of my bra, drawing it off and forcing me to pause what I'm doing so that he can toss it aside.

I exhale, feeling the heavy weights on my chest, the peaked discomfort of my nipples. Between my legs, a heat is rising, and I'm ashamed of that. Amongst all of this—the Hag, and the pit, and the uncertainty—I'm aroused? It's not my fault, really. Three gorgeous men, two of whom aren't wearing shirts. And that magic from last night. That damned magic ...

Brooks drops the goblet down to catch his release, squeezing one of his hands on my shoulder as his hips pump into my grip. His thighs shake. He makes sounds that worm their way into my skin and make me fidgety.

"Here," he pants, passing over the goblet to Marlowe as I release him.

I turn, but Lo is already fucking himself with his hand, hard and fast and perfunctory. His brows are pinched, and there's an angry neutrality to his face that snaps when I look at him.

"I don't need or want your help," he growls at me, but he struggles to keep his eyes from my breasts. I step back into my position and wait. Doesn't take long. I decide to point that out.

"That was quick," I tell him, but he ignores me, spurting into the cup and spattering white droplets onto his pants. Marlowe shoves the cup in Tanner's direction, and he turns to me with a question in his eyes that I ignore.

I stare sideways at Marlowe, noting the way he controls his breathing and his gaze.

"You really are a tough bitch, you know that?" Tanner murmurs, but then he gets to work, his attention bathing my body with the heat of his stare. I pretend not to notice, fixated on Marlowe because I can't look at Brooks either.

"Saving yourself for Miriam?" I whisper to Lo, which is probably a cruel thing to say. Still, he ignores me, so I decide to return the favor.

"Oh yeah, right there, Kate," Tanner murmurs, and I flick my eyes back just in time to see the corner of his lip curve up. He finishes in the cup, filling it to overflowing, and then dumps the semen into the cauldron.

Please tell me I don't have to drink any of this stuff, I think, but if it means getting home, then I'll do it.

"Your turn," Brooks intones, reaching back and plucking a fancy looking blade from the counter. He passes it over to me, and I notice with a shock of horror that the hilt is shaped like a cock. Carved of something smooth and cool, it's not a subtle motif. White and veined with blue. Granite maybe? I'm not sure. "Fuck yourself with that, and then dip the hilt into the potion."

"Fuck myself with a knife ?" I ask, but then I look up at him, and I see that he's dead serious.

"More like an athame. " He sighs. "North, I'm getting sick of asking this question," Brooks begins, walking around the cauldron and snagging me around the waist with a strong arm. "Do you want to go home or not?"

"I didn't touch you," I tell him, and he gives me a mirthless smile in return.

"I never made that deal." Brooks tosses me over the back of an overstuffed armchair, yanks my pants down my hips, and puts the tip of the blade's hilt against my opening. I grip the chair with tight fingers, but I don't struggle or ask him to stop. Not sure that it would matter if I did.

Brooks pushes the smooth head against me, and my body welcomes the invasion with open arms. I'm already wet—likely from watching the three of them empty their sacks into the goblet—and it's an easy fit. I groan when the arms of the T-shaped hilt hit the outside of me, one end rubbing my clit with a cool metal ball that was probably installed for this explicit purpose.

"We need you dripping, North," Brooks murmurs, almost as if he's talking to himself. There's a pause there as he thinks it over. When his huge hand smacks into my ass, I let out an embarrassing groan that has blood rushing to my face.

"What the fuck?" I gasp out, but Brooks does it again, pumping the athame's hilt into me with strong, sure strokes. When his hand cracks my ass again, I can feel my pussy tighten around the toy. I'm so mortified that I don't even know how to protest since it's obvious that I like this.

"Should've spanked your ass anyway when you disobeyed my orders." Brooks fists my hair, drawing my head up so that my back is arched, my ass on display for all three of the men. "But you like it so much that I'm not sure it's a punishment at all."

I feel the orgasm building already even though I know I don't want to come for Brooks. I did for Marlowe last night, and he didn't deserve it. Tanner is an obsessive psycho, but at least he's interested in me.

"Tanner," I manage to whisper, but Brooks only laughs at me.

"Oh no, not this time." He leans over me, and I feel hot wetness on my thighs. Iron and copper taints the air, and I realize what it is: Brooks is holding the blade and fucking me with it, and he's bleeding for the privilege. "A rogue soldier doesn't get a choice."

He works the item against me, into me, his breath fanning against the side of my neck. Bet some of his blood is getting inside of me. I like that, too, damn it. Maybe I'm kinkier than I thought? I don't hate this the way I should.

The orgasm hits too hard, knocking the breath out of me. My own thighs quiver as badly as Brooks' did, especially when I feel the growing hardness in his pants pressed against my left ass cheek. His hips move a little, almost as if he can't control them, and the thought of that drives me the rest of the way to the edge.

I'm sucking in sharp breaths, tears pricking my eyes, knees going weak. Brooks draws the toy out of me and steps away, leaving me to slump against the chair. Tanner is there to take me by the waist, hauling me up to a standing position and wrenching my pants into place.

There's a look in his eyes that disturbs me, like he enjoyed that as much as I did. He likes to watch?

"I thought I was your woman?" I retort, covering my breasts by crossing my arms.

He cocks his head at me, like he doesn't understand the question.

"You are my woman. Unfortunately, being in a coven means having to share. Just the way things are." He shrugs one massive shoulder, his other arm keeping me on my feet. "I'm just thrilled that we have a woman in the coven at all."

The coven. The coven. The coven.

How the hell am I going to escape the coven? A sense of foreboding creeps over my shoulders, but I ignore it. Escaping the Witchwoods is the only thing that matters, even if my cheeks are blazing with heat—both the ones on my face as well as my ass.

I glare at Brooks as Tanner guides me back to the cauldron, but he's too busy dipping the athame into the liquid to notice. The smoke changes color again, from white to red. Because of my juices. My wetness is part of this spell. I exhale and accept the athame when Brooks hands it back to me.

He squeezes his bloodied palm over the liquid, adding more of himself to the mix.

"Add your blood," Brooks commands me, and I don't hesitate to make a horizontal cut on my wrist. I have a feeling that if I don't do it, one of the men will do it for me. Tanner follows suit, and Marlowe is last.

The jar of salve makes its way around, and I watch in horror as Brooks opens a metal spigot on the side of the cauldron. Hot liquid spills into a vial. It's black as pitch now, and smells a bit like sex and flowers and secrets. We're drinking this, aren't we? Ugh.

After filling four identical vials, Brooks tucks them into a leather bag that hooks to his waist. He puts on one of the bone necklaces from last night, replaces his hat. The other men do the same, and so I do, too. Hats, masks, and collars for everyone. Tanner whistles, and his crow alights on my shoulder.

Alright then. Guess we're taking her with us. Her claws hurt a little, but I don't mind.

"Don't say a word until I do," Brooks tells me, uncorking a different vial. He smears blood over his lips, passing it around until the rest of us have done the same. My lips tingle and swell, like maybe there's venom in this blood. "Helps you remember to be silent," he explains, almost reluctantly.

I'd say that I appreciated the effort, but he just spanked me without my consent.

Our gazes clash, and I tell him with my own that his dislike is mutual.

Blood, sex, and bones.

The Witchwoods are a strange place indeed.

Marlowe pushes his mask into place, slams a lid onto the cauldron, and then he and Tanner slide the handle over a thick wooden pole. They each place one end of the pole on their shoulders, and then follow Brooks up the stairs to the door.

I'm the last one out, but I don't hesitate. Don't even look back.

I am more than ready to get the fuck out of here.