Page 7 of Hallowed Bones
Amelie hazards a look at the boxes awaiting my attention and furrows her brow. “If you insist…” she hedges.
I nod enthusiastically. “I do. Thank you again for the tour. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the one-on-one attention. I’m looking forward to starting classes next week.”
Amelie’s expression remains somewhat pinched and unsure, and it takes another several minutes of assurances from me that I’ll be fine on my own for her to give in and finally leave. Once the key has been handed over and I manage to close the door with a quiet snick, finding myself alone for the first time in weeks, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Exhaustion from both the long drive as well as the tension of leaving my old home behind pulls at my limbs, begging me to forgo unpacking and simply find my bedsheets to fall asleep right away. Outside, rain continues to pound against the window. I drift toward it and pause to push aside the gauzy curtains to find that there’s a built-in seat with cushions—likely provided by my unknown roommate.
Thankful for the insight, I crawl onto the soft pillows and pull my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as I stare out into the stone courtyard below. The statue of the woman with her arms outstretched is drenched from head to base, the otherwise light chalky hue of the stone now turned dark and deep gray.
Somewhere in the hall, Chopin’s nocturne morphs into something else, a song I don’t recognize. It echoes in the corridors and slips beneath the cracks of the closed bedroom door to fill the room as lightning flashes outside.
An icy sensation slowly creeps over my limbs. Cold and wet and full of something other. I shut my eyes and bow my head to my knees.
Tonight, I will dream. It’s not a premonition so much as it is a fact. Every time the night brings rain, I remember and I dream of things I wish I could forget. It is both my curse and my penalty.
A reminder that I am alive and they are dead and it is all my fault.
CHAPTER 3CAMERON
My dearest Sam,
As the hour of my death draws nearer, it has become abundantly clear that the Gods are angry with us. Their voices have faded from my dreams and the strength that once burned in my blood flickers now like a dying flame.
But know this: My death is not the end. My fate was sealed long before the noose tied. Even the Gods must rest and their wrath is naught but another blessing that will strengthen our children and their children’s children.
Humans are fearful creatures, as selfish and greedy as any witch. They, too, are a god’s creation.
Do not weep for me, my love, for upon my fate tomorrow, I will be free of these mortal pains. You will know me again, my love. See me in the stars on the darkest nights. Hear me in the wind that stirs the trees. Taste me in the rain that feeds the roots of our beloved forest.
It is not an end but a beginning. I am bound to this world and to you by more than blood and magic.
In the next life and the ones beyond.
Yours always,
Beth
—FINAL LETTER OF ELIZABETH WARDWELL, WRITTEN TO HER BELOVED HUSBAND, 1692
Wardwell. The name sparks a memory deep in my mind. I’ve heard it somewhere before, or perhaps I’ve read it. Either way, there’s something about the girl that holds the name that sets my teeth on edge.
When her hand brushed mine, I felt it. It wasn’t heat, nor was it pain—just a surge of shock that had rooted me to the spot. It left my pulse uneven and my mind a riot of emotions and confusion. The feeling of Amelie’s eyes on me, as if she’d been waiting for a reaction, doesn’t make my thoughts any less chaotic. She’d known. She’d seen. The girl hadn’t even hidden her own pain when we touched. Amelie hadn’t blinked.
Which begs the question—why hadn’t Amelie informed us of the new arrival?
I flex the fingers of my right hand for what feels like the hundredth time even as my thoughts spiral.
Could she be from another coven?
She’s a witch. There’s no doubt of that. Only a witch—and a powerful one at that—would have made my own magic react the way that it had. Why would someone from another coven come here, though? According to the rest of the witch world, we’re cursed. Undesirable.
I stomp through the double doors of Bishop Manor and into the parlor, ripping the tie tucked under the collar of the white uniform shirt free as if the damn thing is choking the life from me. No one else is home yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go ahead and look into the interloper.
Wardwell isn’t exactly a common name. All I need to do is check the coven records to confirm whether or not she belongs to us or if she is an outsider. It’s a simple task, and yet … each step that brings me closer to the truth that I seek also makes my chest squeeze tight and my throat constrict.
What if she isn’t? Or worse … what if she is?
Something about her unsettles me. Not fear, exactly, but more … recognition. Her skin had been warm, and the shock of power that had stretched from her to me and back again only heightened my curiosity. She’s beautiful, there’s no denying that fact. But does that matter? I’ve spent far too long in a doomed coven to consider that another witch would come here for anything other than nefarious reasons.
