Page 8 of Hallowed Bones

The fireplace set into the south wall is wide and opulent—built from generations past, when currency was different and craftsmanship was an art form versus a production line of profit. I reach for candelabra handles fixed to the plaster and pull. Pulleys and cogs crank and churn, interrupting the otherwise quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth. The wall separates and turns, human work accompanying the magic embedded into the house itself to only accept a witch’s natural blessing. The hearth rotates out to reveal the mouth of the staircase that leads into the coven’s lair below the manor.

I descend the staircase at a fast clip, the door behind me swinging shut and sealing with a near-soundless whisper. Taking the steps two at a time, I grapple with both my raging need to find answers and the force of my attraction to the stranger.

Beauty, as any witch knows, can be an illusion. Some of the ugliest souls are blessed with the prettiest of dressings. Yet still my heart hopes for an innocent reason for the girl’s arrival as fires flare to life along the stairwell. She’s more than beautiful—she’s something I can’t seem to stop thinking about. Like my thoughts are consistently turning in her direction, pulled along by an invisible string of power demanding I give her all my attention. It’s maddening.

At the bottom, more flames spring to life, casting long, trembling shadows against the rough-hewn walls and open archways from the main circle to the added rooms of archives and storage. Not unexpectedly, no one else is here. Most likely, Dimitri is napping and the rest of the guys are out.

I bypass the storage rooms and head for the archives. Shelves are lined with clay bowls, herbs, and liquefied fruits. Past them all, there’s a secondary space with floor-to-ceiling shelves and collections of tomes dating back to the very beginning of our coven, before our ancestors left their various homelands and met here in Salem to create what we are now.

Heart pounding, I scan the spines facing out. Family names that have long since ceased to exist and are all but forgotten, save for what lies between the pages of these records, dance in front of my eyes. I find what I’m looking for on the second-to-last bookcase. Coven records, Salem, 1692.

An invisible wind guides the pages on my behalf, flipping the volume open and fluttering through the yellowed and stained papers.

“Wardwell…” I whisper the name over and over again as the magic enchanted within the tome catches my desire and sends me right to what I’m looking for. When the pages halt, falling open along either side, I begin to read.

The list of names is long, but there in plain black ink, I see it.

Elizabeth Wardwell and Samuel Wardwell.

Two of the founding members of Salem’s coven. The book snaps shut with a deafening thump that echoes in the underground chambers. A cloud of dust rains down from the volume still clutched in my hands.

The image of the girl—Haven Wardwell—appears in my mind as if conjured by a spell. Softly rounded cheeks, full pink lips, and those captivating dual-colored eyes, one a lighter caramel and the other a deep-forest jewel tone.

She’s one of us.

A female witch—the first since the Salem witch trials nearly three centuries ago.

The book must decide that it’s had quite enough of being held, because as I stand there and contemplate the reality of my discovery, it flies from my grip, soaring through the short distance until it slams back into its place on the shelves. I stare at the damn thing with mild irritation. Though enchanting inanimate objects over generations of witches can result in helpful books that know what you need, it also often gives them persnickety personalities completely unnecessary for something that sits on a shelf in the dark 99 percent of the time.

Turning away from the shelf, I’m slower to walk through the caverns of the coven’s lair as I make my way back to the staircase. Questions swarm my mind.

Does she know who she is? Does she know who I am? Who we are? She hadn’t acted aware of my own status when she’d shaken my hand. She’d been surprised.

I pause at the bottom of the staircase and look at the hand that she’d touched. There’s a story I’ve been told that comes to mind now.

The story speaks of two wolves warring within every soul—one of light, one of shadow. It’s meant to represent the struggle between good and evil. I’ve always wondered … what makes a person good? What makes them evil? Is it the intention or the consequence?

The result is that whichever wolf you feed is the one that survives—good and evil. But witches … witches don’t get that choice.

We are neither good nor are we evil, and yet for centuries, we’ve been hunted, drowned, hanged, and now … the Salem coven, at least, is slowly dying out. Our bloodlines drying up because of one impossible mistake made centuries ago.

Until now.

I close my hand into a fist and lift my foot to the first stair, rising from the depths of the lair as the fires behind me die out—my leaving sucking back the automatic spell that creates them whenever one of us comes down here.

I had recognized her, I realize. Not just the name Wardwell but her features. Heterochromia isn’t common to begin with. It’s hereditary, and Haven Wardwell isn’t just a Salem witch. She’s the descendant of Elizabeth Wardwell—the last high priestess of the doomed coven.

Maybe … she’s the salvation we’ve been hoping for.

CHAPTER 4REYES

In the world of dreams, to live is to die.

—JACOB GRIMM, DREAMWALKER OF THE HANAU COVEN, 1808

No matter how often I dream of watchful eyes, I never get used to their presence in this in-between world. Such curious little things they are, as if they’re anticipating something new. I suppose I’m lucky that they don’t stare with suspicion or anger. Regardless, tonight something changes.

I feel it the moment I drop off to sleep. My body may remain in the world of the living, but my mind is catapulted into the dreamworld that is between where I am supposed to be and the Veil.