But how can I make that promise when I’m not sure the sun will ever rise for us again?
“Stevie,” I whisper, but I still can’t move. Lead, guilt… My heart and feet are weighted with both. My arms ache to hold her, but all I can do is reach across the space between us and mutter another inane phrase. “Please don’t cry.”
She doesn’t. She looks at me looking at her, looks at my pathetic attempt at comfort, and then my sweet, beautiful, fiery Star fists her hair and lets out a scream so raw, so full of anguish it shatters what’s left of my heart.
The sound of it breaks through the weights holding me in place, and I take a step toward her, still reaching, still aching to touch her.
But she’s already turning back to the sink, retrieving her discarded pot of herbs. Carefully, silently, she places it on the stove and reaches for another cinnamon stick.
Forcing myself through the discomfort, I touch her shoulder.
She flinches away. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, hating myself for it.
“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll make it work. It’s just cinnamon, right? It’s not like he’ll know the difference.”
My hand hovers behind her head, the faintest brush of her wild hair tickling my palm.
But she has returned to her task.
As I must return to mine.
Stevie drags the stick across the grater, the rich spice hitting my nose again.
But the fantasy of home and contentment has shattered.
I turn away from her and head toward the basement.
“Stay out of the bedroom,” I call over my shoulder. “They don’t want us interrupting their magick.”
Stevie says nothing.
Gripping Kate’s potion, I step onto the basement landing and pull the door shut behind me, welcoming the cold, dark embrace. Grateful for it.
Here, in the absence of light, no one can see the tears.
Three
CASS
By memory more than sight, I make my way down the stairs and across the cold chamber to the cots where we’ve kept our guests. The only light comes from the moon shining through the small, high windows around the perimeter, most of which are covered from the outside with tumbleweeds. It takes a long moment for my eyes to adjust. To pick out the shapes from the shadows.
Janelle lies on her side, facing away from me, her breathing deep and even. She’s either asleep or unconscious—or possibly full of shit, just waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
But the cot adjacent to hers is empty, the sheets kicked to the ground.
I make my way around the room, but other than the cots, chairs, and tables we set up this week, there’s little else here. No place to hide.
Casey is gone.
I press my hand to the mattress—still indented with the shape of her body, still slightly warm. She must’ve snuck away while we were all still in the bedroom. Apparently, she came through the post-possession effects of the binding spell on her own, no sedative or guided meditation needed.
On her pillow, I find a hastily scrawled note, barely legible in the darkness.
“Fuck.”
“Baz?” Janelle says, her voice weak and watery as she rolls over and peers up at me, attempting to identify me through heavily-lidded eyes. “Is that you, sweetness?”
