He asks the question genuinely, academically, with no hint of judgment. His matter-of-factness puts me at ease, and I find myself making a confession I’ve never shared out loud with anyone, not even Brendan, who I seriously thought would be my husband one day.
I know. Brendan gets his own survival handbook chapter too. Hindsight, dude.
“I’ve always had trouble reading,” I admit. “I still mix up letters sometimes, or my brain starts rushing ahead and tripping over itself, and I lose my place easily. Then I just get super frustrated or embarrassed, so I give up.”
“Have you always felt that way?”
Out of nowhere, I’m hit with a rush of memories. Rachel, climbing into my bed in one of the foster homes after lights out, storybook and flashlight in hand, helping me sound out the words. Rachel, meeting me at the bus stop after school so we could walk to the library, where we’d sit in one of the study rooms and work through my homework together until the librarian started asking if our “parents” knew where we were.
Back then, I thought my sister was just being hard on me. Trying to control everything and make me feel even worse about falling behind. And Ididfeel worse, because for the longest time, whenever one of the foster families was shitty to us, I thought it was my fault. That I was a burden for not getting good marks in school. For not being able to take better care of myself.
Something in my heart softens. But only a little bit. She’s still Rachel, after all. Self-appointed Bonnivarde Judge and Jury.
“Anyway.” I shake off the complicated memories before I start to havefeelingsabout them. “I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth, and I can read enough to manage my day-to-day life, so I never really looked back. I just don’t read for pleasure. And I won’t be applying to any librarian jobs.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, I can’t promise your magical studies won’t require any reading or writing, but Icanpromise I’ll be by your side through every bit of it, helping as needed. You’ve only to ask. And I’ll do my best to provide more hands-on opportunities for learning, as you called it, to balance out the book work.” He offers a small smile, which I return, suddenly buoyed.
It’s funny, the way life goes sometimes. I don’t even know this guy. He’s a freaking Hellbeast. One who’s making me do a nature walk. Uphill. Yet in the span of an hour, this Hellbeast has made me feel less alone than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
It’s not just the glasses and the hotness and elegant fingers, either. It’shim. Some core part of his essence. His humanity.
I’m no demonologist—I have no idea if demons are made or born, if a demon’s fate is a choice or a punishment or something in between, if you’re even allowed to ask such things. But Iamsure of one thing:thisdemon was human once. A kind and decent man.
Speaking of mythological creatures!
We fall back into step, slowly moving through the dark woods, minding the narrow path. It’s cloudy tonight, the moon hiding, but somehow I know we’re going the right way. It’s just a feeling—that same internal tug I felt at the house. Like I’m being guided. Like I’m supposed to be here.
“Ah, here we are.” Dr. Sutherland comes to a halt, stepping aside with a sweep of his arm. At first I don’t see anything—just the same black night, the dark outlines of the trees. Then the clouds shift and the moon shines down, illuminating a simpleiron gate framed by two stone angels speckled with moss, their once-sharp edges worn smooth.
Hawthorn Cemetery, the rusted lettering at the top of the gate reads.
“Named for the trees that watch over the dead.” Dr. Sutherland opens the gate with a creak that echoes through the silent woods, startling an owl out of his perch. “After you, Miss Bonnivarde.”
The cemetery sits on a large, rectangular clearing in the woods, surrounded on all sides by trees—hawthorn, I’m guessing. Despite my whining, the walk wasn’t so bad. Not even that far from the house. If I stuck my head out that broken window in the tower, I might even be able to see it from there. The clearing, the odd headstones jutting out in no discernible pattern. The angels guarding the gates.
Mindful of broken headstones, I follow the trail deeper into the cemetery with slow, careful steps. The sight of the place steals my breath. Well, not the sight, exactly. But thefeelof it. There’s a sacredness here in the lonely woods, a peace I’ve never felt before.
A shiver slips through me, but this time, it’s not because someone’s walking on my grave. It’s because I’m walking on theirs.
Maybe the idea should freak me out, but it doesn’t. I was never really afraid of ghosts or spirits or the things that supposedly go bump in the night. In my experience, the living are far more dangerous.
Dr. Sutherland is right behind me, but he’s not saying anything, which I appreciate, so onward we go. There aren’t many graves—maybe a hundred or so—but it’s the centermost one I’m looking for. I can feel it. So when we finally reach the headstone smack in the middle of all the rest, I’m not surprised to see who it belongs to. To see her waiting for me.
“Hello, Calista,” I say, and a warmth rushes through me. “This is Dr. Sutherland. He’s helping me dig up the past. Well, not literally!” I rush to add. “Just… you know. Figuring things out. I’m kinda new at all this.”
“Incredible,” Dr. Sutherland whispers.
Calista tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and smiles, a crooked grin full of magic and mischief. I would’ve liked her, I think. I already do.
Clouds slide back over the moon, and my ghost girl vanishes.
I kneel at her grave. Pluck a few mud-caked leaves from around the base. The headstone is cracked and weathered, tilted like a crooked tooth, the carving so worn it’s hardly legible. I trace my fingertips over her name. “Beloved daughter,” I say, reading the faint inscription. “Cherished sister.”
Emotion wells up at the word. For all their faults, all the fights, I can’t imagine ever having to kneel at the grave of one of my sisters.
I wonder who she was, this young woman. Who she loved. Who she left behind.
Calista’s grave is easily the oldest one here, nearly black with age. But the remnants of more recent times remain; a bouquet of dried roses. The melted stubs of white tea lights in glass votives. A small pentacle charm affixed to a braided ribbon.
