Oblivious of my treachery, she pulls on a pair of sweatpants and throws a loose-fitted button-down shirt over her bare shoulders.
With a wince, she pats her black-and-blue lip. Her fingers tremble along the edges of the swelling, tracing the tender skin as though testing its limits. Then, with a sudden, almost defiant motion, she uncaps her red lipstick and paints right over the mark.
My heart still bleeds that she should suffer at all. I wish I could have done more to protect her last night. I used to be able to move little things like the remote, the drapes, or a door handle if I concentrated hard enough. And if I did it once, it means I could do it again. When those monsters return, I’ll find a way to scare them off. I’ll push the limits of death further than ever before.
It’s more than attraction. It’s instinct. A primal, unshakable urge to protect her, even from the smallest discomfort. If I had a body, I’d stand between her and every shadow, every draft of cold air, every monster. That voice on the phone, her fiancé, asshe calls him… Where is he? She’s beaten and bleeding. If he truly deserved her, if he loved her the way she should be loved, he’d be here.
If he were her true mate, she wouldn’t have to lie to him.
I can’t stop watching her, cataloging every shift of her body, every breath she takes. She unravels her braid with her fingers and gathers her red mane on the top of her head in a messy bun. The movement comes easy and without thought, and I can tell she’s done the same exact thing countless times.
Whatever’s left of me is hers to command. And I’ll protect her from evil monsters and inconsiderate fiancés, whether she wants me to or not.
I drift back to the hallway before she comes out. Her cheeks are red, her eyes sparkling as she hikes the sleeves of her checkered shirt past her elbows. “Alright, let’s do this.”
“Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the third floor and into the narrow corridor leading to Mabel’s bedroom.
She titters on the balls of her bare toes. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“No, but you’re the first person I’ve ever met—besides Devi and Mabel—who didn’t run away screaming as soon as I made my presence known. It’s a nice change of pace.”
“I’m a witch. We know ghosts walk this earth. Any witch would have acted the same,” she says, as though anyone who believes in spirits would behave as she does, but that’s simply not true.
“No, you’re special.”
The blush of her cheeks deepens, but she grimaces in an overtly goofy way, obviously trying to make light of it. “Enough flirting. Go and tell me what’s up there.”
I’ve never ventured into the attic, though I’m not sure why.
Crimson symbols crawl across the walls, painted in wide scarlet strokes. Wooden crates are stacked to the rafters beside a heavy desk strewn with parchments. At the center rests a book embossed with an upside-down scarlet tree. Its roots and branches stretch to form a perfect circle.
Candles crowd the desk and shelves, wax draped and hardened along their sides. A large map lies unrolled on the floor, its corners pinned by books and candle stubs, as though the old witch had been trying to chart not only the Fae Continent, but the hidden spaces between worlds.
This isn’t just an attic, it’s a war room.
Light leaks through a round stained-glass medallion window that looks out onto the cobbled street below. A giant, gnarly family tree sprawls across the inside wall, painted in rich vermilion and gold, its limbs stretching from floor to ceiling, its canopy spanning the entire length of the gabled roof.
Against the window lies a smooth white mask laid with rubies of all shapes and sizes. Its eyeless, full-face blank expression is almost human, almost alive. It stares back at me with a directness that sends a shiver through my incorporeal form.
In the corner hangs a strange, black mirror. Not made of glass, but framed by an oval-shaped slab of polished onyx. Its surface ripples in the most alluring and ominous fashion, and I find myself inexplicably drawn to it. Like I might stare into its inky abyss and see myself, but when I float over to it, the dark void doesn’t reflect anything back at me.
Max’s voice coaxes me back to reality. “Can you see the trapdoor?”
On the floor, a single square hatch is wedged shut with a raven-pommeled cane, preventing Max from opening it from below. I hover closer to the hatch. “Yes.”
“Can you open it?”
I try to dislodge the cane blocking the way, but my invisible fingers pass idly through it. The elation that had built in my chest evaporates.
“No.”
“Then describe what you see.”
I give a faithful representation of the attic before floating back down.
“Fuck, I really need to get up there,” Max growls.
Both frustration and excitement flush her face, and I drift closer, greedy for the spark she carries, the life burning in her green eyes. Her gaze follows me without quite seeing, a telltale sign she can sense when I’m near. I should be more careful going forward about curling up beside her again at night or spying on her while she changes.
