And then he changes the fucking subject. “Tell me more about the dream from last night.”
So, I do. I tell him about my sense of urgency. About how, before when I dreamed, the entire experience felt more jarring, but this time, I understood more quickly what was going on. That it gave me time to look around more.
“Do you think I could learn to control them?” I ask.
Ghost’s gaze sweeps across the field—the same one where my mate put me through that crazy obstacle course. Sitting here with him feels strange, like an overlay of two different timelines. His presence is too new here, too unfamiliar.
I wonder if it’s wise to start collecting memories with him here at Silent Peak. Later, I’ll walk past this gym and think,that’s where Ghost gave me his undivided attention.
The Ghost, Kendrick’s assassin. For a few minutes, he was mine.
But there’s no impatience in him now. He asks me about my dreams. Not what I see, but how I feel in them. He describes his magic, sharing information with me I doubt he’s shared with many others. He explains what it’s like to see the world, and the threads of magic in all of us, through the lens of a half-shifter, half-witch.
I want to ask him about his parents, but we end up talking about my power.
“I think it will be good if you can learn to control it. A Seeker traditionally had visions, but they didn’t always arrive as dreams. A Mate Finder needs to touch a person to see their mate, though. I’ll need to work with Lily, too.”
He gives me advice on how to potentially control my environment the next time I’m in a dream, like astral projection. I’ve never tried to interact with anyone while I’m in them, and since he agrees that what I’m seeing is likely in the present, that it might be possible to communicate with the subjects.
“When you go to bed tonight, I want you to commune with your omega. Feel that ember inside you, feel the magic. And then picture the woman. Ask your omega to let you see her more clearly.”
“You think that’ll work?”
Ghost shrugs. “Magic is complex, but even simple intention can accomplish quite a lot. What you’re experiencing, your power, itismagic. Your omega magic.”
“Like a witch?”
“Not exactly. More like the Moon Goddess. Your power is hers. A witch’s power is hers. But your power and a witch’s power are not alike. Make sense?”
Not really, but I don’t admit it. Instead, I promise I’ll try to practice control. I haven’t done that before. The dreams have always just kind of happened.
“Just focus on improving your powers. Don’t worry about anything else.”
“Well, if the witches are an imminent threat, it’s hard to do both.”
“You’re safe here on the mountain, Mona. Deidre won’t come back here.”
I want to ask, why are we even hiding if Deidre won’t return here? If she isn’t coming back, that means she is out there, hurting people. People like Andrea’s mate.
Eventually, I get hungry enough to relinquish my control of the situation. Not that I ever had any, but I allow Ghost to walk me the rest of the way home.
He says goodbye in the driveway, not even coming inside. He lingers, like he wants to say more, but nothing comes out.
Silas steps out onto the porch. He’s glaring at Ghost. Eventually, Ghost turns and walks away.
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Chapter 24: Ghost
The door to the cabin creaks open. “Mamá?” I call out.
I know better than to knock. The rapt of knuckles on wood still sends her into a panic attack. And a witch as powerful as she, lost in a panicked trance, isn’t good for anyone within a mile radius. Inside, the heat hits me like a wall. Despite it being summer, the fireplace blazes, casting flickering shadows across her slight frame, hunched in her armchair. Her head snaps up, eyes widening.
“Mijo!” She leaps up from her chair and flies toward me, thin arms outstretched before pulling me into a hug. For a moment, I’m enveloped in her scent. Earthy stone magic. Our lineage is ancient, and though it will likely die with me, when she holds me like this, I can feel our ancestors all around us. But then her muscles stiffen, and she pulls away, fingers trembling as she delicately buttons her cardigan, needing something to do with her hands. Her gaze drops to the worn floorboards, she won’t meet my eyes.
Nearly sixty years since my father was killed, and she still can’t bear to hold me much longer than a breath. But her smile remains—a little broken, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes—and she gushes after me like I’m a child, putting on a kettle for tea, asking about my journeys.
She doesn’t own a phone—has zero interest in technology, though that is more common amongst shifters, not witches—so I haven’t spoken with her since my last visit over a month ago.
