“This is my idea, remember?” I shake my head,tsking. “If only you had a driver’s license, you could’ve martyred alone.” Or if he, you know, still had any of his magic.
On the surface, he’s physicallyupright, but that’s about all he has going for him. I can’t tell if the sun spots on his cheeks I like so much are evaporating with his color, or growing more pronounced as the rest of his skin flips through a Pantone swatch for shades of oatmeal. I think he’d make Oris Webb look tan right now. Every few minutes, his fingers subconsciously fidget, as if he feels an urge to snap, the phantom pull of the Language of Small Wishes.
If this comes down to a fight between an infamous Hedgewitch and a Warlock who can’t snap some hospital gelatin into existence, I don’t feel great about our odds.
“If we’re expecting to find her in just a day or two,” I grunt, hauling my gear onto my back, “why is my pack so heavy?”
“The extra supplies are just for an emergency. If we don’t reach her den after a couple of days, we’ll have a larger problem on our hands.” His words are soft, as if to not wake something. “Beasts roam these woods, sometimes orphaned familiars whose Witch or Warlock has died. They’re attracted to her energy.”
Of course they are.
His fingers clench by his sides. “Don’t go far from me, Ms. Frost.” Then, with stubborn confidence, he goes headfirst into the woods.
The temperature sinks fast inside the trees. Gooseflesh pricks my skin like a rash, and soon our breaths frost over. It feels like November, not June. Unnaturally cold. Hedgewitch territory. Staying close won’t be a problem.
We trek without speaking. My lungs and thighs aren’t used to these dips and swells in elevation at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains, and the Warlock appears to be listening for something. There’s an occasional rustle of a critter, but nothing else. Soon, he’s moving slower than me. Every step of his demands effort, and whenever he takes one of his shuddering, ragged breaths, I listen to make sure I hear him exhale again.
I’ve lost track of how far from town we are, but I don’t mind the quiet. Small towns always have a quaint quiet, but that’s not the real silence.Out here, in this forgotten piece of empty, is true stillness. Something… primordial. The nothingness before existence.
Ahead of me, the Warlock carves paths for us through curtains of foliage. He’s in his sturdy gardening clothes, his bandana a welcome bright spot of color. My attention sticks to him like epizoochorous seeds. I’m following a man into isolated woods, alone, to confront his greatest foe, all on the chance I can persuade said foe to help a fellow Witch save her mom, herself, and any Frosts who come after us.
Oh, and maybe release the Warlock from his curse while she’s at it.
We trek until we’re both sweating, even with the chill. The passing hours feel both too short and too long. This hiking crap isexhausting. I’m grateful I listened to Silas and swapped my usual overalls for a durable yet lightweight set. His other advice yesterday was less helpful:Don’t die tomorrow. Your mother will be unbearable.
Eventually, we take a break by a meandering, glassy creek. The Warlock refills our bottles from the creek as I unpack some provisions: dried fruit and nuts, hard cheese, apples, dense molasses bread, wild turkey jerky. Then a box of Lemonheads, a bag of mini marshmallows, and one half of a cherry Pop-Tart?
“Uh… question.”
“Lazlo wanted to help pack our food.”
“Ah.”
“I packed our other meals.”
“Bless you.”
We dig in.
“How do you know where we’re going?” I ask between bites, after I’ve restored some energy.
“Memory. Warlock’s intuition.” He chews on an apple as he paces the clearing, eyes tracking the ground. He finally stops his odd shuffling at the bank of the creek, where his focus lands on the crisp surface of the water. Satisfied with something, he extends a hand back to me. “We should keep moving.”
I’ve already packed our food and water. Hesitant, I approach and take his offered palm. He pulls me flush against him, to the water’s edge. Which I’m now noticing is oddly still for a creek that should be bubbling, on the move with rainwater from the mountains. Too perfect.
“Stay close for this next part, Ms. Frost.”
“If you want to hold my hand, just ask.”
He smirks. Wickedly.
I have zero time to regret being a smart-ass because he lifts a long leg and simplysteps offinto the water, taking me down into the depths right along with him.
I don’t even have a chance to hold my breath.
My body flinches, bracing for a rocky creek bed. But my brain stutters when we don’t land in the chill of mountain runoff. Instead, we sink right through the creek, as if swallowed by a looking glass.
Our bodies leave solid ground and my gut floats into my rib cage. The only sign we’re passing through water is the mist kissing my cheeks. The sudden drop, the unnerving weightlessness—I rode a log flume once and swore never to do it again. I upchucked perfectly good corn dogs. What a waste of allowance money.
