Page 7 of Wretched Thorns

I reached for it instinctively, but even here my hands were bound.

“Did he take it?” I could hear the fear in my voice. “Did he take my charm?”

“The physical thing, yes.” She set down a bone and looked at me directly. Something shifted in her expression. Sharpened. “But you found you way here without it. That’s new. That’s interesting.” She leaned forward. “And you clearer than you been. I can see the room behind you. Dark wood. No windows. Smells old.” Her nostrils flared. “Smells like rot dressed up in money.”

A chill ran through me. “You can see where I am?”

“Pieces. Just pieces.” She reached across the table and gripped my wrist. Her hand was warm and real in a way that made my breath catch. “Listen to me, child. You don’t have much time. Whatever he gave you, it’s nigh gone. That’s why you here so clear. That’s why you a stayin’.” Her dark eyes burned into mine. “Tell me what happened. Tell me everything.”

The words spilled out. The abduction. Callum roaring in pain. The dark room. And then, my voice breaking; the cold, pulling sensation from my chest while he molested me with his hands.

I told her about the shadows, too. How they moved. How they seemed to answer something inside me. How Marcus had jerked back like he’d been burned.

Her face went hard. Her grip on my wrist tightened.

She drew a slow breath in through her nose. Her grip on me tightened still.

“He put his roses on you again tonight.”

She said it like she already knew. I told her about the petals. About Atlanta, the rose on my pillow the morning I woke alone. About the windowsill at the rental house in Magnolia Creek. About the way he had pulled them out of nothing tonight and dropped them across the bed where I lay tied.

She listened. When I was done she put both palms flat on the table.

“That ain’t no flower,” she said. “That’s a tag. Every place one of them petals touched is a claim. Every claim on your skin, he can see, he can follow, he can find.”

“How do I get rid of them?” I asked.

“Off you. Off the bed. Out of your hair. As soon as your hands come free, you brush every one of them onto the floor. Stomp on them if you can. Spit on them if you can’t. He don’t get to keep no road to you, child. Not one more. What you need is a good cleansing spell to get his curses off you skin.”

His curses, his touch a mark on my skin. My stomach revolted.

“I know his kind,” she said, low and fierce. “Parasites. They take what doesn’t belong to them. Feed on gifts they can’t grow themselves.”

“I don’t have any gifts.”

“Child.” She almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You standing in my kitchen right now. Who knows how far away from you body, in a dream you found without my help. Shadows moved to protect you when that leech tried to drain you dry.” She shook her head slowly. “You got more gifts than you know. He’s been takin’ ‘em. Keepin’ you weak so he could feed on you. But somethin’s changed.”

Before I could answer, something shifted. The warm kitchen light flickered. The smell of herbs faded, replaced by something darker. The corners of the room seemed to grow longer, stretched by shadows that moved wrong.

“He’s comin’,” she said. She released my wrist and began sweeping the bones into a cloth bag, her movements quick and efficient. “You need to wake up, but remember this time. Fight the forgettin’. Hold onto somethin’.”

“I don’t know how—”

“The taste of my coffee. The feel of this table under your hands. Choose somethin’ real and hold it.” She tied the bag shut. “I’m goin’ to find help. My granddaughter, she’s been waitin’ for you, I think. And those wolves you been runnin’ with, I suspect they looking too.”

The shadows were pooling now. Rising up the walls like dark water.

“Tara,” I said. The name felt like an anchor. “She gave me the charm.”

“And it’s led you back to me.” She stood, and even in the growing darkness, her eyes found mine. “You keep findin’ you way here. Even through his fog, through his hooks. That means somethin’. Don’t you forget it.”

The world lurched. The bright kitchen blurred, colors bleeding into each other.

“Wake up, child. He’s coming. Remember what I told you. Don’t let him—”

I woke in the dark room, gasping, the taste of chicory coffee still on my tongue.

The petals were still on me. On my hair. On my shoulders. On the sheet around me.