Page 62 of Hallowed Bones

Despite the young light breaking through the canopy above, a low fog coils at the base of the mound, clinging to the underbrush. The land seems to whisper a warning, its silence a sentient creature. I feel it in my own witchblood. A subtle recoil. The echo of something sacred and wronged. Whether it’s ancestral memory or a more primal instinct, I’ve never liked this place. I don’t know how Ezra stomachs it—much less finds clarity here.

There’s a rot in the air, something old and enduring. Not literal decay but a spiritual miasma—the kind of residue only violence can leave behind. Three centuries and still, the ground hasn’t forgotten. The people who died here—witches and humans, guilty or not—left more than their blood in the dirt. They left grief and despair. When those kinds of negative emotions are left to fester, they turn into something far worse—resentment. Rage.

The fog curls tighter as I make my way toward the path that leads to the top of the hill. Goose bumps rise instantly, but I press forward, shoes crunching over damp ground. The winding path creeps upward, bracketed by skeletal bushes and brambles that stick out like clawing, desperate hands.

By the time I crest the hill, sweat clings to my back despite the chill, soaking into the collar of my shirt. I slow as the silhouette comes into view—a man carved from shadow and stillness, seated beneath the sweeping limbs of a weeping willow. A fresh breath of wind whispers past, and old voices echo all around the two of us.

I stay there for a moment, giving those voices from so long ago an ear to listen to them. Then I march onward.

The tree looms like a mourner of those killed here, its long, ghostly tendrils draping around where Ezra sits. As if nature itself is trying to shield him from the rest of the world.

I step onto the uneven stones marking the end of the trail and move toward him.

“Ezra.”

His shoulders tense when I call his name, but he turns nonetheless to face me as I approach. He doesn’t stand, nor does he offer any words of welcome. I don’t need them.

I take a seat next to him, dropping onto the cold stone bench and closing my arms around myself to rub off the chill of the fog below. It’s as if the ghosts of this place have stripped me down and coated my skin in their spiritual essence. I’ll need to do a cleanse when I return home or else risk inviting the same negative energy into the manor. My eyes slide sideways, wondering if Ezra cleanses himself of this place, too, when he returns, or if he lets it sit on him, in him, until it’s all he knows.

Ezra doesn’t chase me away, but neither does he invite conversation, and I didn’t come here to stare at the scenery like a couple of old goats. So it’s up to me to start.

“I took Haven back to her dorm this morning,” I say, keeping my tone casual when I feel anything but. “I’m sure she would’ve liked to have seen you before she left.”

He sends me a dark look before replying. “Doubtful.”

I shrug. “You never know—you were the one who saved her last night.” I wait for another response. When none is forthcoming, I try again. “Is your problem with her the fact that she’s a woman, or is it that your father’s dreams are finally coming true and he’s not here to witness it?”

“Don’t.” Ezra’s tone is a lethal warning. I’ve never been good at listening.

“She can’t be kept out of the loop,” I say. “You and I both know what happens when a witch with that much obvious power isn’t trained properly. She needs it to happen sooner than later.”

“I fucking know that, damn it!” He shoots up from the bench and takes two long strides away before whirling back to face me.

At his outburst, I arch a brow. “Do you?” I ask. “Because if you knew that, then you’d be back at the house, figuring out a way to convince her to move in with us so that we could start her training. Instead, you’re out here”—my eyes move to the surrounding area, and my lips twist into a grimace—“brooding.”

The tattoos on his forearms shift over his skin, reacting to the emotions swirling inside him. I wait a beat, watching to see if they’ll calm. Though they don’t rise out of his flesh, they never cease twisting around his arms, moving restlessly.

Ezra doesn’t say anything in response to my words, but then, he doesn’t need to. We’ve known each other for long enough that I can just tell what he’s thinking sometimes. Right now, he’s wishing he had any other choice to make other than the one that will bring Haven Wardwell into our domain.

“In the absence of a priestess and any living elder,” I remind him, “you are the head of the coven.” His strength and power wouldn’t allow him to be anything but a leader. As much as he hates it, he has to be the one to start her training.

“I want to call a circle meeting,” Ezra says. “Dimitri has a right to know about her.”

“Dimitri gave up most of his abilities long ago.” Ezra’s jaw clenches at that, but it’s nothing less than the truth. So, too, are my next words: “He’s an elder in name only. And only because we all respect the old man too much to consider him anything else. Calling a coven meeting won’t change what needs to be done. According to witch law, he can’t make these final decisions.”

Had she been born into the coven, things would have been different. Because she wasn’t, it has to be him. Ezra needs to be the one to initiate her.

“I still want his input,” Ezra says. “Maybe he knows more than he’s told us.”

As I glare at him, I send a silent curse in Reyes’s direction. Being gentle has never been my forte. All Ezra wants to do is put off the inevitable, and it seems a shitty thing to remind him that our choices were to either train or suffer under the weight of our powers until they destroyed us from the inside out. My gaze falls back to his forearms, where the shadows have yet to cease moving.

Some choices cannot be made. They simply are. They are the kinds of truths that do not ask for consent. Wishing for anything else is madness.

Cupping my hands beneath the lip of the bench, I lean back, stretching the muscles of my arms as they tighten and constrict—pulling against the strain. “Fine,” I finally say. “Hold your meeting, but the result will be the same. She needs us.”

“She should get the chance to decide that,” Ezra replies.

The muscle in my jaw jumps again, but I turn to a lighter topic to keep myself from smacking the shit out of him. I release the bench and rise to my feet.