Page 71 of Hallowed Bones

He never answers the actual question—to bark or to howl.

CHAPTER 25HAVEN

Fate is bestowed by the hand of the Gods, wrought before the first breath. Every witch’s spark—their life, their death—is predetermined by those of grander understanding. What power we glimpse beyond that is a gift—and must be treated as such.

—EXCERPT FROM THE SALEM CODEX: A CHRONICLE OF THE FIRST SALEM COVEN

“There are five different types of witches.”

I pause, the cone of mint chocolate chip halfway to my lips at that blunt statement. I’m not entirely sure what is more shocking—Lyall actually having a “plan” for our date or Lyall offering me straightforward answers without any nagging.

Lowering the cone, I study his profile as he reclines on the metal bench that faces Dead Horse Beach. I cast a look at our surroundings, but there aren’t many people on the beach. A couple walks several yards down the line of sand, the young man pointing at a few of the boats docked across the way, and an old man with a metal detector carefully walks the strip, passing his machine back and forth over the ground. No one is close enough to overhear us.

“Five,” I say, repeating Lyall’s claim.

He nods, digging his spoon into the raspberry sherbet he’d chosen. I wrinkle my nose at the berry color and return my gaze to his face as he pops a spoonful into his mouth and hums in pleasure. When he pulls it free, he continues.

“There are earth witches, blood witches, shape-shifters, and necromancers,” he says.

I frown, counting them. “That’s only four.”

In response, he frowns at my melting green ice cream. “You should eat that,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes but dutifully plop the top of the scoop into my mouth, taking a hunk right out of it. My mouth is filled with cold and mint, but it tastes good.

Satisfied, Lyall starts talking again. “Those are the most common types of witches,” he says. “The chances of you being the fifth type is so rare, it’s practically nonexistent.”

“What decides what kind of witch you are?” I ask. “Is it hereditary?” What kind of witch was my dad?

Lyall chuckles. “Sort of. Being a witch is hereditary,” he says. “But what powers you’ll possess aren’t. Example”—he pauses to shovel another mouthful of sherbet between his lips—“Reyes is a dreamwalker, and as such, he has some premonition powers, but his dad was a blood witch.”

I frown. “What type of witch is a dreamwalker?”

“Necromancer,” Lyall answers.

“I thought necromancers could raise the dead,” I say, my brow puckering in confusion.

Lyall points his spoon at me. “Common misconception,” he replies with a shake of his head. “Despite what they believe, normals rarely get anything right.”

He shrugs and shoves his spoon back into his cup. I take another lick of my cone to distract myself from the muscles bunching beneath his T-shirt even as the scent of him invades my nose from the leather jacket still wrapped around me.

“I suppose the most powerful of necromancers can raise the dead,” Lyall says, his gaze moving back to the harbor across the water. “But few would ever sever the contract of life and death like that. It’s…”

As he drifts off, I let my eyes move over him. His hair is swept back, tucked behind his ears, which, this close, I can see are decorated in a series of piercings, half of which are unused. “Frowned upon?” I guess when the moment of silence drags on.

Lyall takes another bite of his sherbet. “It’s more than frowned upon,” he continues after a beat. “It’s sacrilege.” Sharp gold-brown eyes cut to me, and my insides react, a heat rising to the surface of my skin as if reaching out to the man next to me. I repress the urge and lean back against the bench.

“Witches live by the law of nature,” he says. “What’s dead must stay dead. We do not disturb the natural order of things—a witch that breaks those rules…” He grimaces. “Well, it’s been done before, and the price is never worth the pain.”

There’s a story in those words, something secret and hiding between the lines of his warning. And it is a warning—that much I’m sure of. Instead of pressing for more information, though, I wait, continuing to eat my ice cream as the sounds of seagulls crying out to one another and waves lapping at the shore fill the silence.

“So dreamwalkers are necromancers,” I say some time later, restarting the conversation in a way I hope he picks back up. Even if I was hesitant to join him for this date, now that I know it was merely an excuse to give me more information that I don’t have, I want it. I need it.

Lyall’s cup is nearly empty by now, but he smiles as he takes the olive branch I’m offering. “Yes,” he states. “Dreams are a type of limbo, and only those who have connections to both sides can enter them.”

I stare at a crack in the pavement between my Converse. “I met Reyes in the dreamworld,” I say.

“So he’s mentioned,” Lyall replies casually.