Page 72 of Hallowed Bones

“Does that mean that I’m … a necromancer?”

Lyall doesn’t speak for several long moments. In fact, he doesn’t say a word, and I can’t even hear him breathing. It isn’t until I look at him and find his eyes locked on me that I realize he’d been waiting for my attention before responding.

“Possibly,” he murmurs, voice quiet. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he says, “I hope so.”

I frown. “You do?” Why? When Lyall doesn’t respond again after several more beats, my frown turns to a scowl. “What?” I demand. “If you have something to say, then spit it out. Don’t just stare at me like I’m…” I let the words fall away.

His expression eases. “Like you’re a threat?” he supplies, finishing what I’d been about to say as if he can see into my mind. He said he couldn’t, but what if that was a lie? Lyall sighs. “I can’t, Haven,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t what?”

“Not look at you like a threat,” he replies. The cold drip of ice cream touches my knuckles, but I ignore the sensation. “You could be,” he admits. “A threat or … redemption.”

“Redemption?” I shake my head. “I don’t understand, Lyall. Did you bring me all the way out here just to talk in riddles?”

“No.” He sighs and drops his cup onto the bench on the other side of his leg. “No, I’m sorry. That’s not why I brought you out here.”

When another drip of the mint ice cream slides over one of my fingers, I curse and stand up. Stalking a few feet away to a nearby trash can, I shove the last of the cone into the opening and wipe my fingers against my jeans before flipping back to face him. “Then what the hell did you bring me out here for?”

Lyall stares back at me as he leans forward. Resting his elbows on his knees, he steeples his fingers together. The gold in his eyes glows once more, becoming more pronounced as I assume his wolf rises to the surface.

Of the types of witches he’s told me about, I already know which he is—shape-shifter. It makes me wonder about all the other myths and legends. Werewolves. Vampires. Ghosts. Did all those things come from witches? The question halts on my tongue, stifled by something else.

Sparks of fire dance down my spine. I jerk my chin toward the horizon. The sun has already sunk halfway out of sight, but where the light meets the land—dust rises, shadows forming.

“Lyall?” My voice quavers as I say his name. A moment later, he’s standing next to me, so fast that I hadn’t even heard him get up. His hand closes around my bicep. He turns me from the sight, though, and cups my cheek, guiding my eyes up to meet his. All the brown has been erased, and there’s nothing left but liquid gold.

“Do you want to know, Rabbit?”

Is he serious? I reach up, my fingers locking around his wrists. “Of course I do.”

“Even if it’s scary?” he insists. “Even if the answers aren’t pretty?”

I contemplate his questions, considering them honestly. In the last year, I’ve lost everything I’ve ever known. My childhood home. My parents. My safety. Until them, I thought I was losing my mind too.

Ipswich is all I have left.

In the end, there’s only one answer.

“I have to know,” I tell him, pressing my cheek into his palm harder as if that will solidify my desperate words.

His brows dip, but not in confusion. The corners of his lips tip up. His gaze softens. I’ve had enough of it over the last year to know what the emotion is—sympathy.

“Okay,” he says, straightening even as his hands remain on my face. “Then we’ll find out. Together.”

“Find out what?” I whisper the question, unsure if I should disturb the odd electricity racing between us.

His thumb strokes the side of my face in a consistent up-and-down motion. “We know you’re one of us, Haven,” he says in response. “The whole reason why we might seem obsessed with you—”

“Seem?” I arch a brow up at him, unable to help the sardonic note of my voice.

Lyall’s soft smile widens farther until just the hint of a sharpened canine peeks out from between his lips. “Okay, fine,” he agrees. “The whole reason why we are obsessed with you”—his correction fills me with an emotion that makes my mouth go dry and my thighs press together—“is because you’re a female witch.”

Startled by those words, I arch away from him only for him to slide a hand around to the nape of my neck and grip me there, holding me still. “No, no, don’t pull away,” he chastises me in an annoyingly gentle tone. “It’s not like that, I promise.”

“Then please,” I deadpan. “Explain what it is like.”

He sighs. “I’m fucking this up,” he admits. “I figured I would—I’ve never been the most … eloquent of the coven, but the others are a bit distracted at the moment, and you need to be made aware of some things sooner rather than later.”