Page 86 of Hallowed Bones

“So it’s that age-old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ spiel?” I shake my head. “I thought guys only used that for easy breakup material.”

Cameron makes a choked noise, but at least I have his attention again. His gaze swings wildly back to mine. “W-what? No. That’s not—”

“No, it’s fine.” I hold up my hand, stopping him from stumbling through an excuse that will only make both of us uncomfortable. “I’ll get cleaned up and dressed, and I’ll meet him wherever you tell me to. You’re right anyway. I need to learn, and if I’m here and I’m not sick anymore, what better time than the present?”

“It really isn’t about you,” Cameron murmurs after a beat. “If you want to know why he’s acting the way he is, you should ask him. He doesn’t like to talk about the past, but maybe … maybe with you, he might be different.”

I don’t have a response for his words, so I keep quiet. Cameron sighs. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says. “The coven lair is a bit difficult to find, so meet me in the library when you’re ready, and I’ll show you the door.”

I offer him a smile in return but still don’t say anything as he leaves the room. Confusion is too thick in my veins to allow me to understand the reason. Once he’s gone, I turn and flip open the top of the messenger bag and reach inside to find everything I could need.

I sigh with relief when I see that my toothbrush has been packed as well. Gathering the bag and its contents, I turn toward the corner that Reyes had pulled a chair from earlier. Just like the room that I’d stayed in before, Cameron has an en suite bathroom of his own around the side of the wall.

I carry my things inside, dropping everything to the counter as I turn to the large shower stall across from the sinks. Cranking the tap all the way over to the hot side, I hurriedly strip out of the borrowed clothes and step inside the quickly fogging glass. Scalding water pours out of the showerhead, flowing over my shoulders and down my back, washing away all the sweat from the last few days.

A moan of pleasure rumbles up my chest. It’s like a rebirth, taking a shower after so long. Even if I don’t remember most of it, my body still holds the evidence of several days without one. I soap up my body and wash my hair using the colorful liquid from the bottles anchored to the wall with little pumps underneath.

It could be minutes or it could be hours that pass, but I don’t get out until the rattling of creaking pipes protests and the water dampens from lava to lukewarm. Bishop Manor is still an old house. I’m lucky the water wasn’t room temperature from the start. With a defeated sigh, I turn off the taps and step out onto the tiled floor, reaching for a towel.

Drying off quickly, I slip into my clothes, thankful that Amelie had grabbed some underwear and a bra to go under it all. Once finished, I grab my toothbrush and borrow Cameron’s toothpaste. I shove the paste-coated bristles into my mouth at the same moment that I lift my eyes and find my own gaze in the somewhat foggy mirror.

My breath halts as my throat closes in on itself. I brace one hand on the corner of the porcelain sink and lean forward, tugging my sleeve down and pinning it to my palm with my fingers. I use it to scrub the rest of the mist and condensation away from the mirror. Clarity doesn’t make the murky image any better.

The toothbrush clatters to the sink as I tilt my head one way and then the other. Cameron and Reyes had said that I was suffering from something called darkrot, and regardless of whether they’re right or not … whatever had made me ill was no mere cold.

It’s not just the haggard exhaustion in my face, it’s something else. I’m thinner than before—more than I should be. My clothes, which used to fit me comfortably, hang loosely.

I hardly recognize myself. My skin is sallow, the lines along my cheekbones deeper than I’ve ever seen them. The woman staring back at me in the mirror is a stranger. A foreigner whose body I now inhabit.

Jerking myself back from the image, I force my gaze down and pick my toothbrush back up. I clean it and go about the task of brushing my teeth as fast as I can so that I can get out of the bathroom and away from the reflection that’s utterly wrong. Minutes later, as I enter Cameron’s bedroom, I find my hand creeping up to the cuts on my bicep that are no longer there.

Darkrot. Poison. A monster from the Veil.

Everywhere I turn, everywhere I go, every day that passes introduces me to a new world full of things that could kill me. Some have already tried. Closing my eyes, I grip my biceps with each of my hands and squeeze. There’s no pain. Whatever the Sons of Salem did to help me, it worked.

What happens when it doesn’t? What will happen if next time they’re too late?

My eyes pop back open, and I drop my hands back to my sides, striding for the door. Reyes was right—I can’t keep pushing them away in the hopes that all of this will go away. If they’re willing to teach me how to protect myself, then it’s time I learn.

CHAPTER 30EZRA

When scars fade and the crimson of old betrayals calcifies, the coven tree will bear fruit once more. When the time for harvest calls, fear not the fractured roots; tend them with patience and care and they shall reward you with strong new oaks that carry the strength of centuries reborn.

—EXCERPT FROM A RECORD OF PREMONITIONS: THE SALEM COVEN, 1693

The scents of dust, parchment, and melancholy linger like an old disease inside the chambers that rest beneath the Bishop mansion. Witches of the Salem coven have used this place for centuries, and there are tunnels and other rooms to the chambers that have long since been closed—remaining unused as our bloodlines and numbers dwindled over time. This place, no matter its history, has but one future: to be the surviving member of our coven. The final resting place of our magic.

Not if you choose to keep her, a small voice says. I bite down on my urge to hurl a curse or a fist into the nearest wall.

If you remember nothing else of these lessons, remember this— You were created to continue the bloodline until the Gods forgive us. You are useful for nothing else. You will sire the next generation, and they will do the same. You will inevitably be forgotten in time. You are unimportant.

The loud phantom crack of a cane slapping against flesh makes the present me flinch. My back burns as if I’ve been struck. The voice doesn’t stop, though. There’s more to be said.

Only one thing matters … Cold, cruel words slide into my mind in the familiar voice of my father. Say it.

“Survival.” In the present, I whisper the word by simple rote—the answer as automatic as breathing. “Survival of the bloodlines. Survival of the coven.”

Standing here now, in the center of the witch’s circle with the arching, dome-like ceiling above me and the electrical current of magic flooding my veins, I can practically see his ghost hovering feet away. He would be the first to say that Haven Wardwell should not be allowed the choice of freedom from a coven’s clutches. To him, her existence would seal her fate.