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“Aye, ‘cause yellin’ at the sassenach is totally gonnae help.” Finlay presses his fingers against Rory’s cheek, forcing him to look at him instead. “Yell at me. No’ her.”
“No, go on,” I say calmly, stepping forward, and while Finlay’s shoulders sink at my retaliation, a small flicker of fury exists deep within me, warm and growing hotter by the second. “Say it. What have I made you do? Every single day, you’ve had to… what?”
“Fix it,” Rory snaps, and his anger is a thousand daggers aimed at me. “Every single day, I’ve had tofixyour fuck-up.”
I reel back. It’s been so long since I’ve been scorched by Rory’s ire, and even though I see the instant regret in his eyes, the damage is done. It hurts. It hurts like burning.
“Right. That’s it. That’senough!” Finlay stands between us, using his palms to keep us separate. He’s looking across at Rory like he barely recognizes him. “Whit the fuck are ye daein’, man? Yer mass delusions areno’mair important than the sassenach, you utter fuckwit.”
“She should have fixed this at the start,” Rory growls, turning away from me.
“Seems like it’s yourself that needs to be fixed, not me.” Finlay shoots me a warning look, and I know I’m not helping myself, and yet the words keep pouring out. “And trust me, I’m not fixingthatmess.” Finlay’s expression turns scandalized, and even Rory looks injured by my words.
Because that’s the thing about words. When your skin is thick enough, they’re no worse than pinpricks when weaponized by the people for whom you care nothing. But when used by those closest to you? By friends, family, lovers? A whisper can destroy a life.
“You should know how to fix yourself,” I continue, on and on, and it’s like I can’t shut up. Because deep down, I know this isn’t even me talking to Rory — it’s a tirade sent to myself. It’s pure projection. “And it’s not with your dad’s help. It’s not with creepy witchy shit. It’s by using your head and the obscenely expensive education that’s been poured into it. You’re beingridiculous.”
I feel like I should stomp away in a dramatic huff, but instead I just stand there, the wind whispering back all the treasonous things I’ve said straight into my boyfriend’s ear. Between Finlay’s hands, he lifts his golden head as though my words don’t remotely affect him, but I know him, I know his small giveaways and his secret tells, his posture when trying to act strong.
Rory’s next words are almost inaudible. “This is the ritual,” he says mournfully, burying his head into the crook of Finlay’s neck, and it’s so absurd, soinsane, that I burst out laughing. It’s such a hypocritical stance, becausehowcan he mock those who believe in King James yet in the same breath have perfect, unwavering belief in something entirely unprovable? In mysticism?
“Why are you laughing?” he snaps, turning to me again, spots of red high on his cheeks. “You realize at the start of last year, I performed a ritual to stop there from being girls at Lochkelvin?” It’s a furious blurt of words designed to throw me, and it works: for a moment, my laughter subsides, and I recall Freya’s unexpected departure, of Becca being frogmarched out the doors… It isn’t the fact that two girls left Lochkelvin which stops me, but that Rory’s hatred of us had been so profound that he actually performed some so-called ritual to get rid of us.
Even Finlay’s brows knit in confusion. “Ye didwhit?”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to have worked very well,” I inform Rory coolly. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Becca isn’t. Freya isn’t.”
“Yeah, that’s called coincidence,” I say, yet as the wind picks up and the trees give a strange, shimmering rustle, this seems like a bold statement to make in the Lochkelvin grounds, at the edge of the forest in which I saw faces in trees. I can’t deny it: the air prickles with an undercurrent of magic. The world tastes electric and unknowable. “I’m still here, and so is Li,” I say with resolve, “and Arabella’s definitely not going anywhere.”
“You don’t understand,” Rory says quietly, turning his face away from me again. He peels himself away from Finlay and lurches into the forest, almost stumbling on a tree root. He seems out of it, disconnected. “I need to get to the loch.”
“And dae whit?” Finlay asks loudly, following him. After a beat, I do likewise, because while I may be impatient with Rory at this moment, curiosity is my primary motivator above all else.
“The same thing I’ve done every day since last year,” Rory says, picking up the pace and charging on ahead. We fly through the trees, and I try my hardest to focus on Rory, on his bright gleaming gold hair, instead of the shadows lurking behind trees, instead of the terror wrapped inside my heart.
“I sacrifice a stone into the water,” Rory mumbles blindly, “and it should work — Lochkelvin stone, Lochkelvin water — it should be enough, but…”
The forest seems to whoosh by. Rory knows the way through it directly, cutting straight to the heart of it, unlike my previous journeys when I’d wandered and lost myself entirely.
“Wait,” Finlay says, and he hurries over to Rory, grabbing his arm and jerking him backward. A small patch of sunlight glimmers at the end of the forest, through the blackness of the ancient trees. Rory attempts to tug his arm free, but Finlay’s too determined — he yanks on his shirtsleeve rather than his blazer until Rory comes to a complete stop.
Finlay gazes down. His eyes fixate on something out of sight, then slowly slide from Rory’s exposed arm to his face. In a soft, anguished voice, Finlay tells Rory, “You’re delirious.”
“I have to keep him safe,” Rory mutters wildly, by way of explanation, sadness tinging his tone. “You read the letter. This is what we’re up against, and it’s only the beginning. We need towin.” He leans his forehead against Finlay’s, as though receiving some sense of peace from the gesture, and his gray eyes flash across to me.
“What is it?” I ask in trepidation, standing a small distance away. The two of them look beautiful together, all darkness and light and contrasts of internal opposites linked by a wholly and holy unexpected union. Even the backdrop of old, stoic trees seems to bow before them.
“No,” Rory says, shielding his arm from me. He tugs down his blazer sleeve quickly, smoothing it down.
“If Finlay can see, so can I.”
This makes Rory pause. His jaw clenches, as though trying to come up with reasons not to show me, but then, eventually, he slowly raises the sleeve of his blazer for me.
A neat collection of nicks decorates Rory’s forearm, each one small and straight and giving the impression of a rigidly efficient geometrical pattern.
My fingernails pierce the skin of my palm. Nausea rises to my throat. “What the hell?” I ask in a dizzy whisper, wondering how long ago Rory must have snapped. After the St. Camford trip?Before? And worse — how I hadn’t noticed. How skilled he’d been at batting away any concern, at acting his usual superior, sneering self, while concealing…this.
