AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I deflate. I was afraid of that. I don’t personally care, but Etta will argue that it will matter because our families will try to say it’s breakable. Order marriages can’t be ended though divorce.
I rise from my seat and turn toward the door. “Thanks for your help.”
“Roman?” Professor Abram says. “Should I assume that you’ve decided to return to the service of the Order?”
I turn back to him, and am slightly taken aback to find that he’s watching me with an intensity I haven’t seen before. Like this answer matters to him—I can’t fathom why. He’s a decent professor, sure. Was helpful after my sister’s death, but he has no stake in the council or anything else that might be affected by this.
I shrug. “Considering it.”
Professor Abram blinks, and his intense gaze shifts back to normal. “Well, let me know if you need any additional reading material. I have dozens of books that might interest you if you have time before…”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m still not sure.”
He waves me away. “Right. Right.”
Stepping out into the hall without another word, I shake my head as if to clear it. I’m not sure why that conversation seemed odd to me—unlike Etta, I’ve never claimed to have any second sight. Still, I think perhaps I’ll be more wary of who I ask for advice from now on.
ChapterFifteen
ETTA
Lavender, rosemary, eggshells…I look around for my crystals and salt, then gather the rest of my haphazard ingredients, before stuffing them all into a jar without much concern for the Order. Herbs and salt spill over the vanity counter alongside my curling iron and several make-up pallets that are probably too old to still be using. My reflection in the mirror over the sink looks anxious, which is exactly how I feel. I hardly ever make spell-jars anymore, but if there was ever a time…
I reach for the matches on the shelf above the toilet and light one against the top of my jar before dropping it in. The smoke from the lavender and other herbs rises for a second, before I screw on the lid, trapping it inside. The label on the lid of my recycled jar smiles up at me, proclaiming to calm dry and flaky skin. I snort a laugh. There are Pinterest witches everywhere cringing at my lack of aesthetic. Whatever. Pagan gods do not care if you perfectly layer ingredients or use brand new jars or even if all the ingredients are exact. I could have thrown dirt into the air with intention and it would have probably been close enough, but I’ll feel better knowing I at least made the effort to throw a spell together.
I huff out a sigh and my shoulders slump as I place the jar on the counter with slightly too much force. The crystals inside rattle. This is something like a protection spell plus a ‘calm the fuck down bitch’ potion. At least, that was the intention. I’ll bury it in the garden later, and let it simmer.
Rolling my neck, I exit the ensuite and walk back over to my bed, flopping on top of the haphazardly made covers. Usually the simple act of making a spell calms me down, even if it’s barely more than a prayer as I have no real magic yet to put into it. Still, maybe a marriage of convenience to my enemy and hooking up in the library is beyond the capacity of my jar.
It’s been just over twenty-four hours since I left the library, and in that time I’ve gone from satisfied to horrified to a basket case. What seemed like a completely reasonable idea in the secluded corner of the second floor now seems insane. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Actually, I do know. I wasn’t thinking. People don’t do shit like this in real life.
Most people don’t make spell-jars or pledge their souls to demons either.
Playing devil’s advocate with myself has been exhausting.
It also doesn’t help that I haven’t heard from Roman at all. Granted, I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say. Until he speaks with Professor Abram there’s no reason for him to contact me. It’s not like we text just to chat, but still. I’m losing it. Especially as I’m fairly sure he must have had class already.
What if he’s planning to back out? What if he’s regretting the entire scene in the library, or worse, just didn’t care about it at all? Oh my gods, why is it that it only takes a single interaction with Roman Montague to ruin years of work I’ve done on myself and turn me into an insecure teenager?
If this was literally anyone else, I would assume that the scene in the library yesterday meant that Roman at least sort of liked me. Yesterday I was fairly sure he wanted me, but what if I was wrong?
For better or worse, I’ve known Roman for most of my life. I’ve seen him in countless relationships, and heard the gossip from quite literally hundreds of dates. It doesn’t seem like affection is a prerequisite for sex for him the way it is for me.
A distant crash sounds outside and I tense, glancing toward the open balcony doors.
It’s not too cold out, and I like the fresh air, so the doors are cracked, but not wide open. A slight breeze rustles the curtains on occasion, but everything seems still when I look over. Probably nothing—an animal in the yard, or something from the nearby street.
I look back at my phone, casting my mind around for what I was thinking of before the distraction.
A shadowed figure throws his leg over the edge of my balcony. My mind darts to the women disappearing from the Order, and my blood runs cold. Holy shit, I’m about to be a statistic.
I turn and sprint toward my bedroom door just as a soft “Oomph,” tells me that the prowler has made it over the railing. Terror shoots through me, and I stretch my hand out for the doorknob.
“Etta?”
I register the sound of my name, but not the tone or the voice over my own labored breathing. Panicked, I reach for the nearest item, an oil diffuser on the dresser to my right, and swipe my arm out, shoving it behind me. The force of my momentum makes the diffuser go flying.
