Chapter Five

  Greer’s legs had frozen.

  Her heart, on the other hand, pounded wildly in her chest.

  She glanced at the stairs, quickly judging the distance. Could she make it to the attic before he caught her with those long legs of his?

  “So you’re a witch hunter?” she asked brainlessly, the words falling out of her mouth before she could snatch them back. She groped blindly behind her, desperate for something—anything—to defend herself. But the only thing her fingers could find was the stupid metal tea tin. Still, she grabbed it, curling her fingers around the thin lip as if it were a weapon worth a damn.

  He dropped his shirt, his gaze falling to the tabletop. For a moment, he almost looked embarrassed. She inched closer to the stairs, never taking her eyes off him.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t know what those meant,” he admitted. Which was asinine. Why would he say such a dumb-ass thing? She wanted to laugh, but maybe that was just the panic talking.

  “You don’t grow up with my Grandma and not know what those are,” she said bitterly. She swallowed, clearing the cotton that kept trying to fill her mouth. “So, is your grandpa one too?”

  He nodded, and the puzzle pieces fell into place.

  “So that’s why you stuck around,” she said, feeling sick. She glanced at the stairs again.

  This time, he noticed. He stood up, alarm flashing in his eyes. “Greer, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quickly, taking a step toward her.

  She gripped the tea tin tighter, the edge biting into her palm. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” she snapped, her voice trembling as adrenaline roared in her ears.

  “Greer, I promise I’m not-”

  She didn’t let him finish. She bolted for the stairs, the tea tin still clutched in her hand, sachets spilling onto the floor in her wake.

  “Damn it,” he cursed, lunging after her.

  He was fast, but panic made her faster.

  She reached the stairs first and flew up them two at a time, her feet barely touching the steps. But his longer strides closed the gap quickly, and soon he was at her back. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around.

  “Greer!”

  She lobbed the tin at his head, a clumsy, desperate throw.

  “Ow!” he yelped as it connected, his hand shooting up to clutch his forehead. He looked wounded, both physically and emotionally. “What the hell?”

  He reached for her again, but she was already twisting away. His hand caught the edge of her shirt, yanking her backward.

  “Let go!” she shouted, her voice raw with panic.

  The force robbed her of momentum, and her foot slipped on the edge of the step. She fell hard onto the landing, pain flaring in her knee as it scraped against the rough carpet runner. Her weight dragged him off balance, and he stumbled, crashing into the wall before landing heavily on top of her.

  The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she gasped, squirming under him in a frantic attempt to get free.

  “Greer, please!” he panted, his arms wrapping around her as she struggled. “Stop! I’m not going to hurt you!”

  She flailed, her fists raining down on his bare head. His hat was gone—lost somewhere in the chaos. He hunched into himself, shielding his face against her shoulder but stubbornly refusing to let her go.

  “Jesus!” he shouted, his voice muffled against her skin. “I’m telling the truth! I’m not going to hurt you!”

  Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as her fists slowed, then stopped. Did she dare trust him? Her chest heaved, her knuckles trembling as she reluctantly lowered her hands.

  Chris lifted his head, realizing she wasn’t fighting anymore. Their faces were so close she could see the tiny beads of sweat on his brow and the faint smattering of freckles across his nose. She could feel his breath against her cheek, warm and quick, and smell the salt of his sweat mixed with the sweet scent of laundry detergent.

  His weight pressed heavily against her, pinning her to the stairs. The rough carpet scratched the bare skin on her lower back where her shirt had been hiked up.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again. “I promise.”

  “Okay,” she said stiffly, still pissed.

  “Are you going to run away again?”

  She shook her head, and their noses bumped. They both froze.

  Her brain was a country divided. On the one hand, he was her childhood friend, the crush of her seven-year-old self, and she was intensely aware that all she had to do was lift her chin, and she’d be kissing him. On the other hand, he represented everything she’d been terrified of as a kid and, to a lesser degree, as an adult.

  He made the choice for her. He lifted himself off her and folded his body against the wall, giving her space to sit up. The landing wasn’t huge, but she pushed herself as far as she could from him and the confusing feelings he caused.

  “Can we start over?” he asked.

  “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

  He looked away from her frank gaze and rubbed the side of the head where the tin had caught him. He winced and looked at his fingers like he was expecting to see blood. Guilt peppered her.

  “Sorry,” she said reluctantly.

  “Why would you think I’d hurt you?”

  She gaped at him, then pointed downstairs. “You literally just said-”

  He held up his hands. “I know; I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “Everything is going wrong,” he admitted.

  “Like what?” she huffed, refusing to look at his sad puppy dog face.

  He gave her a look. “For starters, this whole thing,” he said, motioning to the space between them. “I said if you were a witch. Not that you are. I can feel it when a witch is near.” He speared her with a sharp look. “That’s what the runes do.”

  She hadn’t known that. “Then why did you ask if you already knew?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to, but shit kept adding up. First, your car, then my truck, then the monster. I mean, Kat was your grandma. I’d be stupid not to wonder if some of it had rubbed off.”

  She drew her knees up and considered him. “I’d have to be a special kind of stupid to activate the ward, trap myself on the hill, and then summon the creature,” she pointed out. He was looking at his feet, his face forlorn.

  “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

  She stared at him. “Would you have killed me if I said yes?”

  His head snapped up, his face stricken. “No, of course not-”

  Doubt picked at her. “Really?”

  He shook his head adamantly. “No. I swear,” he said earnestly. “I would’ve told you to get as far away from here as fast as you could and left it at that.”

  She studied his face, searching for any hint of dishonesty. His gaze didn’t waver, and despite herself, she felt some of the tension in her chest begin to ease.

  Downstairs, the kettle began to scream, the sound breaking the silence between them.

  “So, are we okay?” he asked carefully. “Do you believe me now?”

  “Yeah,” she acquiesced, and he sighed, standing up and grabbing his hat from the stairs.

  He stuffed it on his head, looking drained. “Shall we?”

  She nodded again and got to her feet. Once in the kitchen, she moved the kettle off the heat and picked up a couple of the tea packets from the floor. He settled himself at the table and hunched over himself, looking miserable. There was one more question she had to ask, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

  “Do you believe it?” she asked, filling her mug with hot water.

  His head shot up. “Believe what?”

  “The whole witch hunter thing: that witches are evil and need to die.”

  He looked away. “Maybe. Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

  She settled across from him at the table, her steaming mug between them. Outside, the rain railed against the house, loud as gunfire. “No reason,” she lied.

  She stared into the swirling steam rising from her mug, trying to ignore the pang in her chest. Chris had always been there, a dumb little crush tucked into the back of her mind. Her first love. Some part of her childhood self—naive and unshakable—had been convinced they’d end up together someday, no matter how much time passed or how far she’d gone.

  But sitting here now, she knew better. The witch hunter and the magic-less witch. It was practically a joke. She tightened her hands around the mug, relishing the warmth that seeped into her fingers.

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a witch anymore,” she said bitterly, taking a sip from her tea and letting the too-hot liquid burn its way down her throat. She set the mug down with a heavy clunk. Tea wasn’t what she needed. She stood up, not looking at him. “I need a drink.”

  She started to move past him, but he grabbed her arm as she passed. “Wait,” he said urgently. “What do you mean, not anymore?”

  She blinked down at him, startled by the sudden switch. “What?”

  “You said you weren’t a witch anymore.”

  “Oh.” She’d thought he understood when they talked back at his truck. Thought the scars told their own story.

  “Because she took my magic from me.”

  ---

  “What kind of problem?” Tad asked, rushing after Simone, struggling into his boots. But she didn’t answer. Instead, she scurried around her kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling Tupperware containers out, tossing them onto the counter.

  “Simone,” Tad began but was interrupted by Henry rounding the door of the bathroom, his face drawn in angry lines.

  “Just what do you think you’re going to do?” The other man asked, hopping into the hall on his remaining foot. Henry paused, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. He was pale, paler than even he’d been moments earlier. His arms shook with effort as he hopped forward.

  Simone paused in her frantic rummaging and looked up at him. “I’m going to stop it.”

  “Like you did last time?” Henry asked snidely. “Because you did such a good job back then.”

  “Last time, I was eighteen,” she shot back.

  Henry laughed hoarsely, but it quickly turned into great hacking coughs. He tried to cover his mouth, but he lost his balance and slid to the floor. Tad rushed to help him, but the older man pushed him away, still coughing into his elbow.

  Simone shoved her things into one of the duffle bags from earlier, her movements brisk and precise. “Stay here,” she said to Tad, her tone leaving no room for argument. She yanked the zipper closed and slung the bag over her shoulder in one smooth motion. “Your dad will be by any minute,” she added, already heading toward the door without so much as a glance back.

  Tad frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going back,” she said, fishing her keys out of the bowl on the ledge next to the door. “If what you said is true-” she stopped herself and shook her head. “It wasn’t enough,” she said gravely. “Not by a mile.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  “The circle.”

  The fear that had been living inside him since he’d gone into the pit crystallized into something harder. Tad bent at the knee and began hurriedly tying his boots. “I’m coming with you.”

  She scowled. “The hell you are. You’re in over your head, kid. Joe will be here soon. He’ll know what to do.”

  If Tad knew anything, it was that his dad would definitely not know what to do. “Look,” he said, getting to his feet. “I get that you and my dad have some kind of history, but he’s not the man he used to be. Not anymore. Let me help.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, her curls rioting. “You don’t know what you’re asking, kid. This isn’t your fight.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Tad fumed. He jabbed his finger to the east, toward the other house. “I just got mauled by something out of a nightmare. I deserve to at least know what the fuck is going on.”

  She threw up her hands in exasperation and glared at him, then pointed to the couch. “Sit. Your. Ass. Down. I do not have time for this shit.”

  He walked over to the couch and sat, then he scowled and wondered why he had done that. He looked up at her, surprised. “Did you just-”

  “Yes,” she said impatiently, and then she was opening the front door and pushing past the screen. It screeched in her wake and clattered against the doorframe. He tried to stand out and found he couldn’t.

  “Simone!” he cried angrily. He heard the door to her truck slam shut. A minute later, the engine roared to life. He cursed.

  “Man,” Henry drawled from the floor. Tad had to crane his neck to see the other man. “You really pissed her off.”

  Tad scowled at him, or rather, he scowled at the back of the wicker chair. “Shut up.”

  The other man coughed. It was the wet, rasping sound of a long-term smoker. Tad closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Henry said when the coughing fit had subsided. “She has a way of blowing things out of proportion.”

  Tad wasn’t sure Henry was the one he wanted to be taking advice from, but he was curious enough to humor him. “What do you mean?”

  He couldn’t see the other man, but he could hear the shrug in his voice. “She’s always been like this. Ever since we were kids.”

  “Like what?”

  “She’s gotta be the boss, you know what I mean? She likes being in charge.”

  Tad thought about it. Henry wasn’t entirely wrong. Simone definitely gave off vibes of someone who was used to having their orders followed. She reminded him a lot of his mom in that way. He sighed and leaned back into the cushions.

  “Why are these roots such a big deal anyway?” he asked.

  Henry was silent for a long moment. “Your dad never said anything?”

  Tad shook his head before he remembered that the other man couldn’t see him. “No,” he said, wondering how his dad had gotten mixed up in this.

  He heard the other man sigh. “What do you know about the Other Side?”

  “You mean, death?”

  “No. The other side of reality. Folks around here call it the Under, but my parents had a book that called it The Place In-Between.” He chuckled dryly, but it deteriorated quickly into a coughing fit. “That book was full of crap,” he said once the coughing had subsided. “Most books are.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “And the roots are part of this Under?”

  “Sort of. The Under is a mirror image of our world. Everything that’s here is there too. This house is there. Your car outside is there. The only exception is the Trees.” Tad could hear the ominous capitalization in Henry’s voice.

  “What’s the tree?”

  “Trees,” Henry corrected. “Do you know those trees out west? The ones that are just clones of each other?”

  Tad could briefly recall something from a nature documentary about that. “I think so, yeah.”

  “It’s more or less the same thing,” Henry said, pushing himself up against the wall. “There are thousands of Trees all over the globe. No one knows where they originated. Or when, for that matter. They’ve just always been there.” Henry started the journey across the room, limping and using the furniture to keep himself upright. “They grow wherever there’s magic. Some of them have been in the same spot for centuries. I hear the one in Mexico City is something to see,” he said, heaving himself into the wicker chair opposite Tad.

  “What does this have to do with the roots?” Tad asked.

  “Because the roots are the Tree.”

  Oh.

  Tad frowned. “Then why is Simone so worried about it?” The way Henry explained things, it sounded like these Trees were pretty typical.

  Henry scowled. “Because she doesn’t understand how momentous this is! There’s finally enough magic here to finally support a Tree! Here! In Eliasborough!” Henry’s face had all the academic fervor of an obsessive historian.

  Tad glowered at him. “How is my dad involved in all this?”

  Henry’s face lost the shine of infatuation, and he scowled. “This isn’t the first time a Tree has tried to root in our area. The first time was when we were just kids in high school. Your dad helped Simone burn it down.”

  That didn’t make sense. His dad wasn’t a witch. “But you said the Trees were only in the Under-”

  “Did I say that?” Henry asked sharply.

  Had he? Tad thought back to what the other man had said. “So you’re saying there was a Tree here, on this side?” He couldn’t help but think about it as a literal mirror: the real world and the reflection.

  Henry nodded bitterly, a sharp jerk of his chin. “And then your dad and Simone went and burnt it down.”

  Honestly, it sounded like something his dad would do.

  Outside, the dawn’s thin light was filling the sky, painting the clouds with lavender and rose. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Quarter to six. There was no way his dad was getting out of bed this early in the morning. If they had to wait for him to get there, they’d be waiting until noon.

  “This is bullshit,” he said, squirming against the cushions. It was insulting enough that ever since he started at the station, his dad had been treating him like some kind of personal lackey- asking him to pick him up coffee or drop off a package- but now Simone was forcing him to wait around for his dad like a kid waiting to be picked up from school. He squirmed harder, and whatever had been holding him to the couch seemed to give a little.

  Encouraged, he shifted again, his muscles straining, the effort making his jeans pull tight across his thighs. For a second, he worried he’d rip the fabric—or worse, destroy Simone’s couch—but with a final heave, the invisible hold gave way.

  Tad stumbled to his feet, breathless but triumphant. He ran a hand down his shirt, straightening it as he squared his shoulders. “Come on,” he said, his voice brimming with self-satisfaction. “Let’s go.”

  Henry looked bemused. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re gonna help,” Tad said. He looked around the room, wondering where his keys had gotten to.

  Henry wheezed, laughing. “And just how do you propose I do that?”

  Tad stopped as reality crashed into him. “Oh, right.” He frowned. What Henry needed was some kind of crutch or cane. Was he ballsy enough to search Simone’s house for something they could use?

  In the end, he shook his head. “I’ll carry you,” he said, moving toward Henry. He didn’t know how he’d sustain the other man’s weight with his shoulder the way it was, but he’d manage.

  “Hold on,” Henry said quickly when Tad bent to pick him up. “Don’t I get a say in this?” He pushed Tad away irritably. “Simone’s kid had muscular dystrophy. Check his room; she might still have some of his stuff.”

  Tad didn’t miss the past tense in Henry’s words. He opened his mouth to ask what happened, but Henry waved him away. “Go on now,” he said. “Before your dad gets here and fucks everything up.”

  He had a point.

  Tad did a quick search of the house and found a small room near the back with a single twin-sized bed and lots of dusty boxes. He rummaged through the closet until he found what he was looking for, a pair of forearm crutches with blue tape winding down the pole. They looked too short for the taller Henry, but he supposed it would have to do.

  When he came back to the living room, the other man was waiting for him. “Find them?”

  Tad held out the crutches, and Henry gestured him closer. “Just give me the one for now.”

  Henry grabbed the handle with one thin hand and tested it out. It was indeed too short, but Tad noticed the adjustable button on the leg and quickly lengthened it to the right height.

  “Better?”

  Henry nodded, then peered at Tad. “You sure about this? She’s gonna be pissed.”

  Tad steeled his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”

  Getting Henry in and out of the cruiser was a slow, clumsy process that took longer than the short drive to the Dane farm. By the time Tad helped the other man out of the passenger seat, the sun was already poking its head up over the horizon, spilling golden light over the rolling countryside. Ahead of them, Henry’s beat-up little truck waited in front of Simone’s much larger Chevy. Tad looked for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. His stomach dropped as he realized what that must mean.

  “She’s gone down into the basement,” he said, keeping pace beside the other man as, together, they walked toward the remains of the house. One of the timbers had fallen in the night and was sticking out of the darkened basement like a fractured bone.

  Henry looked irritated. “Of course she did,” he grumbled. He thumbed the rock that hung around his neck. “You’re gonna have to go down after her.”

  “What? Why?” Tad never wanted to go back in that basement again.

  “Because there’s Hunters down there, that’s why,” Henry said. “She’ll never stand a chance.”

  Fuck it if he wasn’t right.

  When they were close enough, Tad saw Simone had run a second salt line around the house, this one glowing red gold in the light of the dawn. A length of paracord had also been looped around the nearest tree, its trunk, and limbs blackened from the explosion. The thin braided plastic ran across the yard into the pit, and Tad knelt next to it, wondering what was so important about those Tree roots that Simone felt she needed to go down.

  Behind him, Tad heard Henry draw in a sharp breath.

  “Jesus,” the other man hissed.

  Tad quickly turned to face him. “What?” He followed Henry’s gaze to the remains of the house. The light from the rising sun fell across the open space, but the light barely penetrated the darkness that seemed to cling to the hole. It wasn’t an open basement anymore, he realized. It was a pit, impossibly black and so deep he couldn’t see the bottom.

  “It festered,” Henry said, and the words made Tad’s skin crawl.

  He swore.

  Suddenly, the rope at their feet pulled tight. Tad bent to pick it up, but something down below zipped to the side, and the plastic cut a line across his palm as it whipped out of his grasp. He gasped and pressed the burning cut to his thigh. There was a loud pop, and the paracord jumped up like a snake, then it lay at his feet, torn completely through.

  Alarm streaked through him.

  “Something’s happened,” he said, turning in a panicked circle. “Do you see any more rope?”

  “Unless you brought some, there ain’t no more, kid.”

  Tad swallowed and looked back at the pit, feeling his balls tighten. Henry was right. Someone had to get her out of there. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Henry, moving to the lip of the crater.

  “What’s this for?” Henry asked.

  “That’s my work phone,” Tad said as he crouched. He dug his fingers into the rubble, searching for something strong to hold onto. His shoulder hurt like a mother. “If something happens, call it in.” He turned to Henry, the stones grinding under his boot. “My dad’ll-” Tad stopped himself. What exactly could his dad and the guys do against this? He opened his mouth to tell Henry to scratch that idea when the debris under his feet gave way. For one sick moment, he was hanging in the air above the yawning pit then blackness rose up and grabbed him, pulling him down.

  ---

  Chris blinked, his expression softening with something that looked painfully close to pity. Greer’s jaw tightened, her irritation prickling at the edges of her resolve. Wasn’t he a witch hunter? He wasn’t supposed to look at her like that—with understanding, like he cared. It wasn’t fair.

  “What do you mean, ‘took it’?” he asked incredulously. “Took your magic?”

  She nodded, her fists curling so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. “Yeah,” she said, her voice brittle, like it might break under the weight of the memory.

  He hesitated, his disbelief palpable. “Who?”

  She swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she forced the words out. “My grandma.”

  He stood to his feet and stepped around the table until they were inches apart. She watched his eyes flick over her face as his hand reached up to trace her scars. His expression changed. “That’s why you left,” he realized. “Christ.”

  She wanted to be furious with him, to let the bitterness simmer unchecked. And yet, as she stood in front of him, a strange calm began to creep in, uninvited and unwelcome. She hated it.

  It was his face, she decided. The way his eyes held hers—not with pity, but with something worse. Compassion. Like he actually understood her.

  She hated when people pitied her.

  She tried to hate him. She really, really tried. She flexed her hands, trying to hold onto the anger, but it was already slipping from her. Damn it. She folded herself into the bench across from him, feeling sullen.

  “How could she do that to you?” he asked, his face a kaleidoscope of anger.

  She offered a nonchalant shrug, her gaze skittering away from his. “She wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest grandma.”

  “Still,” he protested.

  She sighed and stood back up. She couldn’t stay there and watch his face anymore. “I need that drink.”

  In the pantry, on the highest shelf in the corner, Kat used to keep a bottle of whiskey. Greer dragged the stool over, climbed on top of it, and stood on her tip-toes. She blindly reached with her fingers into the darkened corner until they touched the cool glass. She managed to pull it toward her, grateful it was still there, and climbed down from the stool.

  The pantry was quiet, and it felt like a different world. Outside, the rain pelted the siding and backdoor in a loud rhythm, blocking out the sounds of Chris in the kitchen, and she found herself lingering. She was honest enough with herself to know she was avoiding going back to the difficult feelings that waited for her in the kitchen. The kitchen was messy, and messy was the last thing she wanted to deal with just then.

  What she wouldn’t give to be home just then, alone on her couch, watching a stupid movie on TV. Impulsively, she sat down on the floor and leaned back against the shelves, feeling the bite of the hard wooden lip against her back, and uncapped the bottle. She took a sip, contemplating the door in front of her, wondering if the creature was still there, waiting for her.

  “I wish you were here,” she said to the quiet room, pitching her voice low. She fingered the label of the bottle. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t been able to talk to her mom. Maggie had been her constant companion since the day she died, six years earlier. It had been just the two of them since that day they ran away from this place, and now that she couldn’t talk to her, Greer found she missed her. Something cracked a little inside her, and tears burned at the edges of her eyes. She raised the bottle and took another drink, masochistically letting the liquid burn the cut on her lip before she swallowed.

  “I was wondering where you were.”

  Chris’s sudden appearance around the corner made her look up. His eyes softened as they took in the raw desolation etched on her face. “Whoah, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Just ruminating about how fucked up everything is right now.”

  He settled himself next to her on the floor. “I hear you.”

  She passed him the bottle and nodded to the door. “Do you think it’s still out there?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.” He took a drink, then coughed and peered at the label. “Say what you will about your grandma, but damn, she had good taste in liquor.”

  She wanted to laugh but couldn’t force her lips upward. They drank in silence for a moment, each lost to their own thoughts. It was almost companionable, and she felt herself relax for the first time in days.

  Eventually, he sighed and took off his cap, rubbing the matted hair underneath and looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Wilhelm isn’t going to be happy with this,” he said.

  She sipped the whiskey, wishing it didn’t have to taste so bad. She had never been much of a drinker. “Why not?”

  Chris clapped his baseball cap back onto his head. “Their agreement,” he said. “His and Kat’s. He stayed out of her business, and she didn’t interfere with ours.” He glanced in her direction; his lips pressed into a thin line. “This is gonna toe the line.”

  She frowned. “Why? I mean, I get the whole witch’s granddaughter thing,” she said, gesturing to herself, “but this whole situation is fucked up. Why would he care about us?”

  He sighed. “Because the terms of the agreement were very clear: no interference, no interaction, no help. My grandpa has basically spent the last forty years pretending your grandma doesn’t exist.” He suddenly looked chagrined. “Didn’t exist, sorry.”

  She was starting to understand what he wasn’t saying. “And you’ve already helped me in the creek,” she said.

  He nodded. “That and the thing outside.”

  “Whatever,” she said, setting her jaw. “That was their agreement. Not ours.”

  He looked skeptical. “I guess.” He sighed and rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “I wish there was some way to warn the others-”

  “You can’t leave,” she said. Not with the monster literally outside the door.

  “I know,” he admitted. “I was hoping I could call them, but-”

  But the lines were out.

  “How many people live up here?” she asked.

  “Five.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Me, my grandpa, the Clarke’s, and Fowler.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What about texting everyone?”

  “No reception, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  He sighed. “At least the rain will keep them inside.”

  “Then I’m sure they’ll be fine,” she reasoned. She didn’t want to think about that, not really. Her head was starting to buzz already, that happy, slightly out-of-control feeling.

  “So, the wards… what’s up with them?” he asked after a moment.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know that much about them- I was too young to help with anything.”

  “What about the one down by the creek? Does it just block the road, or does it go all the way around?”

  “All the way around. I used to walk it with Grandma every Sunday when I was little.” She glanced at him. “You’ve probably seen it a dozen or more times without knowing what you were looking at.”

  He thought about that. “Now that you mention it, I’ve seen Kat walking on the weekends, down at the edge of our fields. “He pointed at the exterior wall toward his farm at the top of the hill. “Just never thought too much about it.”

  Greer nodded. She remembered that part of the trail clearly. The forest fell away on that side of the hill, and it had always been sunny and windswept. “That sounds about right.”

  “She used to do it every weekend? Do you think they started to-,” he fumbled for the right words, “come apart?”

  That was where Greer’s memory got fuzzy. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  Chris tipped the bottle back for another swig, his gaze distant. “So, that creature outside—it’s trapped? Between the two lines?”

  Greer nodded, the rain outside tapping steadily against the pantry window. “Seems as likely as anything.”

  “But how did it get here in the first place?”

  She shrugged, her fingers picking absently at the hem of her shorts. “Damned if I know.”

  Chris let out a heavy sigh, the kind that made her feel tired just hearing it. “I guess tomorrow I’ll get my grandpa and Fred together, and we’ll go after it.”

  The thought made her stomach twist. That was not something she wanted to participate in. “Count me out,” she said quickly, reaching for the bottle. She took a deep drink, the whiskey burning a path down her throat.

  Chris didn’t argue, but his brow lifted slightly, like he was holding back a comment. Instead, he gestured for the bottle, and she passed it back.

  “You’re not even curious?” he asked, tipping the bottle toward his mouth.

  Greer snorted. “About running headlong into whatever the hell that thing is? Not even a little.”

  Chris lowered the bottle and gave a small, almost reluctant smile. “Fair.”

  The rain tapped steadily against the pantry window, filling the silence between them.

  He hesitated before taking another drink. “You know, it’s weird seeing you here again,” he said finally.

  Greer raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

  He shrugged. “Like something from another life. I never expected to see you again.”

  Realistically, she hadn’t expected to see him again either, not after everything. The little fantasy she’d kept tucked away in the back of her mind had always been just that—a fantasy. Reality had made sure of that long ago. But now here they were.

  “So… what does this mean?” she asked.

  Greer didn’t look at him as she spoke. She wasn’t good at talking about feelings—never had been—but the question had slipped out before she could stop it.

  He froze mid-drink, lowering the bottle with a slight frown. “What?”

  “This,” she said, waving a hand between them as she looked away, her cheeks flushing. “Us.”

  “Oh.” He leaned back against the pantry shelves, his cap tilted low over his eyes. For a moment, he just studied her, making her shift uncomfortably against the cool tile floor. “I guess it means we’re back where we started. Old friends.”

  Friends. The word hung in the air, heavy and unsatisfying.

  Chris looked away, his voice quieter when he finally spoke. “It’s hard to hate someone for something they can’t even use.”

  Her jaw tightened as Pattie Clarke’s face came to mind. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t care about that distinction.”

  He shrugged, and it had a rebellious edge to it. “Yeah, well, I try not to be like most people.” Holding the bottle out to her, he met her gaze. “Truce?”

  She hesitated, then took the bottle, her fingers brushing his. “Truce,” she said softly, tipping it back for another burning gulp.

  The rain outside grew louder, pounding against the roof as the quiet stretched between them. When Chris finally spoke again, his tone was lighter, almost casual. “So… what was it like, growing up in Bedford?”

  She ended up telling him about the things only another country kid would understand: about how it was all so alien and the sudden disappearance of freedom as the fields and woods of her childhood were replaced with concrete sidewalks and chain link fences. They shared the bottle between them, trading stories of their upbringing. He told her about living with his grandfather, alone at the top of the hill, and she told stories of the little apartment she and her mother lived in. The tension in her shoulders leaked out with the ticking of the clock on the wall, and all the while, the whiskey slowly went to her head. She found herself leaning into him, the distance between them shrinking in ways that was both comforting and dangerous.

  “You know,” he said, his voice soft but hesitant, “I’m glad you’re not a witch.”

  The world tilted, and a bitter laugh escaped her lips. “I think, technically, I am a witch,” she said, her voice unsteady as her fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle. The words themselves felt a little wild, like a secret she wasn’t supposed to tell. Certainly not to him.

  She turned to face him, setting the bottle aside with a loud clink. She twisted her body toward him, her knees brushing his. He watched her, his eyes wide, uncertain. “I was born one,” she said, her tone laced with something she couldn’t quite name. A challenge, maybe. Or resignation.

  The air between them felt heavy, her breath quickening as her own words settled in the space they shared. She hadn’t meant to say it, but now that it was out, she couldn’t take it back. She didn’t want to.

  Her hand trembled as she picked up his and pressed it to her chest, against the frantic beat of her heart. “Go on,” she murmured, her voice low and trembling. “Isn’t this the part where you do what witch hunters do?”

  He blinked, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and alarm.

  “But you don’t have magic,” he said quickly, almost defensively.

  “And that makes it better?” she snapped, the sharpness of her tone surprising even herself. The alcohol softened the edges of her fear, but it was still there, a distant ache in her chest.

  “Magic is unnatural,” he said, his voice firmer now, as if saying it with conviction could make it true. “You’re just… a regular person now.”

  Her mouth tightened, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she said, each word deliberate, almost daring him to argue.

  He set the bottle down with a soft clink and turned toward her, his eyes narrowing. “It has to be true,” he said, his tone quieter now but no less insistent. “Because I really didn’t want to kill you.”

  He hesitated, his gaze searching hers, then leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers. The closeness stole her breath. He smelled like laundry detergent, sweat, and something indefinable—something him. His heat radiated off him in waves, and her pulse quickened as he locked eyes with her. Flecks of gold shimmered in the brown, catching the dim light.

  “You’re like a part of me,” he murmured, his voice low and raw.

  The confession sent warmth spiraling through her chest, soft and bittersweet. For a moment, she let herself feel it—let herself believe it. She let herself sway closer, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to catch the faint taste of whiskey lingering in the air. But then the truth pressed back in. She wasn’t just Greer to him. She was Kat’s granddaughter. A witch.

  Her breath caught, and she leaned back, pulling herself out of the moment before it could swallow her whole.