Page 13 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

Chapter

Ten

DUKE

All this damned skin is part of the problem. I’m doing my level best to rub every cure I can think of beneath her clothes without having to see or touch anything that’s liable to wreck me. That means I’ve only managed to slather her arms and legs in witch hazel this go around.

My kitchen’s a fucking mess.

“I’m not gonna make it,” I croak to no one. “I’ll never live through this.”

If this all started with me knowing things that were never meant for me to know, then knowing more isn’t going to make it better. We couldn’t unwish Cordie’s wish. How the hell am I supposed to untouch her when I’m literally stuck in her skin?

“You just had to break the only goddamn rule you’ve ever followed for most of your life. Didn’t you, Duke?” I grumble to myself as I stumble down the hallway .

The shit thing is that no one made that rule for me. If that had been the case, I probably would’ve broken it a million times over.

No. The no-touching-Cordie rule was all my own.

At first, I was scared to touch her, to talk to her, to be in the same room as her.

With her fiery red hair and her big green eyes and her big words, that girl was as close to a fairy tale come to life as I’d ever seen. A real-life princess that I wanted to lock away in a tower and keep for myself.

Until all the words I practiced saying to Cordelia McCoy died in my throat.

I’ve felt small plenty of times in my thirty years, but nothing compares to that day in eighth grade when the teacher ordered me to sit right next to her in English class.

She was ordered to help me.

Lord knows she tried.

The Devil knows I resisted.

She was so smart. I was so stupid.

Game over.

I learned how to hate her, and she’s been a disease in my brain ever since, a cancer that I can’t cure.

She hasn’t killed me yet, but damned if I don’t feel closer to a tipping point—one way or another.

I drop onto my couch and then drop my head into my hands.

Only it’s not my head. These aren’t my hands.

Fuck.

Even her forehead is the softest thing I’ve never felt.

What do other parts of her feel like?

Now’s your chance to find out, Duke. No harm, no foul.

I jump off the couch and spin in circles like a goddamn chicken with its head cut off.

I’m not the strongest man in the world, but when it comes to this, I’ve been stronger than steel.

Even steel has a breaking point.

I can feel that breaking point building in my chest. In her chest.

It’s like someone’s holding me down in a bucket of dry ice, freezing me solid from the inside out, readying to take a sledgehammer to me until I shatter. Over and over again in an endless cycle that feels like it’s been pointing to this day all along.

If I break after all this time, I’m sure there won’t be any putting me back together again.

I’m tempted to run, to leave town like Cordie did and never look back.

I stare at the framed pictures of my family that sit on my fireplace mantle and know I can’t. I can’t disappear and start a new life. They need me too much.

I stomp on too-tiny feet back to my spare bedroom, where my old computer sits on a rickety desk. I hardly ever use this thing, but I’m sure glad I’ve kept it for just in case. This is one of those cases.

It’s not like I can call my family. I sound like Cordie.

The dinosaur of a machine takes forever to boot up.

It’s another eternity as I fumble my way through pulling up my email, and fuck, this would be a hell of a lot easier if I’d switched more than just bodies with Cordie McCoy.

There’s a reason I barely use this computer.

Has nothing to do with the shit internet around here either.

from: Duke Castellaw [email protected]

to: Cash Castellaw [email protected], Luke Castellaw [email protected], Jude Castellaw [email protected], Finn Castellaw [email protected]

date: June 19, 2024

subject: sick

mailed-by: gmail.com

Sick. Cant talk. Steer cleer for aspel. Mite be contajus. Say hi tothe boys forme.

Duke

I push back from the desk, hopping out of the chair like it’s on fire.

I make the mistake of placing my hands on Cordie’s hips.

Nope. Not a good idea. It takes every ounce of my willpower to uncurl her fingers, one by one, from around her flesh.

But I do it. I can ignore her body. I’ve just gotta hold out a little longer.

I’ve gotta man up, quit freaking out, and handle this shit.

I’ve had plenty of practice.

“Miss Betty Lou, can I trouble you for a minute?” I pant as I bound up the creaky, chipped wood steps of her front porch.

At least I’m getting better at moving in this snack-sized body. I only tripped five times on the way over here. Not bad, considering Betty Lou lives on the outskirts of town.

The old biddy with the curly white hair wrinkles her nose at me as she glides on her porch swing. “Girl, you stink. What have you been into?”

Ah, hell. I should’ve showered before I came over here. Still not sure how I’m going to manage that.

“Ate some pickled ramps earlier,” I admit.

Her eyes eat up Cordie’s body with a furrowed brow. “Since when do you enjoy pickled anything?”

Shit. I’m already blowing this. I didn’t know Cordie doesn’t like pickled stuff. I’m surprised Betty Lou knows it.

I see no harm in admitting that I’m half out of my mind. “I’m…not really feeling like myself.”

Her sour expression smooths out. She clucks her tongue. “Sure enough, sugar. I thought your Granny would outlive us all.”

I don’t know why the hell she’d think that. Granny had to be the oldest person in Utopia. She was a hundred when she died. Pretty sure Betty Lou’s in her eighties. I ain’t stupid enough to ask after her age, though.

I nod, since this is my excuse for being here. “It’s sore lonely at the homestead without her.”

“I can imagine.” She tuts, but doesn’t say anything else.

My hand creeps toward Cordie’s neck before I think better of touching her skin more than I need to. “Granny had a lot of…stuff. I’m not sure what to do with it all.”

“Why would you need to do anything with it?” Her eyes narrow like my words stink as bad as the rest of me. I must not be doing a good job of sounding like Cordelia.

“I need to sell the homestead so I can move back to Charleston.” That sounds better, much closer to the truth.

Betty Lou mumbles something, then waves her hand like she’s swatting at a fly. “You don’t need to sell the homestead.”

“With all due respect—” Not that Cordie knows the meaning of that word. “—I got no plans to stay in Utopia. The homestead is the only thing left. Soon as I sell it, I can leave for good.”

She waves her hand again. “You’re not going to sell the homestead. Leave things as they are and go.”

I blink at her a few times. “What?”

“What?” she says back to me.

Does Cordie have a hearing problem that I don’t know about?

Better cut my losses here and try somewhere else. I don’t want to poke the she-bear. I’ve got more than enough problems as it is.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Betty Lou,” I say, and I head back down the steps.

“Hey!” she shouts after me. “Did you hear me, Cordelia? Leave the homestead alone and get out of town.”

Granny McCoy hasn’t even been in the ground for three days. Where the fuck does Miss Betty Lou get off talking to a grieving granddaughter that way?

Maybe I’ll have better luck with a less cantankerous town matron. Everyone knows Betty Lou Greaves is a bitter old broad. It wasn’t a smart move to start with her.

My next stop is to Nell Duncan’s cottage on the opposite side of town. When I was little, my mama told us boys stories about how Miss Nell was an oracle—a seer, a woman who knew things regular people shouldn’t know.

This shit day could really turn around if she takes one look at Cordie and realizes that it’s me trapped in here. Even better if she can fix it before I have to take the shower that I’m dreading .

Course, she might be no help at all. Most townsfolk think old Miss Nell is batty.

Mothers warn their children to stay away from the ramshackle wooden building that looks half-caved in.

All the hand-painted signs in the overgrown front yard that say things like do not enter, keep away, stay out make them think twice about disobeying.

Unless they look like a bunch of blurry red blobs on white wood to them, too.

If the literal warning signs aren’t enough to make people think twice about seeking out a seer, then the strange wind chimes hung from the trees do the trick.

I pause by the mailbox. Last time I thought about coming here, I was twenty years old and desperate.

I would have given Miss Nell both my eyes to tell me how to get my mind right.

Something stopped me from walking up the stone path to her front door.

My gut told me that my very life was the only payment that would suffice.

Chickening out isn’t an option today.

I half expect to burst into flames when I take the first step onto the property.

I shudder as Cordie’s skin tingles, like I’m touching an invisible wall of static. I glance down at her arms. No smoke. No burned flesh. Nothing but a deep sense of wrongness.

Makes sense. I’m not looking at my own damn arms.

I put one of Cordie’s feet in front of the other all the way to the rotten wood of the porch.

The front door swings open before I ever knock.

Miss Nell sniffs the air, her cloudy eyes pointed straight at me without seeing anything. “What’s that smell?”

Damn those ramps. They didn’t do shit except make me stink.

“Evening, Miss Nell. It’s Cordelia. McCoy.”

“I know who you are.” She spits at my feet. “I’m blind, but I can see.”

That doesn’t make a lick of sense, but not much does today.

“Can I come in for a spell?”

“No.”

Fuck. This is going to be harder than I thought.

I open my mouth, but the old hag steamrolls over me.

“You buried her, now go. Leave Utopia and never return. ”

What in the seven hells is wrong with these women? I always got the feeling they were friendly with Granny McCoy.

“That’s why I’m here,” I hedge. “I was hoping you had some advice for me.”

“I just gave it to you.” She sniffs the air again then curls her lip. “Go on now, girl. Git while you can.”

Is she threatening me? Threatening Cordie?

“You’re being rude,” I grind out. “I came here to ask for your help.”

She sighs. Her cloudy eyes turn glassy. “This is me helping you, Delia. Nothing’s chaining you here anymore. Leave and never look back. Live a long life. Love many men. Make lots of babies.”

A jolt shoots through me like I’ve been struck by lightning. I shake it off, but the pain in Cordie’s chest lingers.

“That’s it then? That’s all I’m good for? A hole for someone to stick it into and knock me up?”

I slap a hand over Cordie’s mouth. Ain’t no way I sounded like her just now. That didn’t even sound like me.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. It’s not fair, but life rarely is. This is just the way of things for us—blessings and curses. Balance, always. Choices are few and far between. Best you can do is get out of town.”

My anger is close to boiling over. “What about the homestead?”

“What about it?”

“I need to clean it up and sell it, so I can get out of town,” I grit out. “Any idea what to do with all of Granny’s stuff?”

“Leave it. Nothing worth anything to anyone. Go on now. Stop darkening my doorstep. Leaves are turning. Storm’s coming. Go while the sun still shines.”

Now I know why half the town thinks old Miss Nell is batty. She’s mean to boot.

I don’t bother telling her to have a good evening before turning back the way I came. There’s no reason to be polite to someone who doesn’t have a scrap of mercy.

I’ve just made it to the mailbox again when she calls out, “Delia!”

I turn to see her standing on her front stoop, her hair whipping around like the predicted storm is bearing down on us.

The air around me is calm. Goosebumps spread up Cordie’s arms .

“Don’t linger.” She spits again. “ Leave .”

With that, she walks back into her house and slams the door closed.

Fuck these bitches. I flip the middle finger toward the haunted house and the witch inside as I stalk up the gravel road.

Maybe these women weren’t Granny’s friends after all. None of them showed up to the wake.

I stop in the middle of the road.

Birds call overhead. Little critters chitter in the woods on either side of the gravel. A breeze rustles the leaves. The forest is always noisy. It’s not talking to me. I’m just in the middle of it.

The same as a packed bar where nearly the whole town toasted Granny McCoy’s memory until sunrise. Not a single person offered a shot or word of condolence to Cordelia.

Her perception isn’t wrong. The whole town ignores her. That’s the way it’s always been.

I never stopped to wonder why .