Page 46 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

And now he doesn’t exist anymore, not the way that he did before.

“I really did do this to us then. I’m—” I swallow a ball of dread. “Wait. If I’m the witch, then how are you making wishes come true? I didn’t wish for pizza or for us to be here. Does the mind not matter more than the body after all?”

He furrows my brow. “You’re not the only witch in town. It was Wallace who sent us here. I asked him for help after you went lights out back there. This place is tied to him somehow.”

Which means we shouldn’t try to wish ourselves out of here, not until we figure out what we’re walking back into.

Is Wallace a warlock? I’m afraid to say too much aloud until we know more.

Duke tips my head to the side in silent question.

A warlock is a male witch , I explain. Similar to a wizard, but their magic comes from different sources. Wallace must be part of the coven, but a group of witches doesn’t typically include males.

Seems like my old bookworm ways might pay off after all. And to think, I gave up reading to engage better with the world, because I had no idea that I was spelled not to fit into it.

I flip through all the mental files of supernatural beings that I’ve read about over the years, until I come to the most recent book from Granny’s library.

I vividly remember being surprised that leprechauns weren’t listed.

Witches and warlocks were, though, along with a plethora of other beings that I never truly believed in.

Duke sits beside me on the bed. I didn’t get the idea that Wallace is the head of some magical harem. Neveah seemed almost…afraid of him. Cornelius summoned him. That was the word they all used , summoned.

I chew on Duke’s lip until he tugs it away from his teeth.

What are you thinking? he asks.

I—I’ve been having these…visions, I admit.

They were never welcome, but they suddenly feel like a deep invasion of privacy. It’s bad enough that I essentially stole Duke’s body, but I reached inside his mind against his will, too.

And? he prompts.

And I think Wallace triggered them, I say, focusing on the problem at hand. The night that I went into town as you, everyone else left The Flame at closing. He told me that I could stay and offered me wine. I thought he was being kind, until I had that first vision.

I don’t get it. Why would he refuse you when you asked for more wine if he was the one to give it to you in the first place?

It seems like he wants to help, but something—maybe someone—is stopping him.

I’m not sure if that’s it. The night I talked to him, he admitted he knew we’d switched bodies.

He didn’t tell me how he knew, or how to fix it.

Seemed like he was more focused on pushing us together.

When I asked him for the loan for the fortune teller’s spell, he said I couldn’t afford what a bargain with him costs. And neither could you.

I sit up straighter. Did he use that specific word? Bargain?

Duke nods. I’m guessing that’s another important word?

It is , I answer. One that’s associated with a very specific kind of magical being—something much more powerful than a witch, warlock, or selkie.

Well? What is he?

All of Granny’s zany stories about Mothman suddenly come rushing back to me. I remember her telling me he was a fae, trapped here after passage overseas with the Scots-Irish settlers.

I feel so stupid for not putting it together, after everything I’ve seen.

Holy shit, Duke. Wallace is Mothman. Mothman isn’t a cryptid at all. He’s…he’s something else entirely.

I’ve never read a description of any magical being that matches up with the vision I had at The Flame. The creature that Duke and I met on the side of a mountain road was the same thing. I’m sure of that much at least.

A being that uses bargains is supposed to be beautiful and alluring, similar to vampires.

True, the lore of Mothman always includes his bloodthirsty menace, but what I’ve seen twice didn’t look like a black, furry insectoid with moth wings. There’s a disconnect somewhere that fiction and folklore doesn’t account for.

Why would Wallace help us after he tried to kill us? Duke looks around the room like he expects a sudden trap.

You said it yourself. Mothman wasn’t really attacking us so much as trying to defend himself.

His kind are tricky. That’s why specific words matter so much.

That’s probably why he refused the loan, too.

He couldn’t give it to you because you didn’t trap him into a bargain. How did you get him to bring us here?

Duke furrows my brow, whispering into my mind at a halting pace, I’m not sure I should even say it like this if specific words have that much power.

I knew when I landed on the right ones, though, because it was like you said.

It felt like I trapped him into doing what I asked. He didn’t seem happy about it.

I thread our fingers together tightly. You’re right. We shouldn’t even think certain words aloud for now. We can’t trust Wallace. His kind are not to be trusted.

Duke disentangles from me, then rises to my feet and plasters a hand over my mouth.

What’s wrong? I ask as I watch my face pale sharply.

He meets my gaze but takes another step away. And then another. Cordie, I don’t think you should trust me either.

After the sacrifice he made to wake me, I’ll trust him to the ends of the earth.

Why wouldn’t I? You’ve earned it. Besides, you learned all of this on your own, even though you never read about this stuff like I did.

You’re so smart that you figured out the magic words to get a powerful being to do your bidding.

I didn’t figure out shit, he says as he begins to pace. It was like I knew somehow exactly what to say when it really counted. You keep saying ‘his kind.’ You know where else I’ve heard that?

I start to speak into our mindspace, but he steamrolls over me before I can get a word out.

Cornelius said that, too. And the night he came alive and made me swear that I wouldn’t breathe a word of any of this to you until he knew whether it was safe, he called me an odd creature.

That’s not ? —

The next time I saw him, he point-blank told me that my kind aren’t trustworthy.

But, you’re not ? —

Earlier this afternoon, my aunt confessed to me that my father can’t possibly be mine. That when he and Mama married, they found out that he couldn’t have kids. She thinks me and my brothers are monsters, because she can’t figure out how we even exist.

His stomach pitches all the way into his feet. That’s why he was asking me what I assumed were hypothetical questions before our run-in with Wallace in his other form.

Duke stops pacing and stares at me with a look of utter anguish. You were freaking out earlier, thinking that you spelled me into being your mate, but Cornelius said that witches don’t have mates. What kinds of magical creatures have mates, Cordie?

Only one that I know of.

I want so badly to ease his pain and his justifiable fears. I truly do, but I can’t. Seeing him brought so low doesn’t bring me as much pleasure as I used to imagine it would.

And his brothers. All those tall, dark, and handsome men. My God. It’s almost breathtaking how I’ve never recognized the resemblance, even though it’s so obvious in hindsight.

Wallace is your father, I breathe into the mindspace between us. That would make you and your brothers…fae.