Page 19 of Her Wicked Knights (Their Hallowed Queen #3)

Rev

Tripp’s obviously not interested in anything Whit’s got to say, and as he tips his head back and pours the tequila down his throat, I lick my lips, wondering if I should stop him. He’s always been moody, but he’s been almost unbearable lately.

“Tell us more about this magic,” Carson says, leaning forward to get Whit’s attention.

Maybe he’s starting to feel the effects of his high, because he’s glassy-eyed and eager.

And I can’t blame him. Our existence in smalltown New England has gotten banal.

Wreaking havoc on the town and having it excused as ‘boys will be boys’ and ‘those silly kids’ grew old in freshman year.

As the pastor’s son, it’s like they expected me to lash out, expected me to take all of my father’s hypocrisy and the theatrics and the fucking drudgery that is life and just turn into who I am… or who I pretend to be.

I don’t even know who I am, but I know that I’m not a fucking caricature of another person.

I may be the pastor’s son, may be one of the boys of fall, may be a class clown.

But I’m also not a fucking puppet. I like sex and drink and indulging in all the best foods.

I like the thrill of sinning, tempting these big bad fuckers who allegedly run our lives.

I like studying and learning new things to squirrel away for a later day because high school is so goddamn monotonous it makes me wanna chain myself to a rock and let a crow peck out my liver every day.

That, at least, would let me feel something.

It's why the minute Whit says he’s enamored by our town lore, I’m intrigued.

As far as small towns go, we haven’t got much in the way of memorial.

The pomp and circumstance I’ve imagined of other small towns with their weird as shit masquerades and rituals and parades doesn’t exist in Serenity.

Instead, our town history is glossed over in favor of the greater travesty miles north.

The Salem witch trials.

It’s an interesting case study in mass hysteria, if nothing else.

I’ve always quietly been intrigued by the depravity of the times, when something like a freckle would be seen as a witch’s mark warranting the accused of death.

I don’t have any freckles, but I’ve seen exactly seven on Marley Lavigne.

If you ask most people if she even had freckles, I bet they’d confidently say no.

I bet Tripp could tell me, but I’m not sure anyone else is capable.

Even Colton, as much as he pines for her, doesn’t notice little things like that.

It’s part of what I admire about Tripp—that he sees and feels the world as deeply as I do.

He just doesn’t hide it. There’s one just under her eye, too tiny to be of much notice, another in the hollow spot behind her ear, and a third on the back of her neck in the space I long to run my hand over.

I want to feel her under my fingers, memorize the rest of her like a map, connect the dots from the freckle on the inside of her wrist, to the one below her ribcage, down to the one on her thigh, and back up to the right side of her jaw, where there’s a secret for any man who looks up at her like the queen she is.

I hope one day I’ll get close enough to her with as few clothes as possible to let me investigate further. I’d gladly take my time exploring her flesh and her mind, even if it would piss off the only other people I actually give a damn about in this life. They’d forgive me eventually.

The only problem is, I don’t know that one time of having her in my bed, in my arms, in my web is going to be enough.

I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her.

It’s instinctual—a craving. Our bodies crave things important to survival—oxygen, water, love.

For me, it’s her. The longing is physical—my fingers ache to feel her beneath them, my dick aches for her warm mouth, and my soul aches for the fact that I’ll never fucking have her.

Even if I could forsake the only people in this wretched town I actually give a damn about, I can’t do it to her.

Marley Lavigne is innocence, though she surrounds herself with toxicity and corruption in the form of Audrey Fucking Graves and Jake North.

They taint her entire presence, forever polluting her when they’re nearby.

And my poor little doll has no clue the two people she trusts most in this life are the two who play with her like one of those freaky vintage dolls Tripp’s mother has stored in her closet.

“Don’t fucking get him started.” Mark groans, throwing his beer can at his friend.

“They say there was a source in Serenity Hollow… that she was there before the founders moved in and started to take over. Some versions of the story suggest she cursed the founders for moving into the woods she called her home.”

“A witch in the woods?” Tripp snorts. “How original.”

I’m with Tripp; this sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale.

“Rumor has it she fled persecution in France, sailed halfway around the world with a crew of pirates that she’d enchanted so they didn’t see her.

She’d been let down by humans, so she decided to keep away from them, and she got to live in peace until the humans invaded her home, started clearing out the land to make room for their homes.

Witches get their magic from the earth, so the destruction weakened her. ”

I narrow my eyes, because none of this has ever made it into any of the history courses we’ve been taught. For a town so proud of their history, you’d think they’d tell it all. But I suppose they wouldn’t want to paint themselves in a bad light.

“She lived in peace with them for years, and they were unaware of her existence. Until one of the town children spotted her one day. By then, Serenity Hollow had already grown as a safe haven for those hoping to escape the towns like Salem and Andover that were having large reports of witches. So, when one of the children spotted her and told her father, it led to her persecution… and eventual execution.”

“And this witch…” Nick says slowly. “She was your great great great great grandmother?”

Whit shrugs, a grin nestled in the corner of his mouth that doesn’t disappear when he takes a sip from his beer. He’s hot, in a slightly unhinged way, and the way his eyes settle on me makes me think he might be open to something later.

“Something like that.”

“So, they killed her.” Carson says. I’m surprised he sounds disappointed, but when I glance at him, he’s only staring at Whit. “Then how do you plan to take back the magic?”

“Principle of Conservation of Energy.” Whit says simply, like that’s supposed to clear it all up somehow. When he doesn’t elaborate, I glance at Tripp for a little help, but he just laughs, clearly uninvested.

“Energy cannot be created or destroyed.” It’s Colton who answers, to my surprise. I turn to ask how he knows that, but I don’t have to because he shrugs.

“Only transferred.” Tripp agrees, though his lips are still turned down as he tries to piece together how all of these things fit together.

“It’s why there are so many case studies for life after death, reincarnation… a body dies, but the force within it? That’s energy, and it has to go somewhere.”

I’ve never thought about it that way. My father preaches about things after death, arbitrary reasons we have to live a certain way.

Things like heaven and hell, God and the Devil.

I’ve always considered it a crock of shit, but Whit’s got a point.

When someone dies, their body begins to rot right away.

Where does that energy go once it’s left the confines of flesh?

Whit chuckles, clearly realizing he’s got me intrigued. Not about magic nonsense or fairy tales, but on a deeper, philosophical level. “Magic is energy, same as anything else. When the witch burned, that magic went somewhere.”

“Where?” Carson asks quickly. He’s leaning forward a bit, clearly intrigued by the possibility of what Whit is claiming.

Whit’s silent a bit as he considers that.

“If I knew…” he smirks, “I’d have taken it back by now.”