Page 18 of The Arcane Taste of the Witchwood Boys (The Witchwood Boys #4)

Kate

There’s a wall of man and muscle in front of me. I see the breadth of his shoulders as I open my eyes, and he turns to look at me. It’s Marlowe. He’s right there in front of my face, studying me.

“Good timing,” he says, stretching his arms above him.

We’re in a hollowed out tree. It’s huge, more like a cave than a trunk. There’s enough space for a makeshift bed, blankets and pillows stuffed into the hollow to make the space cozy.

“You guys slept next to me?” I whisper as I spot Brooks and Tanner in the bed with us. The latter yawns as he comes to, rubbing at his flat tummy and rustling the blankets. “What if I’d woken up and slaughtered you guys before anyone knew what was happening?”

“I know how long the sleep spell lasts. We were cautious.” Brooks leans back against the inner wall of the trunk, arms crossed behind his head, studying me. “Do you want something to eat?”

It’s an ironic question, and we both know it. Something to eat, as in people. Something to eat, as in him making me a meal.

I nod, and he smiles tightly back at me, like he was hoping I’d say yes.

The four of us get dressed before making our way out of the warm nest and into the foggy morning air. There are dead people outside of the tree, a small pile of them. Eviscerated. Bloody. It’s spooky and dark and remote in this part of the forest. Did I … eat those people? Probably. The guys might be feeding me humans to assuage the curse.

Shudder.

I see an information plaque and wander over to take a look at it.

Lady Bird Johnson Grove Trail. Ah. We’re still in the park, just north of where we were before.

Doesn’t look much like a recreational spot now. Too many giant flowers. Too many sleeping beasties. This is an unsavory area, like if the monsters were awake, we’d be facing off against a giant badger and a porcupine that’s bigger than the VW bus that Tacy’s boyfriend, Jared, drives.

I hope the guys didn’t let me eat anyone we know. Like Jared. Like my dad and stepmom. My siblings mostly. Nathan. Miriam and Dennis. Lo’s family. Sharyn’s ghost. I shake my arms out, dragging the long sweater sleeves down and appreciating the men’s attention to detail. This is a low-cut, cowl-neck sweater that they’ve put on backwards for me, so that my wings are free of the fabric.

Brooks leads us away from the corpses, taking us over to a picnic table that’s littered with random snacks. Bags of chips. Cookies. Sandwiches. Did Brooks pack us brown bag lunches?

“Sit.” He gestures at the table, and I plop down, waiting for the guys to take their own seats. The wooden table creaks and shifts and bows under their collective weight, but it holds. Mossy and ancient, the thing holds. They just don’t make furniture like they used to, you know?

I unroll a lunch bag, finding a BLT and another one of Brooks’ homemade croissants.

“Your attempt at normalcy is … appreciated.” I take the sandwich out and bite into it, trying not to groan as I curl my toes under the table. Groaning leads to … well, sex. So why am I stopping myself from acting pornographic about this food? I lick crumbs from my lips as Brooks and I lock eyes, his antlers silhouetted on the trees behind him.

I don’t think about the pile of dead bodies. I don’t ask. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m following Brooks’ instructions. I can relax and eat this sandwich, and I won’t think about anything else for the time being.

It’s quiet while we eat, and then Brooks reaches into his pocket and places a small pile of metal in the center of the table.

Rings.

There are four rings with silver bands and colorful gems. I recognize one of them. It’s the blue jewel from the hilt of Marlowe’s knife, the one he used to kill himself. My blood ices over.

“I know we’re already married,” Brooks tells me confidently, “but we’re going to get married again. That way, these rings will be more than just torture devices.” He laughs softly. “I made them from the knives we used in our resurrection spell.”

Oh. Holy shit. Torture devices is right.

I put my food aside to study one of the rings, blushing as I turn it over in my hand. You already had a dark witch wedding, Kate. Why are you acting like a virgin bride all of a sudden?

We’re in the north now, which makes me wonder about something.

“Do I have to swallow the cum this time?” I ask, trying not to sound excited about it.

“It was fucking gross, wasn’t it?” Marlowe asks Tanner, reaching up to squash down the cone of my hat so he can see our Eastwoods on my right side. Lo’s on my left. Brooks across from us. Picnic table shapes make it so much harder to sit in the correct spot. Or else they’d just rather sit next to me.

Not everything is for a spell.

The way they look at me.

The way they keep everything lighthearted when the whole world is dark.

“The cum?” Tanner asks with a sigh, reaching up to scratch at one of his wolf ears. “Yeah, it’s not a pleasant texture, kitten. I gagged a few times. But your face just fucking lights up when you’ve got a throatful of seed. Ain’t that right?” He leans down toward me, and I slap him away.

“You ass. The reason I like it so much is because you like it. Making you happy makes me happy.” I try to sound annoyed, but I think I’ve just done that thing where I’m admitting an embarrassing truth and they’re all staring at me like I’ve just delivered a one-liner from one of Fernanda’s romance novels. “That’s … embarrassing. I mean, I don’t hate it. There’s an erotic—”

Marlowe covers my mouth with his hand, and we both look sideways at one another. He lets go quickly, but thankfully doesn’t bring up my birthday again.

“You’re embarrassing yourself. I’m trying to help.” Lo sighs and pushes his bangs back like he’s in an underwear ad. The only difference is that he’s wearing clothes. The swagger is there. The insinuation is there. I’m buying whatever he’s selling.

“Do I have to swallow cum or not? God, you guys are dicks.” I take an angry bite of my sandwich, the feathers on my wings ruffling because it tastes so damn good.

“No, North. You don’t have to suck us all down—though I’m sure you want to. This is a little different. This spell is like … four spells in one. It’s complicated, magical calculus.” Brooks places a miniature cauldron on the table, a book beside it, and a series of quill pens made from bone and feathers and iron. I can smell it, like blood.

Or … actual blood. I could be smelling actual blood. There’s a fresh pile of corpses (nothing rots during the Hag Wytch’s lullaby) up the small hill to my right, just past the board that reads Visitor Information. On a normal day, it would’ve been a pleasure to bring the men here so we could experience it together.

Today is … I’ve got mixed feelings. Nice lunch spread. Pile of eviscerated human victims. Rebellious beams of sunshine cutting the fog and the sweet smell of pine. Loving husbands. Breeze tugging my orange and black braid free. It floats in the wind like a flag.

Brooks flicks his fingers and the tome flips open, turning to a particular page covered in runes. He picks up one of the quill pens and then places a small jar on the table next to a bag of kettle chips.

Looks like a vial of blood.

Brooks opens it, dips his pen in, and picks up one of the rings.

“We need to carve these runes into the rings. Either on the gem or the band. Your choice.” He draws a set of triangles with minute precision on the face of his red jewel, and the blood soaks into the gem like the ink tattooed on our bodies.

Brooks passes the book to Marlowe who also chooses to write on the jewel side. Both Tanner and I make our marks on the band.

And then we all drop the rings into the mini cauldron. Spit into it. Bleed into it. Brooks adds a dash of wine after taking a swig for himself, and the cauldron puffs with red smoke. He passes the wine bottle to Marlowe and we take turns drinking from it and pouring some into the cauldron. Blue smoke. Green smoke. Purple.

We finish the bottle of wine as Brooks adds scoops of dried herbs, and I pop several grapes into my mouth. Use the edge of the table to remove a metal lid from a glass bottle of Coke. I chug some as I watch Brooks put a heaping spoonful of lavender into the brew. Dried powder that glitters. A handful of little mushrooms.

He adds a spoon made of bone to the brew, and it stirs all on its own.

“The worst feeling you’ve ever had. Imagine it. Draw up that moment. I’ll go first: failure.” Brooks picks up a slender bone needle, and he … pokes himself in the eye. It’s fucking horrific to watch, and both he and his shadow flinch. He’s bleeding down his cheek, but he doesn’t hesitate to pass the needle on to Marlowe.

“Regret.” Marlowe stabs himself in the eye, and I choke as the needle makes its way to me. The sharp tip shines, red with blood over white bone.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, being a witch is terrifying.

“Loneliness,” I blurt before I can question myself. I do it. I stab myself in the goddamn eye, and it makes me seriously realize old Kate’s naivety. I whined about plucking an eyelash. An eyelash. I’ve just stabbed a needle in my eye, and everything is cloudy with blood.

Through that red fog, I start to see things I couldn’t see before, like slivers of a different time. A different place. Not the Witchwoods and not the human world, but something else altogether. There are shambling things. Floating things. Skittering things. Entities that human eyes are not meant to see. Monsters and demons and ghouls.

My skin prickles with unease.

“Apathy.” Tanner uses the needle and then flicks it into the cauldron.

The liquid dries up, leaving the rings behind.

“Put them on, hurry,” Brooks commands, and we all reach into the pot to grab ours. Tanner puts mine on for me first before slipping his own in place.

The men look ghastly with their witch hats and those cloudy, bloody eyes. Suddenly the chips and cookies and lunch bags just look freakish, like a remnant of a different galaxy.

“Come.” Brooks stands up and grabs a candle from the table, lighting it with a breath and carrying it in front of him as he leads us into the woods. I see creatures darting around to either side of me which is unsettling since everything is supposed to be asleep.

Our Southwoods leads his coven down a mossy path, barefoot and alone in a strange wood.

I don’t have a very good feeling about this.

“Here it is,” Brooks whispers to me as I pause beside him, unsure and more than a little nervous. There’s a hut with a thatched roof just past this next set of trees, and the chimney is smoking like somebody’s at home.

What. the. actual. fuck?

“What is this place?” I ask, but Brooks doesn’t answer right away. He stares through the fog and the lurching shadows like he’s deep in thought. “Brooks?”

He shivers and shakes himself out for me, holding the candle aloft. The dance of the flame catches the silver band of his ring.

“I think you should go in blind.” He looks down at me, making it easier to summon a little bravery. Brooks is as creepy as the nightmares slinking through this wood. His right eye is cloudy and bleeding down his face. His hat is too big, and the eyes are open freakishly wide. His antlers are coming out of his neck this time. “Trust me on this one?”

I look over at Tanner, but he shakes his head.

“This is your decision to make,” he advises, offering a noncommittal shrug. But his eyes, they’re heavy. He knows what’s happening, and he doesn’t like it. This spell makes him uncomfortable.

Marlowe keeps watch, using his bow like he thinks it can ward off the grotesqueries all around us. They’re nothing but splotches and shadows really, but they make me feel like I’m being hunted. I’m an old hat at that feeling now.

“Whatever it is, we need to be quick. I don’t like it here.” Lo is nervous enough to sweat.

“You shouldn’t like it here. We shouldn’t be here at all. Let’s get this done and get out before we get into trouble.” Brooks continues down the winding path with his candle, and I say nothing, making my decision in silence.

I trust Brooks enough to take his advice.

Tanner puts his hand on my lower back, ushering me toward the front door. Brooks opens it with a creak, revealing a cozy room with a fireplace. He gives me one final look, and I nod to confirm.

I’m pushed inside and the door slams shut behind me. I stand there rubbing my finger over my new ring, waiting to see what’s going to happen.

My surroundings begin to fade, and I blink several times to see that I’m inside my grandmother’s kitchen. Small table in the center with four chairs. Ugly checkered curtains. No Brooks-style ultra organization.

No wings on my back. No ring on my finger.

Flick is at my feet, and he’s awake. My phone is on the counter, and it’s working .

I stumble over to pick it up, only to find out that it’s my birthday. Not my next birthday, but the one that already passed. It’s the day I made the decision to enter the Witchwoods on a moonless night.

I’m thirty-odd days into the past and all by myself.

They tricked me. They sent me back in time. Those are my first thoughts, and I squeeze my hands in the loose fabric of my overalls as Flick barks happily and bounces in front of me. I’m relieved to see him, but I refuse to let myself believe this is real.

It’s just a memory, isn’t it? I’m seeing a fragment of the past. But the longer I stand there and the later it gets, I realize that the memory isn’t going to move along on its own. I’m not here to watch a replay; I have to do something.

Flick has settled down on the rug by the back door, cocking his head at me and waiting. My phone buzzes, and it’s Georgia calling. I decide to answer. In the real version of this day, I was the one that texted her. This is a different path.

“ Are you sure you don’t want us to come get you, so that the four of us can go out for dinner? I’d say we should go to Takami, but it’s your birthday, your choice.” Georgia pauses to see if I’m listening. “Kate?”

It takes me longer than it should to answer her.

This is where I feel it, this pull, like I’m standing at a crossroads. Down one side is the future I’m already living, the one where I’ve taken on the curse of the Hag Wytch and might have any number of horrible fates. I might eat the guys. I might lose myself completely to the hunger. I might see Brooks, Tanner, and Marlowe fix everything only for me to live long past their old age. As the Hag Wytch, I can’t die. I could be sentencing myself to eternal torture.

If I agree to go with Georgia, I can change things. Let my friends into my life. Open myself up to people. Impress Robin Madsen at the Pink Lady in a world where my choices don’t inadvertently kill her. My heart pounds. So many people would be alive if it weren’t for me and my choices.

All those dead busybodies around the Witch’s Tree. The people I’ve eaten. The girl with the pink and white tennis shoes. That pile of corpses over by the visitor information board. The Witchwoods and the human world wouldn’t be tangled up. I wouldn’t have to stab my eye with bone needles or give blow jobs in cemeteries.

The right thing to do, the moral decision to make, is to agree to these new birthday plans.

Don’t go into the woods. Don’t meet these witches. Don’t take on a horrible curse.

If I did decide to do that, what would happen? Brooks wanted me to come in here blind for a reason. This smacks of something crucial and significant. More than just a spell, this feels like a choice. If I make a different one for myself, will the future change?

Hah.

I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Not at all. Because I’m not sorry. Because I’d make the same decision every time. If I don’t go to the Witchwoods, then Brooks, Tanner, and Marlowe remain trapped, and we can’t be together.

I know what I want. This is easy as shit. Nice play, Brooks. A different person would’ve taken that offer.

I throw my phone at the wall, and it shatters, fragmenting the images around me until I’m standing in the hut again. It’s an unsettling place now, with figures that move just out of sight, and a counter covered in half-butchered meat. A cleaver stuck in the wood. Bloodstains. Spiderwebs. The crackling fire is gone. Something groans from underneath the floorboards, and the door swings open.

I’m grabbed by the back of the neck and dragged from the hut by Brooks. He looks me in the eyes and his own face breaks. I use my hat to lick him, because I have to know what he’s thinking. Sharp, pungent relief. That’s the taste I get.

My mouth drops open. Did he … was he unsure about what choice I’d make?

Is … is he unsure about the choice he’ll make? Because surely he’s going through something similar in there. What even is this crazy place?

“Hey—” I start to ask, but it’s too late. Brooks turns away with a muttered curse, steps inside the hut, and slams the door on himself.

I can still barely process what just happened.

“What the hell was that?” I ask the other two, looking from one to the other. They’re busy guarding me when what they should be doing is using me as fodder. Can’t die, remember? I’m going to throw myself in front of as many bullets as I can for them. “Never mind. I think I understand. We’re being given hard choices as a form of sacrifice? Just to feel the weight of our decisions?”

“No, I’m pretty damn sure that Brooks cooked up a spell to travel the multiverse. Or whatever the fuck. Other gates, like the Witch’s Tree.” Tanner turns to look at me, raising his fancy brow. “You can make a different choice and undo it all here. We each get that option, genuinely.”

My eyes widen and I turn on Marlowe, his teeth gritted as he stares down at me in horror. I lunge forward and snatch him by the front of his black hoodie.

“You said that you’d pass me by, Lo. Don’t do it. If you see me in those woods, make the same choice all over again.” I’m breathing hard as I tell him that, and he looks away, shutting his eyes tight.

“You don’t have to worry about me, kitten,” Tanner murmurs from behind me. “But I don’t know about this Westwoods motherfucker.”

“Me neither,” I whisper back without turning to look at him. I’m locked on Marlowe now. I trust Tanner. I do not trust Marlowe. Brooks, I … Brooks. He’s already in there, and there’s nothing I can do or say now.

I put my hands on either side of Marlowe’s face, and he snatches me hard enough by the wrists that I gasp. The woods creak around us, and the chimney chugs merrily into the dark sky, catching on tree limbs and breaking apart into gray clouds.

We’re being watched by unforgiving spirits. I can feel the weight of their eyes.

“I meant what I said, Kate. Truly.” Marlowe is in a tailspin, torn between the right thing to do and the thing he’d rather do. The wrong thing. The dark choice. “I said I wouldn’t, if it was you. This is all too much suffering, and if Tanner is right, and Brooks’ spell can really give me the chance to let you go, I’ll do it. I’ll help you get out, and I’ll live in that forest with the Hag Wytch without complaint.”

I punch him in the chest, right where he stabbed himself, and he catches my fist. We’re both breathing hard now, the sound of the hut’s door creaking open as Brooks emerges.

He doesn’t tell me what his memory was, not yet. Tanner takes his place, stepping inside and disappearing from sight. Ghosts continue to shift and dance in the red mist around us, and our shadows prowl, fighting off things we can’t see.

We’re existing in more than one plane at the same time, and it’s terrifying.

“Marlowe is going to let us go, Brooks,” I whisper, trying not to cry. It feels like he’s fucking with me, but at the same time, he wouldn’t lie about something this serious. “Help me out here.”

“If that’s what he wants, we have to let him do it. We’ll all revert to the same timeline. I can live knowing I had it all, even if it was temporary. I’m prepared to accept that.” Brooks is stoic, decisive.

I was tricked. I knew it! These goddamn fucking stupid-ass piece of shit Witchwood boys.

I scream, and my wings spread out on either side of me. The red fog stirs and all of the ghost things lurking around us go running. I’m the biggest, baddest bitch in this realm or any other at the moment.

Marlowe is stunned by my screech of feminine rage. I bare my teeth at him, getting up on my toes and snarling in his face like the feral forest monster witch creature that I am. My hat is crooked and the cone is folded in half, and there’s a mean mouth on the top that’s trying to eat Marlowe’s poor hat brim. It chews the leather, and I taste it.

“You stupid fucking witches ,” I grind out, trying to keep my temper. “I try to tell you with words what I want, and how I feel, but oh nooooo. ” I roll my eyes and Marlowe blinks crazily down at me like he can’t believe I’m acting so ridiculous in an underworld/alternate timeline. “ I man. I know best. Woman no understand. Do you fucking hear me, you stupid dick-swinging idiot? DO NOT PASS ME BY. You gave me what I wanted before by genuinely agreeing to my terms. That’s why I fell for you. Now my terms have changed. Do what I ask, please. I will not marry you if you don’t.”

I hold up my hand with the ring, still breathing hard and trying not to bite Lo’s perfect lips off and swallow them. I let go suddenly and take a few steps back.

“Jesus Christ, fuck. Okay, Kate. I hear you.” He reaches up to probe the small bite mark that’s missing from the right side of his hat brim. It’s cute. Adds charm. Marlowe scowls at me as he drops his hand. “I expect you to patch this then, like the sweet little wife you are.” He gives me a very serious look. “You understand that I’m going to assault you again when I’m in there, right?”

I nod slowly, our eyes locked, and then Tanner’s emerging from the hut.

Marlowe is last, leaving the three of us to wait in the now quiet clearing. Fogged up eyes dripping blood down our cheeks. Wedding rings on our hands.

“I don’t have to swallow cum, I just have to stab myself in the eye. Thanks, Brooks.” I’m being sarcastic, but he turns it around on me like he always does.

“At least you can see now that everything I’ve done thus far—all the swallowing and the spitting and the orgies—it was all necessary.” He’s staring at the door, at the moss that clings to the wood like a parasite. The rounded stone arch above it. The shuttered windows on either side.

“I was in my kitchen, the night of my birthday. My choice was to go to the Witch’s Tree or go out with my friends.” I say it without looking at them. I can’t look at them. Not yet. Not until Marlowe comes back.

The fog rolling through the air between us and the hut looks like blood mist. It’s not pleasant. It smells like iron, too. It’s awful here, and I wonder how we get back out when we’re done.

“I was watching Marlowe wait for Miriam and Dennis outside of the Witch’s Tree.” Tanner delivers his words without much inflection, but I know it wasn’t a hard choice for him. He didn’t have to think about it at all. Being in this mess together is better than being safe and apart.

We’re all idiots. We’re crazy. Morally corrupt. Hard for me to judge Marlowe now that I’ve joined the club. I could’ve saved the world, and I chose to leave it on fire.

Safe to say that stalker isn’t a term that applies only to the guys. I’m as bad as they are. I’m fucking obsessed with them, and I don’t care about pretty much anything else. So here I am, cursed and standing in blood mist when I could’ve chosen a safer route for my life.

It’s … yeah. Wow. Bold decisions, right? Big choices.

Tanner and I stand together, but Brooks has put himself on timeout. Quiet, waiting. Too much space between us. He’s nervous. He’s been nervous this entire time and doing his best to hide it.

Lo stumbles out a few minutes later, flush-faced and panting. He won’t look at me, but the two fingers on his right hand are wet. I see the shine of my fluids on his skin, moving forward until I’m right in front of him. I lift Marlowe’s hand to my mouth and, as we stare at each other, I suck them clean.

He watches me, his erection pressing into my body. He’s shameless about it, and I’m okay with that. This time, he asked my permission.

“My sister,” Brooks chokes, and I turn suddenly to see him shove his hand over his face, stiff fingers digging into his skin. “I had a chance to stop my sister from going inside the Witch’s Tree. I … I only went through the gate a minute after she did. I could’ve saved her. One minute faster.” He drops his arm by his side and doesn’t bother to hide the tears that fall from his green eyes.

Without skipping a beat, Brooks pulls an empty bottle charm from his hat and collects his own tears.

God.

Our coven’s original sin could’ve been cleansed.

And we’re all still here.

“Brooks,” I whisper, but he waves me off.

“Fuck my feelings,” he says, and I get that this is a mantra that he lives by. “Come here and hold hands.”

He instructs, and we obey.

North. South. East. West.

With ringed hands clamped together, we dance around a fire that Brooks starts. On my sixth spin around the circle, I see that the hut is gone like it was never there.

I hope I never have to see it again.