Page 17 of WitchBorn

“Says the man without a shirt,” I remarked.

“Ha. I run hot.”

“You are hot,” I muttered.

A tiny smile lifted the corners of his lips as if he’d heard me. I hoped not. He bent to pick up another log and half turned his back to me. A dark blotch of discoloration painted his back as though he had a bruise nearly large enough to coat his spine.

I gasped.

“What?” he asked, turning my way.

“Your back.” Maybe I was overreacting and it was a birthmark or something. My gut said it was from the nightmare, where the shadow ooze slunk up him trying to reach me.

“My back?” he turned around as if he could see his back. He set the axe down and tried to touch the spot. “What?”

I crossed the space, rocks digging into the sensitive bottoms of my feet, but my heart pounded in fear as I closed in on him to examine the mark. “You don’t have some giant birthmark on your back, right? Something that would look like a bruise?”

“No.”

The mark painted a long diagonal swatch of purple and blue darkness up toward his right shoulder. I hovered my fingers over it, afraid to touch for a thousand reasons, but watching for any sign of movement.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“No. I feel a little chilled now that I’m not cutting the wood, but my back doesn’t hurt.”

I traced the edge of the mark with my fingertips, fearing it would stick to me, or hurt him. “Anything?” His skin, hot where it was unmarked, chilled my fingers where the dark blotch began.

He frowned.

“What?” I demanded.

“Touch my shoulder, please.”

I hesitated, but after a few seconds rested my hand on his shoulder. He nodded.

“Now where you see this mark?”

I slid my hand back down, touch light.

“Are you touching it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I can’t feel it.”

“What if I press harder?” I put my palm to the center of the mark, the chill adding a burning ache to my skin as if I stuck my hand in a freeze. “Fuck, that’s cold.”

“Can’t feel it.”

I pulled my hand away and he turned to face me, eyes wide.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t, but I suspected it had to do with the dream we shared. Was it because of me? Had I cursed him? I backed away, heading back toward the cabin. Maybe it was still a dream… a nightmare even.

“Wesley?” Finn asked.

“I don’t know,” I said again and raced inside, heading into the bathroom to drown myself in the shower, or at least bury my fear.