Page 63 of WitchBorn

“Apaand daddy understand,” Ari said, their voice fading as the room wobbled.

“Not a kid,” I grumbled. “Witchchild or not.” I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but that was okay as long as a dream brought me back to Finn.

Forty-One

FINN

Istared at the statue of the stag, heart pounding as behind it, a half dozen yards, creeped a wolf. Not the shadow wolf, or even a living wolf, but the carving of one. It hid in the shadow of the stag’s statue, larger than I knew regular wolves to be. Did they used to be larger in however many hundreds of years ago created this memory?

Was I about to watch the stag die?

I pressed my hand to my chest as if I could keep my heart from beating out of it. It wasn’t Wesley. The shape of the antlers, the height of his neck, different. Nothing compared to the majesty of Wesley’s Stag. Or his adorable fawn form.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chanted, hating whatever pain was to come. How was reliving all this trauma meant to make me stronger? Each memory landed like a knife in my gut, lodging in an unmovable ache to make my soul bleed. If I worked my way through the sanctuary, I’d be pierced by a hundred blades, seeping blood as well as heartbreak.

I glanced in the direction of Wesley’s statue again. His eyes were closed, face down as if resting. “I hope the Summer king helped,” I said. “Please be safe.”

I reached the stag and set my hand on his leg, the wave of dizziness instant.

We stood in a field on the shore of a hillside overlooking the ocean. A span of ships peppered the horizon and stirred my rage. The trip south meant greener pastures, more food for Hector, while I kept to the shadows, prodded to leave only at his insistence.

The woods to the north, a place I no longer considered home but rather where I’d come from, remained a shadow realm of darkness, heavy air, and little growth. The few trees that rooted after the fire gnarled and bent as if the atmosphere itself were too heavy to exist. Legends traveled far and wide, keeping people south, for which I was grateful.

“We could explore,” Hector told me in a mind-to-mind communication.

“It’s not normal for a stag to want to explore,” I told him.

He snorted.

“Well… until you find a mate.” Another thing for which I was the blame. We hadn’t encountered a doe in years.

“And you,” Hector said as if that were the course of things.

I sighed and glared out at the sea. “People bring hate and death.”

Hector nudged me, but didn’t answer. I brought hate and death, too.

“Maybe I should head back home. You go south, find a mate, I’ll wait for you.”

Hector sighed, a funny expression for a stag, my influence for certain. “Stay close?” He gave me a memory of me in the cave, him curled up beside me as his fawn, feeling safe and protected from everything, even if what most feared was me.

“Okay. The humans have weapons, stay out of their line of sight.” Or else I’d be slaughtering more of them.

Hector agreed, nuzzling my cheek and heading down the hillside. I hoped he found a mate. Perhaps she’d distract him from me and whatever unfortunate end remaining close to me would cause him.

I followed Hector down the hillside, keeping to the shadows of the trees, but finding myself growling as the swell of human dwellings peppered the valley below.

A soft touch, like a ghost caress, made me pause. What was that? I peered around looking for anyone, but the trees grew thick up the hillside, giving me cover, and the birds a place to rest. My physical body continued onward as if nothing happened. I had forgotten for a few seconds this was a memory, and likely a traumatic one.

“Maybe,”A voice whispered through my mind.

“Who?” Not Hector as his presence in my head was more of a battering ram of images, inelegant as my teaching him had likely been. “Wesley?”

“Careful, our tie is fragile,” he whispered.

I gasped and wished to break free of the memory if only to talk to him for a moment, but the scene continued, me as an unwilling participant in whatever puppet tale the wolf decided I needed to remember. We approached the town with caution, keeping to the trees until the only real way in was through someone’s yard on the edge of town, or the road. I waited until dark, straining to hear anything beyond the murmur of humans. All their bluster and stink made me hesitate as I studied the growing firelight as night fell.

I stopped at a well, pulling up the bucket to drink deep as no one was around, and staring at the ripple of my reflection in the water. Who was that creepy thing? I looked like a starved version of my apa before he’d lost complete control of his sanity beneath the stain of shadows: hollow, thin, and hairy.