It was hard to imagine someone actually liking teenagers, not to mention wanting to become a teacher at Arcadia.
I grabbed my backpack, waiting for Bolton to get up. Nyx’s hand grabbed onto Bolton’s, helping him up. Boys get over things more quickly than girls.
If this was Kate and Luna fighting in class, it’d be easy to assume Kate would be holding that grudge for centuries.
I guess literally now.
I waited until we were on the second level of the library to repeat myself. “What kind of dreams? I’m having weird dreams too.” I dropped my stuff on the table, standing there uncomfortably talking about this in front of the guy whose bed I woke up in.
Nyx sat on top of the table, fiddling with the heavy rings on his fingers. “Just of memories. You’re in most of them. Ask your boyfriend; he has all our memories tucked under his crown, which is not very gracious of a king.”
Bolton was leaning against the wood bookcase, trying to pretend he didn’t hear him, until our focus bore into him. “What are memories going to do for you? They aren’t going to suddenly stick and become yours.”
“I don’t have any memories, Bolton. This all still sounds crazy, and I’ve had weeks to adjust. I need something, anything, to just make sense.” My voice was practically begging him to tell me something, like it’d spark a torrential downpour of memories.
All the things I forgot.
All the things that sounded crazy.
All the whys, hows, and whats.
My eyes welled up, drowning my perfect vision behind a veil of unshed tears. Bolton’s exterior changed from giving no fucks to not wanting to see me cry in seconds, and he rushed to my side, pulling me into him.
I didn’t know if he was being so nice simply because Nyx just admitted I’m in most of his dreams or if he was finally tolerating me enough to let me touch him in a vulnerable way.
Bolton only liked to be touched when it was either painful or sexual; anything in between was a hard pass.
His strong arms engulfed me, holding me against him, as a tear slid down my cheek just from the gesture—authentic or not. He spoke, even with my ear pressed against his shirt, and I knew he was speaking more to Nyx, not me. “Back home, you two were close. Zeus hated your friendship, and that’s when I came into the picture.”
His words fell off, flattening like there should be more. I looked up at him, pulling away enough to see him. “And?”
Nyx’s foot stomped down on a chair, silently forcing him to continue with his confession. Letting out a heavy sigh into the air above us, Bolton went on: “Zeus picked me… for you. The son of his enemy didn’t have a chance. He knew how much you loved him.”
I pulled away, feeling betrayed in a way Bolton wouldn’t have stood for. He was helping me learn how to control my powers under stress, letting me sleep in his bed, and keeping secrets that changed everything.
“How do you know that information wouldn’t have changed anything? I could have remembered or understood this shit you threw me into.”
Bolton’s hands didn’t reach me; him holding me was for Nyx’s sake, not mine. He stood there, defeated, with his hands in his hoodie pocket, looking suddenly not as strong as I once saw him.
He was powerless, in more than one way now.
“You’re an asshole—a powerless asshole who can’t use it against anyone now that we know the truth.” I felt the same kind of anger, defense, creeping up my neck and making the peach fuzz stand up at attention. I looked down at my hands that were glowing gold, outlining my veins.
Nyx took two big steps and held my wrists in place, down by my side. He was bent over, looking me at my eye level: “Relax.”
I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t be anything but pissed off and a heat-seeking missile looking for revenge. My eyes felt wild when I finally focused on Nyx before yanking my wrists out of his grasp.
I needed space to let my anger breathe, and if I did it here, the library would get a remodel that no one approved of.
I wasn’t headed anywhere in particular when I stormed past the abandoned building and for the woods. Something about the dark, foggy woods made me feel more calm, like it was home at one time.
I found a spot down by the stream that was deep enough to avoid people but still a straight shot back to campus. The stump was damp and seeping through my skirt and tights that the school made us wear. I didn’t care. I need to breathe the cool, fresh air and listen to the calming, quiet trickling of the stream long enough to slow down my pulse. I watched my veins go from being a gold illuminating through my skin back to normal in a few minutes.
Breathing through the change, I forced myself to still and focus on the sound of the stream until all my anger seemed to dissipate. Once it did, I dug in my bag for Henry Jon’s journal that I now carried with me everywhere.
It had been a few weeks since I last broke the spine; maybe his words would make more sense than my own.
Henry Jon
My precious, innocent, Rosalia was put to rest today. Her faith was shaken, and the unholy spirit had won her soul in a war we thought we won.
No matter how many Bibles you own, how many churches you step foot in, how long you pray before bed, the Devil has all kinds of tricks up his sleeve.
This time, he sent his children to torment our faith.
Rosalia’s death would not go unnoticed. In the wake of her death, the one true God came to me in my sleep, giving me purpose to my life when all felt hopeless. He showed me a path not yet taken, to forge an army to fight His white light against the darkness we don’t speak of. We would warn those of the monsters stalking our souls and their tricks.
The day I held Rosalia breathless on the dead oak, the great tree held duality in its roots, just as we would hold duality in our hearts.
I was drunk off the new power my Lord gave me, fueling every step of my mission, as we searched for the Devil’s child. The dead oak’s stump bore so many clues: the golden liquid, the tusk in the tall grass, the dark magic they used to summon their lord—all left behind like breadcrumbs.
I wanted to smite them all for taking my Rosalia. I wanted to damn them to the Hell they crawled up from.
Pastor Cotton and Blacksmith Samuel forged new weapons—both relics and arrogantly painful. The arrows points were shaved down from their own tusk, the gold liquid melted down and boned with metal to create new bullets, and the dead oak chopped up to make javelins and riffles. We spared no part of what the Devil left behind.
They possessed my Rosalia until there was nothing left of my angel. It started small with the sleepwalking doubling and her Bible studies no longer a focus. It wasn’t until their leader poisoned her mind, like all young men did when searching for a wife.
It wasn’t my Rosalia that passed on that day; it was the demon child shedding her human skin.
We searched the woods for any sign of the children for weeks, even crossing borders to other territories in our search. We came up empty-handed every sunset, and every dawn a new hope was born.
It wasn’t until Ranger Charles received word one day, two long years later, that a small town in the deep south was reporting strange activity. They reported strange settlers that came to town with no purpose or reason. Ranger Charles rode out before the sun kissed the ground, riding to chase up to the Devil’s spawn.