Greta’s head whips back to the old woman, and she flings out her arms. “Marian, you can’t be serious. This sort of union has never been –”
“I am the high priestess!” Marian yells, and everyone startles at the abrupt sound. Exhaling, she picks up her plate. “If ya don’t like what I decree, then that ya business. But ya will not make ya business everyone else’s problem!”
Greta fumes, and she storms from the kitchen. With her gone, the room’s heavy atmosphere visibly lifts. Slowly, everyone returns to their chatter and chores as if nothing had transpired.
Cinder bumps his shoulder against mine. Absentmindedly, I pass him the bottle of syrup, returning Jinx’s smile with a reassuring one.
“Holy shit,” Sara hisses as she leads us to the dining hall. We find seats at the far end of the large family-style table. We sit, and Jinx assigns each of us a mug of coffee then takes her own seat next to mine. Her chair scrapes against the old wood flooring as she slides closer to me, breathing a sigh of relief. I lean over and feather my lips against hers.
As I scoop up a pile of eggs in my spoon, I survey my mate, my packmate, and my witch friend. Marian is an alpha in every sense of the word, and as she leaves the kitchen, plate in hand and cane in the other, she nods respectfully to me and hobbles her way to the living room to eat her meal in peace.
Jinx grabs my knee under the table, and I look to her. “Thank you,” she whispers around a mouthful of pancakes.
I quirk a brow in question. “For what?”
She swallows her food. “For enduring.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jinx Whitethorn
After breakfast, Sara and I stand in the backyard and watch as Jacob and Cinder explore the fields in their wolf forms. I pull my borrowed coat tighter around me. It’s cold, and though the rain has stopped, it remains overcast. The clouds are a puffy, spooky sort of gray, and mud kicks up from their paws with each leap.
I secretly think they wanted the time to themselves to settle their wolves while, at the same time, searching for scents of those who don’t belong to the coven. Over-protectiveness and all that. We haven’t heard anything from Kaya or the Bane since we arrived here, and it’s beginning to worry Jacob. I can tell.
“You don’t need to watch him every second of the day,” Sara whispers with annoyance. She tugs on my coat sleeve. “Come on.”
“I do not watch him every second of the day,” I protest as she leads me to one of the sheds. She grins over her shoulder, her vivid pink knitted beany a stark contrast to the grey shades surrounding us.
I sigh dramatically and allow her to lead me through the shed’s side door. She flips a switch, and a few exposed light bulbs dully brighten the space full of old hay and dilapidated boards.
On the far side, two figures stand, heads bent as they whisper to one another in the shadows. They turn at the sound of our entrance, and their shuffling feet kick up dust.
“Marian? Mom? What’s going on?”
Sara continues to drag me across the scattered hay while I wave the dust away. “We here for ya lesson with Sara, ya ungrateful child,” Marian says, offended. She thumps her cane.
“We want to watch,” my mother adds, stepping into the light.
I chuckle nervously and pull at the sleeves of my coat. “There’s nothing to really watch.”
Marian snorts so roughly I fear it rattled her brain. “Nonsense. Ya don’t think we’ve noticed ya two sneakin’ out here? Ya need help.”
Sara cocks her foot out and crosses her arms. “She wants to try her voodoo on your you-do.”
“My you-do?” I crack a smile, and a laugh escapes.
She shrugs. “Why not. What else do we call someone who can kidnap a spirit surfing the wind?”
“A skinwalker,” my mother, Marian, and I say together.
Twisting her lips to the side, Sara pretends to ponder. “Nah. Too safe. Too boring.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and ask Marian, “What, exactly, is it that you want?”
“I want the truth from ya girls. I want the truth. I want answers.”
I drop my hand to my side and peer warily at her. “What do you want to know?”
She narrows her eyes and starts to hobble around me, surveying me from my tennis shoes all the way to my braid. “Do what ya do. We begin there.”
Shaking my hands at my sides, I shoot Sara an accusing look and then close my eyes. It doesn’t take much time before the spirits surround me, talking to me all at once. “What do you want me to do with them?”
“How have they changed since you mated a shifter?” my mom asks softly.
I shrug. “Jacob can hear them now. Through them, we can send messages to each other.”
“And?” Marian presses.
My eyes still closed, I frown. “And nothing. That’s all I’ve noticed.”
“Look deep, child.”
“Marian, there’s nothing different,” I growl.
“Look deep!”
“Just do it,” Sara whispers.
Seconds tick by, then a minute, then two. Sweat dribbles down my spine as I sort out the many sounds of the spirits. A female spirit begs me for favors. A child whimpers. A man wants revenge. A crow caws. And then, as the voices sort themselves into distinct people and whispers, I hear it. I hear them. “I – That’s –”
“Yes,” Marian murmurs. There’s a smile in her voice. “I thought so.”
“What?” my mother asks.
“She can hear our spirits.”
Sara chokes. “Living spirits? You, me, her – our spirits?”
“O’ course,” Marian barks.
I squeeze my eyes shut to maintain their spirit’s distinct whispers. I knew I could. I’ve speculated about it since we left the Riva territory. But not once did I ever think this secret of mine would be dragged into the open. Not so fully.
I should have known I wouldn’t be able to keep it around Marian. Their spirits are almost a tangible thing like pulsing ribbons in my mind.
“She can hear the livin’ spirits in the necklace – those wolf spirits. They still alive. Why wouldn’t she be able ta hear ours.”
“Could she –” Sara’s swallow is audible. “Could she wear them? Wear us?”
“I do not know, child.”
“Sweet wicked Divine. That makes me queasy.”
Can I? Could I wear the spirit of a human? A dead one, sure, but a living, breathing human . . . could I wear their spirit like a second skin?
Curious, I mentally reach out to one – Sara’s if I had to guess by how much it wiggles in my mind’s eye. It’s a twisting ribbon writhing in the wind. It’s beautiful. It calls to me. It – It –
I touch it.
Liquid splatters. My eyes fly open to see Sara bent over, vomiting in the hay. Slightly disoriented, I rush to her and pat her back while she coughs up the rest of her breakfast.
“Sorry,” I murmur. Guilt and dread curl around my heart.
“You could, couldn’t you,” my mother asks, digging out a tissue from her pocket and handing it to Sara.
I look at the hay to hide my shame. I had touched her spirit, and as soon as I did, it made her sick. Would I ever do that to someone else? What would happen if I were to wear her spirit? If simply touching it made her violently ill, would she live through the process?