Page 11 of Mortdale

“They’re just for collecting purposes,” I told him, grabbing the jar of vertebrae from his hand and lowering it back on the dresser. “I…I don’t cast magic like that.”

“Like what?”

His voice was nice on the ears, rich and deep. His accent gave his letters a bit of an incisive taste, it made me roll my tongue behind my teeth with each word.

“To inflict.”

“Ever?” he asked, and I hated how easy it was for him to just look at me.

“Only when I’ve done it accidentally,” I said, taking one step back, trying to slip away from his attention.

“Accidentally?”

“A long time ago. When I was younger, before I trained under Agnes.”

He picked up the stack of scientific periodicals sent by the Meridian Scientific Community. “Written by W.R.B.” He hummed, skimming a finger down the marked articles I’d written. “That must stand for Willow Ruby, Rory—?”

“Rose,” I said. “Willow Rose Briar.”

“Willow Rose Briar,” he quietly echoed, his lips parting slightly as his tongue rested against the sharp tip of his fang.

“You really can’t be here.”

He glanced down the charred corridor where a few young witches had poked their heads in to look at us. There had rarely been guests up here. Everyone avoided this side of the coven like the plague. And most who dared did it only to torment me; to set my things on fire, drench them in pig blood, shatter my windows, splatter tar all over them—and whatever other pranks they’d pulled over the years, I couldn't remember them all.

“What is here anyway?” he asked, swirling his head around the room.

“I like my privacy.”

“You chose to live here?”

I shrank back at his tone. “Does it matter?”

“Why would it not matter?” he asked, sounding angry rather than curious.

“Why would it matter?” I murmured under my breath, leaving him there as I rushed past the crowd of witches crowning the stairs. There was not enough air to breathe in when I finally burst outside, free from the whispering and the laughing.

When did anything I want ever matter?

Chapter 3

Logan

My brand-new bride followed after me, dragging her feet, biting her inner cheek, and spinning her wedding ring over and over with her thumb like it was suffocating her. She’d changed into a black, comfortable dress and braided her hair to the side, letting it rest down her shoulder.

“You should go say your goodbyes to the others.”

She shook her head. “I can’t face Ronnie again right now.”

Her lover, I presumed from the defeated look on her face.

Saints. This was a mistake. A ridiculous mistake. Not to mention that even though I was one of the youngest of my kind at thirty-six, I was much older than her twenty-six years. If it weren’t for the king forcing this pact on me, I wouldn’t have entertained this whole show. I’d never planned to marry, let alone marry a witch.

A young, dark-haired witch watched my wife from across the gardens. She was wearing a black cloak, with a red sash tied around her throat—the Bloodletting ceremonial garments.

You’ll be kind to her, she’d told me.

She’d been waiting just outside the church doors after the ceremony. From the wet lashes, the red nose, and her swollen eyelids, it was clear she’d been crying, but her voice had been strong. And had she been able to look me in the eye, it would have almost sounded like an order.