Page 40 of The Witch is Back

The magic clearly had weighed her and found her lacking, like everyone else.

Her sigh was whipped away by the wind. The cold stole into her bones, but she continued to sit on the beach, her familiar huddled by her side, the lapping waters in front of her and regret at her back.

CHAPTER 9

Bastian did the only thing he could think of. He went home.

He’d never admitted to himself how much he’d missed the place, the parents he’d left behind on his great rush to escape. If he’d admitted it, he might also have admitted that he could have fought harder to stay, could have tried to find another solution. And that had been a reality he’d been hiding from, long before the news that his mom was sick. Because the truth was Emmaline was right—he’d also run because it was easy.

He felt ripped open, exposed, a layer of filth coating his insides that he wouldn’t be able to clean with a hot shower. Emmaline’s emotions battered him, the memory still knocking around his head, his magic having picked it from her mind. She’d been projecting so hard and he’d been wide open when he’d touched her. It had been like a bomb going off.

Her despair and bitterness...he could taste it like ashes and wine. That and desperation.

The portal opened up in the hallway and tonight he knew his ancestors were real, their painted faces condemning him as he dragged his feet toward the parlor most favored by his mom. It was barely ten thirty. Before, his parents would have been up past the witching hour, but now, who knew?

Fortunately he heard his dad reading one of his mom’s favorite romances aloud, his booming voice only slightly quieter than usual, but what he’d consider soothing. They could have used a spell to make the pages read themselves aloud, but he knew his dad would think that “the easy way out” and not good enough for those he loved. It would have normally made Bastian smile, but his emotions were too raw, too shredded for that. All he could think was that he hadn’t followed his father’s example. “The easy way out” had been a door he’d often walked through.

Emma’s accusations pricked him again and he dragged in a breath as unsteady as a table with three legs. Then he made himself move, knocking once on the jamb as he entered. “Hey, guys.”

His mom looked up from where she reclined on the green velvet couch, a lap blanket over her legs and her familiar over the blanket. “Hey, sweetie,” she said, a smile lighting up her features, even with the bruises under her eyes.

His dad lowered the book with an echoing smile. “Come to relieve me of book duty?”

Normally Bastian would have made a joke about not reading sex books with his parents, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. He cast a lost look at his mom.

She pursed her lips, gaze moving over his face. All sorts of maternal alarm bells must have rung because the next minute she directed a speaking look at his dad. “Ali,” she said, voice soft, a little raw. It hurt Bastian to hear it. “Would you get me a glass of water?”

“Of course.” Alistair picked up her hand, kissed the backs of her fingers. “I’ll be five minutes.”

Nobody mentioned magic or the carafe of water that was sitting on a table two feet away.

Bastian sank into the big armchair that matched the couch and which sat at a right angle to his mom, opposite the chair his dad had taken. An antique wooden coffee table bridged all three, piled with books, magazines, tissues, pills, a bowl of uneaten popcorn. His mom hadn’t regained her appetite. His heart, already oozing blood, convulsed at the sign she wasn’t getting better.

“What’s up, baby?”

The endearment made his throat close. He slumped back, using one hand to rub his aching forehead. “I fucked up.” In so many ways.

Normally his mom would have tsked, would have scolded him like he was a teenager. Even Truenotes would be frowned upon for swearing. Now she sat in silence as an imaginary clock ticked off seconds in his head.

“I fucked up,” he repeated, dropping his hand. “Didn’t I?”

Kindness shone out of Diana’s eyes. “Yes.”

Like someone had cut his strings, Bastian slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. “Fuck,” he said again, helpless to think of any other word.

“Let me guess. Emmaline found her spine?”

He rubbed burning eyes. “You could say that. She let me know how it was when I left. For her, I mean.” He held his hands there, struggled to say something about the hex. Choked on the words. “There’s more to the story, Mom. I just... I can’t say what.”

“You could try.”

The magic closed a hand around his throat, sinking in electric fingernails that crackled internally. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and then dropped them. He gave a small shake of his head. “You know I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

If his mom was disappointed he didn’t say more, she hid it well. “I know.”

“I would never have hurt her,” he repeated, the wash of despair from Emma flowing up him again. Breaking him.

His mom sighed at his statement. “You wouldn’t mean to.” She studied him, pale, sick, but still a mom. Coming to some sort of a decision, she struggled up.

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