Page 68 of Big Little Spells

His mouth thins, and I know what that feels like against my skin. “And some people believe the moon is made of cheese.”

“And some people don’t believe in witches at all. Even when they feel that magic inside of them. We could go around and around on what people believe and don’t until the sun comes up. Bottom line is, I’ve seen some of your oaths. I’ve felt them, like I was there, chanting around the same fires.”

Nicholas says nothing. His displeasure is clear, stamped on every last perfect feature. I feel like I should revel in what’s happened here, but it’s hard to revel when everything feels so weighty. So important and intense.

Like good can only ever be chased by bad—but that’s not new. I learned that right here in St. Cyprian a lifetime ago.

“And yet you haven’t run out of this house screaming. I’m not sure you’ve seen anything at all, Rebekah.” Even when he’s scathing, my name in his mouth means something. Like its own spell, shimmering deep inside me, like blood. Like magic.

“Not everything, of course,” I agree. “Though I can’t tell if you’ve blocked the most interesting things or they have.”

“Who is they?”

I make myself smile. “Now, Nicholas, it isn’t like you to play ignorant. Are you worried I’ve seen whatever you’ve got going on with the Joywood?”

He sighs. I’m not sure it’s as condescending as it is tired.

“As I stated, there are things I cannot tell you.” He rubs his hand over his face, and I think it’s the most mortal thing I’ve seen him do yet. Well. Maybe the second most mortal thing. His gaze holds mine. “Let me be clear that I would take on Carol and her ilk, time and time again and with tremendous pleasure, but she is not an adversary you want. An association with me can only complicate what you and your friends are trying to do.”

I frown up at him. “I’m not sure what us having sex has to do with facing institutional injustice.”

He searches my face. For what, I don’t know, but he doesn’t use magic to try and find it. He simply looks, and something about that is almost...soothing.

“I think somewhere, deep down, you know that it all connects.” Nicholas’s voice is quiet, but it reverberates inside me like a shout. “That it’s all a step toward what’s to come.”

My heart trembles. And everything else follows suit. I don’t like it. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“Only because your definition of fate is too narrow.”

“What’s your definition, then, that’s so broad and perfect?”

There’s the hint of a smile on his hard mouth. “Fate is not the absence of choice. It is the presence of it. Each choice you make will lead you to a different fate. This did not have to happen. Just because a thing is meant doesn’t make it so. You and your sister and your friends were not fated to stop any flood, but you managed it. You could all have as easily died, if different choices were made.”

I think about the way he yanked me here against my will. How he involved himself, though I’m certain he didn’t want to. If it was a choice and not fate, then he chose to help us. Align himself with us.

With me.

Just like all those years ago, he chose to attempt to teach me something. And I chose to thwart his teachings, and my grandmother’s, and try to burn it all to the ground.

Nicholas has been here in the shadows, aiding every little step along the way. Helping me for years and Emerson more recently. Even bringing me home.

Because we are meant to choose each other. When the time is right. He has been choosing me all along, even when it didn’t feel like it.

“You’re helping us,” I say, and it’s not a question this time because he is. Clearly. “But I don’t understand why you’d bother to help if you don’t want to.”

His gaze is as deep and fathomless as the centuries he’s seen pass him by. “There is danger. Everywhere. You will all need to know who you really are in order to navigate it.”

“Are you planning on having sex with all of us?”

This does not elicit a laugh. I suppose I knew it wouldn’t.

“I do not wish harm to come to you, Rebekah. So, I offer what I can.”

Which might as well be love poetry, coming from Nicholas Frost.

I tuck that away so I can get mushy about it later. “What about you? What harm might come to you if the Joywood know what you’re doing? And I don’t mean this,” I add, pointing to the rumpled bed.

His eyes glitter, as if he’s considering his words. Carefully. “There are very few consequences that even the ruling coven can inflict on an immortal who knows as much, if not more, than they do.”

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