Page 45 of Witch's Wolf

Caring got me here. Angry, broken, and carrying the weight of a love that was never enough. A torch I refuse to carry any longer.

25

ERICA

“Ijust love it out here,” Monica sighs, her voice almost childlike with wonder. “The trees, the wildlife… it’s amazing to think that none of these animals will dare hurt me because of my relationship with Raul. Look at us. City girls walking around the big bad forest and I feel completely safe.”

Monica Greenwell, aka Dr. Smitten.

We’ve been out here for an hour, and she hasn’t stopped gushing about Raul. His name sneaks into every other sentence, like a song she can’t stop humming. She talks about how good life has been to her, how lucky she is to have found him. And I get it. I used to be like this. I almost had this.

I remember what it felt like, to want the whole damn world to know you’d found someone you could trust. Someone who made you feel safe. That was before. Before I learned how fast love can turn into regret.

Still, I can’t fault her for being happy. Monica deserves it after everything she’s been through. A shit first marriage, a messydivorce. A heart that had every reason to stop believing until Raul came along. That brute of a man who somehow put her back together.

And even so she is spending her one free evening trudging through the woods with me instead of wrapped up in her perfect love story. She didn’t have to. She could’ve spent tonight with her Mr. Fantastic, curled up in that cozy cabin of theirs. But she chose to be here, with me, for me. Maybe I don’t say it out loud, but damn it, I appreciate it.

“So, that’s Lake Paxton,” I say, spying a patch of water through the thinning trees. “Are you sure we’ll find Helena here? Because that’s what you said about Edward’s sanctuary.”

“I’m not sure about much when it comes to Helena,” she admits with a heavy exhale. “I know she’s loyal to Dawson, and especially to the Crawfords. The boys have found her here more than once, so it’s a likely a place as any.”

The trees break, and the lake stretches before us, a dark, glassy expanse reflecting the skeletal outlines of the forest. It’s beautiful in a quiet, eerie kind of way. The kind of place that might have moved me on any other night. Tonight, though, my patience is hanging by a thread.

I step onto the nearest rock, boots grinding against the damp surface, but before I can take in anything more, a flicker of red disrupts the night. Further down the shore, a plume of smoke curls over the pebbles, its wisps vanishing into the cold air. Then, through the dim glow, I see her.

Helena.

She stands by the water’s edge, her frame small but unwavering, slipping back her hood as she lowers her staff. The moment feels deliberate, like she’s been expecting us all along.

“Good evening, ladies,” her voice cool and unreadable. “You’ve been looking for me.”

“Yeah, we have,” Monica confirms, stepping up and taking the lead. “Erica needs to talk to you. She needs answers.”

I keep my mouth shut, every muscle tense. I’ve my own thoughts about Helena, about all of this. But right now Monica is right, I want answers.

“You were right, Helena,” I say, the words bitter on my tongue. No matter how much I don’t want them to be true, there’s no denying it. “My parents are alive. I guess that means they are the ones who put that spell on my future.”

Helena groans, striding along the shore, her frustration as sharp as the crisp night air.

“I’m sorry. I am… appalled,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Believe me that I wanted to be wrong.”

“I wanted you to be wrong too,” I whisper, a hollow ache in my chest. “They betrayed me. Twenty-two years believing they were dead, and for what?”

Helena exhales, but there’s something else in her expression, something that makes my stomach clench so tight that bile rises in my throat.

“I hate to say this,” she frowns deeply, hesitating. Her eyes search mine, looking for something, but what I don’t know. “That’s not the only reason I’m appalled,” her tone shifts,becoming colder and heavier. “I’ve been busy too, Erica. I traced your family’s roots.”

“Okay…” a wave of unease prickling the back of my neck.

“You’re of Irish descent, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Yeah. My great-grandparents arrived in New York in the late 1800s.”

“Your ancestors were a menace, dear.”

The way she says it, matter-of-fact and unwavering sends a chill straight through me.

“One of them, Gordon Connors, left Ireland in 1679 and settled in Trenton, a coastal village near Cornwall, England. Six years later, he married Marianne Weston. Both of them were witches.” Something about the way she lingers on the words makes my pulse quicken. “One day, Marianne left home and never returned. Gordon suspected the locals had taken her, killed her. When he came to the conclusion that he would never find her, he cleared his house and loaded his belongings into a carriage…” she pauses, her gaze pinning me in place.

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