Page 25 of Soul Bound

“Right.” Winslow nods, even though I know on the inside she’s still confused as hell. How could she not be? “But what does it mean that I can bring something back from the dead without a spell?”

“Honestly? I don’t have the slightest clue what it means, but we’ll figure it out together.” Esme drops Winslow’s hand and moves to lean against the large worktable. “Have you always been able to see into the spirit realm?”

“No.” Winslow bites nervously at her thumbnail. I snake my arm out and lightly grip her wrist, pulling her finger from her mouth. I do this for two reasons, First, that's a disgusting habit. Second, becaues she's been chewing on her nails so much the skin around them is red and inflamed—she’s hurting herself at this point. She side-eyes me but keeps her hand in her lap. “I had an accident when I was eleven and ever since then I have been able to. That was eleven years ago.”

“What kind of accident?” I ask.

She frowns at me. “God, you were right.”

“What?”

“You said one way or another you were going to learn my secrets, and you were right.” She all but growls at me.

I can’t help but want to smile at her and tell her‘I told you so’, but I bite my tongue instead. “Secrets don’t stay hidden for long,” is all I offer. “Tell us what happened.”

She makes a cutehumphnoise, before sending me a less than pleased look.

I have never met a girl like Winslow. Usually, you give a girl an inch to talk about herself and she’ll take a thousand miles, by the end of the conversation you’ve heard about all the family drama and know who in the family has the alcohol problem. But not Winslow. She looks like she would be more comfortable putting a fire out with her face than telling us about her past. If my hunch is right, Winslow has been running from the literal ghosts of her childhood, and by us asking her to talk about it, she’s dredging up the memories she’d rather forget.

I feel guilty as hell asking her to talk because I see the pain on her face as she talks about it. She’s trying to be strong and act like she’s not affected, but I can see past the brave mask she’s wearing. Her past scares her—hurts her.

She takes a breath, her chest filling with fresh air before she dives in. “The pool in the winter had this thin plastic cover on it. Ropes on the four corners of the pool kept it tethered down. I was a strong swimmer, I didn’t fear the water, so when one day I was outside and saw that one of the ropes had come undone, I went over to retie it. No big deal, right? Just had to tie a knot and call it a day. But I slipped.” Her hands holding the side of her chair tighten their grip. “I fell forward and plastic immediately wrapped around me. I fought against it as hard as I could, tried pulling myself free, but I got so caught up in it. The water was also freezing, the second I fell in it felt like I had slipped into a pool of needles. I got tired and I just… gave up. I stopped fighting and it didn’t hurt anymore.” She pauses, her two-toned gaze shoots to mine like she’s checking that I’m still here. “They aren’t sure how long I was under, but my nanny found me, and she performed CPR on me. It took her five minutes to get my heart to start again, but I finally coughed out the water in my lungs and took in a breath of air.”

“You died.” It’s not a question.

“I was legally dead for over five minutes.” Winslow nods. “And when I opened my eyes again, my eye color changed. I wasn’t born like this. My eyes were always the same green color, but after the accident, this one turned the blue color it is now.” She points to the ice-cold blue eye. “No one could ever explain how it happened. I went to specialists and no one had an answer. My mom bought me colored contacts to wear around people so no one would ask questions.”

I don’t give a fuck about her funky eye color. My wolf is absolutely distraught at the fact that she had died and frankly, so am I. The thought of her lying dead fills my head and my heart seizes in my chest. I have the urge to reach up and rub the uncomfortable pain away from my chest.

“Well I could tell you why your eye changed color if you’d like,” Esme says.

Winslow’s head shoots up at the offer. “You can?”

“Sure.” Esme shrugs. “I should have recognized the color before, but I was distracted with the whole Amara thing. I’ve seen that eye color before with witches who can see into the spirit realm. Their eyes usually shift color when they’re actively trying to see spirits—kind of like when a shifter’s eyes change when their animal surfaces. But with you it’s different, Winnie, you’ve been in the spirit realm. When your soul died you werepartof the spirit realm, bringing you back to life didn’t cut the connection you formed to it. You’re forever tethered to the other side because a piece of your soul is still over there and now one of your eyes can permanently see into the afterlife. And if I had to guess, I’d say you had dormant witch powers, but dying brought them to the surface.”

“Witches can have dormant powers?” Winnie asks—fuck, I’m calling her that now too?I notice she blows right past asking questions about the whole soul thing this time.

“It’s rare, but if witches aren’t raised around other witches and they aren’t taught to hone their powers, they can stay dormant,” Esme explains.

I look to the high priestess. “Kind of like Pruitt, right? Her wolf didn’t start to wake up until she returned home to her pack after fourteen years. She thought she was human until the truth about her past came to light.”

“Exactly,” Esme says. “It doesn’t happen every time, but people can go years without knowing they are a witch or shifter because they aren’t around their kind. There was no one there to help her along or teach her the way.” Esme’s smile is huge as she looks at her niece. “But you have me now, Winslow, and I’m going to show you the way.”

Winslow’s facial expression doesn’t show it, but her hands tremble at Esme’s words. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice scratchy.

“What is family for?” Esme sweeps her into a hug, forcing me to back away from the two.

Winslow hesitates, but soon her arms wrap around Esme’s waist. I can visibly see some of the tension leave her tiny body and she tucks her head against Esme’s shoulder.

“Esme?” Winslow says after a minute. “Is there a tracking spell we can use to find a baby?”

* * *

Esme siftsthrough different leather-bound books, looking for a specific tracking spell that can be used on people. She says she has plenty of spells that can be used to find missing objects, but the ones that can track people are less common and more complicated—becauseof course they are, nothing is ever easy.

I sit back, leaning against the far wall as I watch Winslow.

I can’t get over her being related to Esme. I’ve never been one to think much about fate. But the fact Thalia found her all the way in Rhode Island and brought her back to Montana—back to Esme—I can’t help but think there was a little fate at play here. Of all the witches that can communicate with the dead, Thalia chose Winslow.

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