Page 42 of Secrets in Salem: Part One

Only now there's an actual fire spreading over the spilled ink and over...me.

The faint feeling I had before overtakes me entirely, more so when I see through my burning eyes that the flames are licking whatever bare skin they can reach. Though no pain accompanies this next impossibility, it's enough for me to pass out in the middle of a self-made fire.

***

"I'm going to throttle the shit out of her, I swear," I hear, the voice muffled, but man, does it sound angry.

"That would be counterproductive since we're here to protect her, not throttle," another voice answers, sounding closer than the one before.

There's a brief silence before the first voice mutters, "Don't look at me like that. I yelled at her to wait, but she's stubborn and didn't damn well listen."

Tuning out the angry man, I focus on why the hell my body feels like it's not quite my own. It feels like I'm floating, my head bobbing awkwardly in a steady rhythm. My limbs are all tired and hanging loosely while the rest of my body levitates with an occasional jostle.

There's another pause around me, the silence stretching on for a few moments, before the louder voice mutters, "She's fine. Healing just the way she should be. She should be waking up soon."

Are... are they talking about me?

"She's already awake. She's probably just a little trippy right now," the angry man says before a hand is pressed against my forehead. "She's cooling down, so that's something."

Guess theyaretalking about me.

"Willow? You awake?" a deep voice says, too loud against my aching head. I recognize the voice, though. It's Bishop, his low timbre baritone vibrating through my arm. It's then I realize I'm not quite floating, but I'm being carried once more in the arms of another man who lied to me.

"No," I answer croakily, my voice sounding like I've smoked forty cigarettes a day for the last ten years. It's rough and dry, and it hurts to even talk. I try to open my eyes, but there's nothing, only darkness. Rasping while once more reaching the point of hysteria, I ask, "Why can't I see?"

"Calm down, Low. It's just a bandage. Your eyes were hurt in the fire, and we're not sure how extensive the damage is yet. We've just put some pads and a bandage over your eyes until we can look you over," Bishop explains, his low voice soothing.

Deciding talking hurts too much and I seem to be in relatively good care, I drop my head back, groaning low in my throat when the movement causes some aches to form in my neck and back.

A gentle hand cups my head, holding it upright when I lose the ability to do so myself. Fingers sift through my knotted hair, a thumb brushing the underside of my ear. It's enough to send me falling into a deep slumber where the Devil is real and monsters lurk in the shadows.

***

Soft touches along my forehead wake me, my eyes snapping open before immediately closing once more when the pain is too much.

"Take it slow before you do more damage to them," Aleric mutters, sounding equal parts angry and worried. He's his very own contradiction.

The soothing motions along my head pause and then I hear skin hitting skin. Aleric grumbles, "That was uncalled for."

There isn't a reply, so I can only imagine it was Micah that just assaulted his brother. The hand comes back a moment later, brushing the hair from my face and tracing gentle lines along my temple and cheek. It distracts me from my aches and pains... and their betrayal.

Slowly,reallyslowly, I open my eyes, blinking repeatedly to adjust to the light seeping through the bedroom. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but once they do, I see I'm not in my bedroom, but Micah's.

Turning my head to the right, I find Micah sitting close to the bed, hand hovering above my cheek as his ocean-colored eyes watch me carefully. Slowly, his fingers move back to my skin, brushing the tips along my cheekbone. His eyes hold unmistakeable guilt, those pretty blues swimming in regret.

"How are you feeling, Low?" Bishop asks, coming into view behind Micah.

My eyes slowly slide to him, noting the worried frown on his handsome face, the way his hand twitches every now and then. I nod carefully and whisper, "Been better. Is my studio ruined?"

Aleric snorts, drawing my eyes to the other side of the bed. "Your studio is just fine. I put the fire out before it could do much damage."

Looking him over, I see his clothes are covered in soot and ash, holes in certain parts and burn marks in others. I sag back into the bed with relief. "Thank you so much."

"Uh, you're welcome," he replies, sounding a little unsure of himself now, and I can't say I blame him. I suppose he wasn't expecting much gratitude from me after the big revelation. The hurt is seeping back in, along with frustration and confusion. I need answers, and I need themnow.

Clearing my throat once, and then twice, I say, "I think it's time for some explanations. I'll take anything at this point, but you three need to start talking because I feel like I'm going out of my mind. Shit keeps happening that shouldn’t be happening. My painting just came alive, almost ruining my studio, and my brain is struggling to keep up."

All three share a look, and I abruptly cut whatever mental conversation they're having off, surprising myself with the hard edge to my voice. "I've seen things that should not be possible. I've done things that no person should be able to do. Things are happening around me that would make me sound completely insane if I tried to explain them. You three haven't so much as batted an eyelash. What is happening to me and why? How is anything that's happened possible when it's in the realm of impossibility? Shit doesn't just go up in flames, and my body shouldn't heat up to the point of creating fire. I... I shouldn't be able to kill people with only snippets of memories to confirm it was me that murdered the men in my house. I need explanations, and I know you have them. Start talking."

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