Page 22 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Tehlor and Lincoln didn’t speak for three days.
She’d imagined plunging a screwdriver through the top of his hand to get his attention. She’d thought about crawling into his lap, too. But mostly, she’d cursed the claustrophobic townhouse for its petite frame and forged stoicism whenever they’d bumped each other in the kitchen, caught each other in the hall, or strode past each other in the living room. They had mere days before the cookout, and after that, only hours to prepare for the revival. She didn’t have time for petty games, and she didn’t have the patience to responsibly handle the silent treatment, either.
It was all disgustingly childish—feigning avoidance; thetheaterof it all. Still, she retreated to the spare bedroom, dressed in sweatpants and a cropped sweatshirt, and bundled her hair into a ponytail. Moonstrike clung to her, turned soil and freshly printed books, fickle energy and incense smoke, and her calves ached from standing on her tiptoes, arranging amethyst cathedrals on a tall shelf. She blew out a sigh and bent into a plié.
“There’s no concrete evidence of the Breath of Judas existing,” Lincoln said. His voice cut through the quiet, drawing her attention like an arrow. He stood in the doorway. Wolfish ears twitched atop his head. “And no clear-cut ritual or how-to. If Haven has the relic, and I believe they do, then they’re just as much in the dark about it as we are.”
“I doubt that,” Tehlor said.
It was the first conversation they’d had since the transference spell. All business; no fluff.
“The Breath of Judas has a paper trail. San Crisogono, then Notre Dame. The Vatican, even. Sure, there’s noofficialdocumentation of its power, but rumors come to life somehow. All myth starts as word-of-mouth.” She stretched toward the floor and grabbed her ankles, turning to rest her cheek on her thigh, looking at him. “What makes you think Haven has it?”
“A division in the hierarchy of the clergy last year. One side wanted the church to run like a business, the other wanted a militia.”
“And the militia came to Gideon,” Tehlor said, defeated.
“Seems that way, yeah.”
“What do you believe the relic does?”
Lincoln considered her carefully. He stepped into the room and moved in front of her, blocking her view of the mirror.
“I think it’s exactly what we originally believed; a necromantic tool used to control corpses. There’s more to it, I’m sure. I doubt accessing purgatory through the living essence of Christ’s betrayer is a walk in the park, but.” He shrugged.
Tehlor straightened and cracked her neck. She sidestepped him and resumed her gentle stretches, keeping her gaze cemented on her reflection. She hadn’t considered what communication might be like with someone she respected, wanted, and feared because she’d never stayed in a relationship long enough to find all three in a person. She’d always been the one doing the leaving. The heartbreaker. The bad thing that happened to good people.
Lincoln Stone was a consequence—karma coming back to sink its teeth into her—and Tehlor hated how her heart bent toward him.
“What’d you do?” He slid closer, stepping in front of her again. “Break someone’s little heart? Steal something valuable?”
She took the opportunity to use him for balance and set her hand on his shoulder, flexing her knees.
“Both, yeah,” she said.
“And?”
She swallowed hard, grinding her back teeth. There was always something. A truly terrible deed executed clumsily enough to leave a scar, butno oneliked talking about that shit, and she’d made a point to stay silent on the subject of her teenage-Tonya-Harding incident with everyone except her fucking lawyer.
Lincoln placed his hand on her waist when she stood upright. His thumb followed the top of her sweatpants, gingerly brushing fair skin. “C’mon, my ex cut my heart in half and put my body in a wall. Can’t be that bad.”
“I shattered a girl’s kneecap after she got the lead in Swan Lake,” Tehlor said. She offered a small, forced smile, and lifted both brows, saddling him with an expectant look. “A scout from NYU offered her a scholarship after the performance and I…” She huffed out a laugh. “…lost my shit. I was sixteen, busting my ass in advanced classes, on track to graduate early and spread so fuckin’ thin I couldn’t think, couldn’t cope, couldn’t rationalize. I swung a thirty-pound dumbbell into the side of her leg at the gym two days later. Smashed her patella into pieces.”
“Ouch.”
“It was over for me after that. GPA? Shot. College applications? Useless. Got out of juvi when I was eighteen, packed my shit, and used my college fund to buy this place.” She gestured around the studio with a flick of her wrist. “I could’ve gone to Julliard. Could’ve moved to Paris, could’ve met someone nice, settled down, and opened my own studio. But I gotmadinstead.” She hung her head and grinned cruelly at the ceiling. “I was a foolish little girl,” she whispered, harsh and pained. “Powerless and petty and too pissed to function.”
“That doesn’t make you a foolish woman,” he said, steadying her as she arced backward, stretching her spine.
“Iama foolish woman.”You make me foolish.
Lincoln ran his hand from her waist to her nape, dusting his fingers along her spine. He gripped the back of her neck and held her steady as she straightened.
"That foolish little girl evolved into the witch you are today. Convening with gods, harnessing power, raising the dead.” He met her eyes and reached into his pocket, retrieving his labradorite necklace. He slipped the cord over his head. His human form manifested like lightning, sudden and surreal. “The thought of you rotting away in a French chateau, married to a loan officer, puttering around the kitchen, fixing dinner, setting the table…” He laughed in his throat and leaned closer, pressing a raspy whisper to the corner of her mouth. “Disgusts me.”
She narrowed her eyes. Everything beneath her navel squeezed. “I imagined you didn’t think of me much at all.”
“Can’t lie to me, witchling.” He stroked the side of her throat with his thumb. “I’m part of you now, remember?”
