Page 9 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Lincoln huffed. He stood a foot taller than her, breathing slow and deep.
“Face the mirror and picture what you remember of yourself. Hold it in your mind.” She guided his bloody fingertip to the face of the stone necklace. “It doesn’t have to be an exact memory. You can imagine what you wanted for yourself, what you liked about yourself, but don’t get crazy with it, all right? It’s a cloaking spell, not a reassembly ritual. You’ve already been remade twice. We can’t keep screwing with your bone structure.”
“So, this isn’t a permanent fix?” He shifted to stand in front of the mirror, crowding her between the vanity and the wall.
“Carrying a spell around isn’t exactly easy, so you’ll need to take breaks. Wear the necklace during the day, take it off at night. Ready?”
Lincoln flicked his gaze from Tehlor to his reflection and gave a curt nod.
Tehlor emptied her mind, focusing solely on the mirror. The spell wasn’t difficult. It rippled through her like cool water, pulsing from the center of her forehead into each fingertip, delivered with a gentle tap to the face of the labradorite. She lingered in the murky head fog, reaching for any loose ends, chasing out any leftover magic, and swaying on her feet. Her mouth moved around a familiar prayer.What flies there, what fares there. She rooted her devotion to the Vanir, speaking strength and steadiness into the scaffolding of the spell.
Her voice was whispery and gentle, gusting from her, “Freya, be gracious.” Spoken as a conclusion, sent skidding into the bathroom at the tail end of the ritual’s completion.
When she opened her eyes, Lincoln Stone blinked at his shaky reflection. It remained blurry, like the surface of a lake, until Tehlor fastened the chain around his throat. The labradorite rested between his clavicles, and all at once, his wolfish head was replaced by beige skin, tightly cropped ashen hair, and stern eyes—one brown, the other blue—situated above sturdy, handsome cheeks. He felt across his jaw and ear, turning one way then the other.
Tehlor gripped the counter, steadying herself against a bout of dizziness.
“See,” she said, sighing, “easy-peasy.”
Magic sizzled in the air. She clung to consciousness, watching Lincoln straighten before he shifted his gaze to her. Something eerie and unsettling moved within him. It pushed against the frayed knot her spirit had created when she’d brought him back, tangling themselves into a single, abnormal organism. His gentleness was gone. The guarded, curious guy she’d fished out of Bishop’s basement melted into a confident, magically emboldened dickhead. Every woman knew that feeling, the suddenness of becoming prey.
Fuck.
Before she could dart into the hall, Lincoln wrapped his hand around her throat and gripped her by the jaw, slamming her against the wall.
“You fuckin’ player,” she hissed, scrabbling for his wrist.
He gripped her face with one hand, squeezing hard. “You really thought I’d be your servant?Please.” He cooed the last word. His breath ran hot across her mouth. “You’re a cocky little witch, I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll skin you alive—”
Laughter boomed through the bathroom. He lifted her higher. She stood on her tiptoes, gasping, trying to summon the smallest bit of magic. None came. She was spent. Her heartbeat quickened and she thrashed in his grip, sending a frustrated noise through gritted teeth.
You knew this would happen, she scolded herself.You ignored your intuition. You did the fucking thing. Here’s your goddamn punishment.
“No wonder Bishop put you out of your misery,” she spat.
Lincoln’s triumphant grin fractured but didn’t fall. He dug his fingers into her cheeks and leaned closer, fitting his lips against her ear. “We’re even, you fucking heretic.” Each word stung. Every syllable chewed at her. “You brought me back; I let you live. Come near me again and I’ll gut you like a pig. Understood?”
“Taking notes from your ex, huh?” Tehlor met his furious gaze. Rage burned behind her eyes. “You’ll regret this.”
Lincoln tossed her carelessly. The back of Tehlor’s head smacked the wall and she slipped on the tile, smacking her knee against the toilet. She crumbled to the floor and tried to catch her breath. His footsteps thumped in the hallway. Fabric rustled. The front door opened and slammed shut, and the sound of his boots crunching through snow faded.
Motherfucker.
Gunnhild hopped across the living room. The concerned rat nosed at Tehlor’s ankle, then her calf, before she crawled onto her thigh and squeaked.
“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” Tehlor said. She let her eyes slip shut and blew out a breath.
Throbbing pain bloomed at the base of her skull. Magic, depleted. Energy, gone.
Völva slighted by her own vorðr.
She summoned enough strength to scoop Gunnhild up and get to her feet, tracing the candlelight’s aura around her ghostly reflection. Slight and bird-boned. Willowy and unrefined. So many people had decided so many things about her over the course of her life. Her dance instructor once told her she moved like a hawk rather than a swan. Too quick; too vicious. An old boyfriend had shaped the wordsmallinto a compliment. Swooned over her small lips, small breasts, small smile, and small appetite, gift-wrapping each comment as if she’d earned them, even though she’d derived those very same traits simply to please him. A rival ballerina called had hersweetonce, mistaking her meticulous poise for mousy camaraderie. Witches in silly faux-circles had called her gifted and gentle—an empath, even—as she sat cross-legged at a full-moon party, casing their purses for something to steal.
Many people had decided on Tehlor Nilsen. Crafted a personality for her, assumed her past, predicted her future.
But Lincoln Stone was the first person with enough audacity to trick her.
