Page 203 of Midnights
The cut that Iswearwas pretty deep last night, looks… smaller. Less angry. It’s still there, but the raw, swollen redness has faded to a dull pink. The wound looks days old. Not hours. I look back up at my face, and you’d just think I cried all night or was really tired. My lip is a little fat, but nothing crazy. My ribs are black and blue, but not quite as dark as it was last night.
It still hurts like a bitch though.
I’m shocked that I don’t look worse. I definitely feel worse than I look, but I guess that’s for the best. Less questions that way.
I press against my skin, testing for pain. But it barely stings.
A mix of confusion and unease curls in my stomach.I swear it looked worse last night. Am I crazy?
Maybe it looked worse in the dark? Maybe I was overreacting.
My brain's a circus right now, but one cuts louder than the rest.Maybe nothing about last night was normal.
I swallow hard and shove the thoughts down, reaching for the first aid kit on the sink. I tear it open and re-bandage my arm like it's no big deal.
One thing at a time.
By the time I make it into the kitchen, Rachel's perched on a stool with her phone, looking lost in her thoughts. She glances up briefly, and the worry etched into her face stops me in my tracks.
“What’s wrong?” I know her well enough to call bullshit before she even tries to deny it.
“Nothing.”
She sets down her phone in an obvious attempt to change the subject. She grabs the teapot and pours me a cup like it’s the most important thing she’s ever done.
I don’t even need to say anything.
She sighs and leans against the counter, her shoulders sagging. “Okay, fine. It’s notnothing. It’s Bobby.”
I stay quiet, letting her talk. She doesn’t need much prompting when he’s the one on her mind.
She exhales sharply, tapping her fingers absently against the counter. “He’s just being himself. Throwing a fit about something, again. He’s probably mad I’m not answering fast enough. You know how he gets.”
My lips press together. Idoknow how he gets.
She waves a hand, brushing it off. “It’s fine. He’ll get over it. And I refuse to let him ruin this trip.”
Her tone is casual, but the tension in her jaw gives her away. I take a slow sip of tea, considering my next words. I don’t want to push if she’s not ready to talk. But I also know her well enough to see the weight she’s trying to hide.
I set my mug down, keeping my voice even. “You sure?”
Rachel meets my eyes, and I can see her mask slip for just a second. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, and then it’s gone. “Yep! Now eat your damn toast. We have witchy business to attend to.”
The next few days pass in a blur of research, frustration, and dead ends.
Rinse and repeat.
Rachel and I spendhoursdigging through books, online archives, and any scrap of information remotely connected to folklore, witchcraft, and my family’s history. We keep slamming into the same wall of nothing.
The book I grabbed from the bookstore has been somewhat useful. We’ve learned a lot about crystals and their meanings and abilities.Specifically,the two I have and the one embedded in my dagger. But the biggest mystery is the stone in my necklace. We still can’t find anything on that.
We found stories on fairies stealing babies, good fairies, bad fairies, but still nothing about witches.
There was a decent section on wolves that I found. Something about how they’re powerful symbols and their meaning, but there was only a few things on ancient rituals and how they’re performed during the full moon. I also learned that the veil between worlds was at its thinnest during that time. And that wolves were often seen as protectors during rituals.
But even with all this searching, we still don’t have a single concrete answer. It’s all just stories and whispers of old magic. Some eerily close to what I’ve experienced, but nothing thatproveswhat’s happening.
And what’s worse is, we can’t find any records of my family.
