Wild is the Witch (37)

I shouldn’t even be checking the location of the owl, but that takes just seconds, and if Cassandra isn’t trying to find me in that exact moment, it won’t matter. But something that would take more time, like healing an injury or trying to relax a cougar is strictly off-limits.

I don’t know if Cassandra pleaded with the council to reconsider Amy’s verdict or if she accepted it readily. I don’t know if she tried to save Amy from her fate or if she felt bound by her duty as a council member.

Part of me thinks Cassandra would be furious with me if she knew the curse I’d written for Pike, not because of the consequences but because of what I watched my best friend go through. Cassandra was my best friend’s older sister and one of my mom’s closest friends—she was more family than anything else, but that all changed two years ago.

Now I don’t know how to look her in the eye, how to tell her how sorry I am for what she went through with Amy, how to say I shouldn’t have gone to sleep when I did. I should have stayed, listened to my gut when it told me Amy was planning something.

But I didn’t, and because that isn’t a crime, I got off easy and Amy suffered.

Deep down, though, I know Cassandra’s feelings on the curse won’t matter. What I’ve done with the owl is so egregious that I deserve whatever punishment the council sees fit to hand out.

It’s not too late, I tell myself, and I cling to it and force myself to believe it because it’s the only way I can continue to put one foot in front of the other.

The rain is heavier and the earth is darker by the time we reach the river. Pike was right—there’s a perfect spot for camping a few yards back from the shoreline, and we start setting up for the night. The trees are providing decent protection from the rain, and I’m able to get my tent up and my things inside in just a few minutes.

Pike pulls rope from his pack, then anchors his tarp around four large pines, pulling it tight. He puts a blanket underneath, and proudly motions at his makeshift shelter.

“How’s that for prepared?” he asks.

“Not bad,” I admit.

The owl is only a quarter mile from here, not even, but the terrain gets steeper with lots of rocks and boulders, so this is as close as we can get. Still, it’s good being this close to him again. Hope fills my chest and spills over into my shoulders and down my arms, a physical reaction that calms my racing heart.

Hope is my lifeline right now.

Pike assembles a bunch of rocks in a circle and is able to get a fire going, even in the rain.

“Okay, I actually am impressed,” I say, ducking under the tarp and sitting on the blanket. The fire is just a few feet away, and I reach my hands toward it, gathering its warmth.

“Fire starter kit,” Pike says, sitting down next to me. He hands me one of the premade subs we picked up at the store, and we eat our dinner with the slight tapping of rain on the tarp and wind in the trees.

It’s…nice. Being here with him.

“I used to go camping with my dad all the time,” I say, looking at the fire. “He would love this.”

“Are you close? You and your dad?”

“We used to be,” I say.

“What happened?”

I set my sub wrapper off to the side and lean back, watching the flames as they reach toward the sky. “There was a bad situation in our old town, and Mom and I decided the best thing for us would be to move. My dad agreed and even helped us plan for it, but when it came down to it, he wanted to stay. So he did. Mom filed for divorce not long after, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Really? He sent you off on your own and just stayed behind?” I almost flinch at the disgust in Pike’s tone, and my instinct is to stand up for my dad, protect him in some way.

“Yeah, but we’d had to move before. He was just tired. He wanted to put down roots somewhere.”

“But you’re his family,” Pike says, his voice rising. “You are his roots.”

I look at him, and all the fight drains out of me because he’s right. I know that he is. “We used to be.”

“I’m sorry, Iris. That’s a shit deal.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling shy and overexposed. I curl my knees to my chest as if taking up less space will make my feelings smaller, more manageable.

The wind gets stronger, making the flames dance chaotically in front of us. The tarp shudders with the gusts, and I pull my hair into a bun to stop it from flying every which way.

The river rushes through the forest, and another gust sends a branch crashing into the water.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” I ask, peering out from the tarp toward the trees. The tops sway left before snapping right, and a constant stream of needles and pine cones showers the campsite.

“These winds are definitely higher than the National Weather Service predicted,” he says.

I hope the owl is okay. I hope he’s burrowed into the trunk of an old, loving fir, contentedly waiting out the storm.

“That didn’t really answer my question.”

Then he looks me right in the eye and says, “We’re safe.”

He holds my gaze for several seconds, and a lump forms in my throat. Did he know that was exactly what I needed to hear? Can he tell that sometimes my worry gets so big it overwhelms me?

I swallow hard and look away.