Wild is the Witch (39)

Pike crawls in after me and switches off his flashlight in favor of a dimmer lantern. He sets it in the middle of the floor and zips the tent closed.

“Since your stuff got wet, we’ll have to improvise a little.” He pulls a blanket out from under his things and unfolds it to its full size, then unzips his sleeping bag and lays it on top. “It won’t be as warm this way, but it’s big enough to cover us both. It’ll have to do.”

When I don’t move or say anything, Pike stops and looks at me. “Now that we’re in here, I suppose it is a bit tight for two people. I can sleep outside,” he says.

But I don’t want to be alone to worry about the curse and Cassandra and what it would mean if the curse was unleashed. I don’t want to think about Alex and that night on the lake and the terrifying possibility that I doomed Pike to the same fate.

I can’t tell Pike any of the things I want to talk about, but I can sleep in his tent and distract myself with the closeness of another person.

I swallow and finally meet his eyes. “I don’t want you to sleep outside.”

“You don’t?”

I shake my head, then slowly scoot onto the blanket. Pike lifts up the sleeping bag for me, and I lie down on my back. He does the same, and once we’re both covered, he turns off the lantern.

The wind continues to roar, and the nylon tent flaps and shakes with the stress of it. Creaks and snaps come from outside as the trees sway back and forth, their branches working to hold on through the storm. I jump when a large splash sounds in the distance, something heavy and big landing in the river.

“Are you okay?” Pike asks.

I nod in the dark, even though he can’t see me.

“Iris?”

“I’m okay,” I say, keeping my voice even. Something about being this close to him makes it impossible to ignore that his life is hanging in the balance, and he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

What would he say if I were to tell him I cursed him? If I were to look him directly in the eye and tell him I’m a witch?

I’m terrified to realize I want to find out, I want to say the words I vowed to never say and wait for whatever reaction lies on the other side. I’m sick of hiding.

But behind the Pike who makes me s’mores and comes looking for me in the dark is the Pike who hates witches, and I can’t show him that part of me because he wouldn’t understand. And I can’t even blame him because I wrote an awful curse for him that I never should have written.

I cursed him, yet I want him to understand.

Impossible.

The rain gets harder, pelting the tent so loudly I’ll never get to sleep. Not that I would have slept anyway.

“I hope MacGuffin is holding up okay in this storm,” Pike says, and my heart starts to race.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Rain can be risky for owls. If their feathers get soaked, they can’t fly, and if they can’t fly, they can’t hunt. But drenched feathers can also lead to a loss of body heat, so hypothermia becomes a risk.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe, and my chest gets tighter and tighter imagining all the things that could happen to the owl before we reach him. I’m unreasonably upset at Pike for telling me this, reciting what he learned in a textbook without thinking through the weight of his words.

“No, we can’t let that happen. He has to be okay,” I say, sitting up in the dark. I look around the tent for my shoes, but I can’t see anything.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Pike says. “He’s a wild animal—he’s used to the rain.”

“Which is it? One second you hope the owl is faring okay in the storm, and the next you’re sure he’s fine.” My voice is too frantic, too fast, and I can feel the panic rising in my body. I can’t be in here anymore, in this too-small space with this person who will never understand.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” he says, sitting up next to me. “I was just talking. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, embarrassed when I almost choke on the words.

I need to see the owl, see him safe in some hollow or nest, riding out the storm just like we are. It isn’t enough to track his location and feel that he’s in the same place. I need to know he’s sheltered and safe and well, protecting that curse until I can get to it myself.

I keep feeling around the tent until I find my shoes.

“Turn on the lantern,” I say, trying to get them on so I can leave.

“What? Why?”

“I’m going after him.” I don’t care how outrageous it seems. Pike doesn’t have all the information, and that isn’t his fault, but it means I have to make some decisions he won’t understand. I have to overreact because he won’t. He thinks it’s all about the owl, but it’s all about him. That’s the awful truth of it.

“You can’t be serious,” Pike says, shuffling around for the lantern. When he finally turns it on, I tie my shoes and grab my phone and jacket.

“I am,” I say, reaching for the zipper. Pike takes my hand and pulls it away from the tent, looking at me with confusion.

“I don’t understand,” he says, not angry or upset, but almost hurt. Sad.

A large gust of wind slams into the tent, the fabric shaking furiously, and I slip into my jacket and reach for the zipper once more.