Wild is the Witch (43)

“No, it’s not.”

I find myself wanting to ask what is worth the weight, what grudges he carries to bed at night, but I don’t.

“Besides, you were doing what you thought needed to be done. I’m not so much of a jerk that I’d give you a hard time for that,” he says.

“Aren’t you? You’ve given me a hard time for much less.”

I hear him laugh behind me—a light, easy laugh that plays on the wind and carries through the trees.

“That’s not entirely fair. Sometimes I do it for you,” he says.

“Oh, this ought to be good.”

“It’s true. You’re so in your head sometimes that it’s almost painful watching you, like you’re stuck in some kind of loop you can’t get out of. But when I give you a hard time, your brain seems to switch into ‘bicker with Pike’ mode, and it almost acts as a reset, like you forget whatever it was that was bothering you.”

I slow my steps, turning to look at him. I’m not sure if I’m annoyed at his words, at his arrogance over thinking he knows how my mind works, or if I’m moved by the sentiment. I think it’s both.

“I’m sorry I’m so painful to watch,” I say, because I’m not sure how to respond to the other part. The vulnerable part.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I watch him for another moment, holding his gaze. “I know.” Then I start walking again.

“Now who’s giving who a hard time?”

I’m about to respond when I take a breath and a strong, metallic scent fills my nose. The unmistakable scent of magic. But I’m not using any magic, and we’re out in the middle of nowhere—it’s the last thing I should smell out here. My heart beats faster, and a cold sweat breaks out along my forehead and in my palms.

Too much magic.

Pike won’t be able to smell it; it would have to be much stronger for anyone other than a witch to notice. But it crashes into my senses like a tidal wave, and I’m covered in it.

I pick up my pace, rushing to where the owl was this morning, the scent getting stronger with every step. If Cassandra starts looking for the owl early and beats me to him, that’s it—she’ll already know about the curse, and there will be nothing I can do about it.

She’ll take me back with her to the council, where I’ll be tried in court for attempting to turn a boy into a witch. Even though that’s not what I meant. Even though I was just trying to manage my frustration. Even though I’m starting to not-dislike the boy.

He hates witches, I remind myself, something I haven’t been thinking of enough on this trip. He hates witches, and I cursed him to become one. That’s what this trip is about, and that’s where my focus needs to stay.

I follow the scent of magic, rushing over large roots and through dense brambles, ignoring the incessant rain and my too-fast heart and all the what-ifs running rampant in my mind.

We’re in the thick of the trees, and I weave out from behind a large spruce when another moan like the one we heard earlier breaks the silence. Only this time, the sound makes my ears ache and reverberates in my chest, so close.

Too close.

“Pike?” I say, stopping cold, holding out my arm so Pike doesn’t go any farther. He jolts to a stop by my side, and we both watch the black bear as it lets out another devastating moan.

“Shit. Shit,” Pike says under his breath, slowly bringing his pack to his front.

I survey the bear, too afraid to use my magic until I know what’s going on. There’s a large burn on his backside, red, raw skin interrupted by patches of singed fur. He has been burned, badly, and on the ground next to him are several brown feathers dappled with white. The colors are distorted by blood, and I take a step back as I realize what happened.

The owl’s wing is still healing, and he was likely staying close to the ground to avoid strenuous hunts. The black bear must have found him and thought he was easy prey. My stomach twists into knots, picturing their fight. The only way the bear would sustain burns like that—and the air would smell so sharply of metal—is if the owl was injured. As an amplifier, he carries so much magic inside him that it’s leaking out of his body from whatever gashes he sustained. That’s what burned the bear, and that’s why the air is thick with magic.

It’s the only explanation.

Pike isn’t a mage, though, so I know the owl is still alive, still carrying the curse. I reach for him, following our connection through the magic-drenched trees, and exhale when I find him about a quarter of a mile out.

“We need to do something,” Pike says.

The bear lets out another moan and takes a step toward us.

“Whoa, whoa!” Pike shouts, throwing his hands up over his head, standing tall, looking as aggressive as possible.

It’s what he’s supposed to do. He’s responding exactly as he should, but the bear is injured, and I want to help him. If I can get him to the river, that will soothe the burn. I have to try.

But the only way to do that is to run. Anything else would make Pike suspicious. It can’t, under any circumstances, look like magic.

I grab at my hem and start shaking where I’m standing, trying to seem panicked.

“Easy, Iris, we’re okay,” Pike says, falling for it.

I hurry my breaths, making them fast and shallow, and Pike gently touches my arm.