Wild is the Witch (44)

“It doesn’t want to hurt us. It’s injured,” Pike says, his voice steady.

Work with me, I say to the bear, finally sending my magic toward him, coaxing him to come closer.

He listens and takes another step forward, locking his eyes right on mine. Pike stiffens next to me and grabs the bear spray from his pocket. But he’s too late.

I run, and the bear takes off after me.





Seventeen


It’s risky. I send as much magic as I can back to the bear, reassuring him that I’m helping. But I’m also running away, and every instinct inside him is telling him to attack, screaming at him to run faster and faster.

He could easily overtake me, and I drench him in a steady stream of magic, doing everything I can to show him he’s safe. I feel the rhythm of his heart, feel the pounding of his paws as he chases after me. His gait is unsteady, favoring the side that isn’t burned, but still he runs.

I weave through trees and jump over roots, rain pelting my face, making it difficult to see. I run toward the sound of the river, my hair flying behind me, my heart lifting as if running through the forest with the animals I love is exactly where I’m meant to be. As if nothing, not even a curse or the council or my own loneliness, can touch me out here.

I try so hard to plan for everything, checking and rechecking my lists, staying up at night practicing conversations in my mind, but maybe I’ve worked so hard to fit my life into a tidy, well-defined box that I’ve forgotten the most important thing: I’m as wild as the magic in my veins and the dust of the stars, and so I run.

Pike’s voice rises above the sound of my heavy breathing, shouting at the bear. Trying to get his attention, to stop him from pursuing me. I feel the bear’s focus shifting, getting aggravated with Pike’s yelling, and I send more magic his way, telling him it’s not much longer.

Pike keeps shouting, chasing after us, and when I risk a look back at him, he’s waving a lit flare above his head, trying to pull the bear away from me. It almost makes me laugh how ridiculous it is, but it’s also making my job harder. I run faster, and my chest aches, desperate for the inhaler in my pack.

Finally, I see the river up ahead. I tell the bear that relief is coming, that he’s doing great, and that the water will make him feel better. When I’m a few feet from the river’s edge, I dive to the side, and the bear launches himself into the water.

He sighs with instant relief, and I stay on the ground, heaving, trying to catch my breath. I shift my pack to my front and dig for my inhaler, taking two puffs before lying my head back on the wet earth, closing my eyes.

Pike rushes over and drops to the ground beside me, the lit flare still burning in his hand.

“Put that thing out,” I manage to say between breaths.

Pike buries the flare and comes back to my side, watching the bear warily. But the bear isn’t paying attention to us, too fixated on submerging his burned flesh. He’ll be okay, though; he’ll heal.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Pike looks frantic and angry, his eyebrows knit together and his jaw tense.

“I don’t know—I got scared,” I say, hoping he believes me.

“You know you’re never supposed to run! You know that. You could have been killed.” Pike looks over my body as if he’s reassuring himself that the bear didn’t maul me.

“I just… I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.” I look at him, at his wide, anxious eyes, and I suddenly feel guilty for what I put him through. He truly thought the bear was going to attack me.

“You’re sorry? Hell, Iris, I just watched you get chased by a bear. I thought—I thought—”

“I’m okay,” I tell him, sitting up, forcing him to look me in the eyes. “I’m okay.”

“I don’t understand. It could have easily caught you.”

“The burn on his backside is huge. I’m guessing that was my saving grace.”

“Fuck, Iris,” Pike says, running his hand through his hair. “That was so reckless.”

“I know,” I say, hating the way I feel embarrassed, even though I ran intentionally. Even though this was exactly how I needed Pike to react. Angry and relieved, not suspicious.

I touch his arm, and he looks to where my fingers are resting. He slowly brings his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry,” I say again, and I mean it.

He holds my gaze, and I’m overcome with the urge to get closer to him, to trace my fingers along his jaw or curl up in his arms. I could do it, scoot closer, lean in, keep my eyes on his even though every part of me is yelling to look away.

I could.

A cold surge of water rolls over me, and I jump, the moment washing away with the river.

“It’s flooding,” Pike says, pulling me to my feet. We run a few yards away, and when I turn back, the bear is getting out on the opposite side. He looks at me for a moment, and I know he understands what I did for him. I know he’s thankful.

“We need to get back to the campsite. Our stuff will flood if we don’t move it.” His voice is still tense, angry, and I realize how deeply I upset him, how shaken he is by what happened. He starts walking toward the campsite without another word.

Then I remember why the bear was injured in the first place, and I stop.

“Camp is an hour hike in the wrong direction, and we need to go after the owl. Did you see his feathers on the ground? He’s injured.”