Wild is the Witch (77)
“The curse is only a curse because of the way I feel about witches, right?”
I nod. “Yes. I love being a witch, and I love magic. I would never consider it a curse.”
He inhales and moves one step closer, so close I could rest my head against his shoulder or brush his lips with mine. So close I can feel his breath on my skin when he speaks.
“Then teach me how to love it.”
We watch each other for several moments, neither of us moving. I don’t know how to accept the forgiveness he’s offering, but I do know that I can teach him how to love magic, love the way the universe comes alive with a single thought. There is so much for him to discover, an entire world, and I can’t wait to show it to him.
Slowly, hesitantly, Pike tips his head down. I’m still at first, making sure I’m not misunderstanding, not seeing what I hope for instead of what is. His eyes meet mine, then trail down to my lips, and it’s the reassurance I need to close the space between us. When my mouth touches his, it feels like I can breathe again. His kiss is gentle and patient, soft and delicate, easing something I’ve been carrying inside myself for too long.
Pike Alder knows I’m a witch.
He knows that I cursed him and that he’s a witch, too.
And he’s kissing me in a way that lets me know it’s all he wants to be doing. I steady myself against my locker and wrap my arms around his neck, his hair weaving through my fingers and his breath entering my lungs. I bring my hand to his face and trace the line of his jaw, feeling his stubble and the way he moves as his lips press into mine.
I want to stay here forever, in the certainty of the moment, but I know there will be other moments and other kisses, an entire life drenched in magic.
When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against my own, closing his eyes as if he can’t bear the distance he created.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I missed you, too.”
I reluctantly pull away, looking at the clock. Mom and Sarah are expecting me, and after being gone for so many days, I’m craving the comfort of home.
“Would you like to come for dinner?” I ask, not quite ready to say goodbye.
“I’d love to.”
He brushes my fingers with his, and we make our way through a sea of KIND bars, out into the beautiful twilight.
Thirty
It’s a cool spring day. A layer of morning fog hangs low over the refuge, and it feels good against my skin. Mom has been doing all the group tours since I just started working full days again and Pike is still on crutches, and it’s been nice easing back into my world here. I smile and nod at the group of people as they follow my mom to the birds of prey, and I go in the opposite direction, toward the wolves.
Winter has been following me around as if I might vanish at any moment, whining when I walk away and taking an aggressive stance when we introduce new animals. At times I swear she resents that I didn’t bring her with me, as if she could have prevented everything that went wrong.
It takes me a long time to do my chores. Even with Mom’s magic, my skin is tight and sensitive, and the smallest motions can bring tears to my eyes. I’m constantly surprised by how quickly my pain level can change, going from manageable to unbearable in the span of an instant, and sometimes I don’t even know what causes it.
But I feel myself getting better with each day, and I’m thankful to be back at work.
Cassandra has been true to her word, and the council took all her recommendations. I’ve been set up with a witch who will help me train Pike, and after sixty hours my sentence will be satisfied. But I’m hoping for many more hours, days and weeks and months and years.
It isn’t a punishment. So far from it.
I walk through the woods and to the shed where Mom does most of our medical procedures. Dan is bringing in an injured fox later today, and while Mom works on it, I’ll try to teach Pike how to calm it down using magic. Even though his magic gravitates toward people, he loves our lessons with the animals, his scientific brain learning to let go of everything he thought he knew so he can relearn it all with magic in the equation.
It’s a gift, being able to connect with animals like we do, and Pike never takes it for granted, not even when he’s frustrated or feeling guilty for enjoying the thing he still strongly associates with his brother’s death.
I sanitize the large metal table first, then work my way through Mom’s instruments, setting them out once they’re ready. The shed door opens, and I turn to see Pike, swinging in on his crutches.
“Hey,” he says, coming up to the table and looking over the tools I’ve set out. “What’s all this for?”
“Injured fox. Dan’s bringing it by in a few hours. I thought it would be good to practice calming it down with magic.”
“I love foxes; hopefully the injury isn’t too bad.”
“It doesn’t sound like it, from what Dan was saying.” I walk around the table and grab gloves, gauze, and syringes from the cabinets on the wall, then set them out as well. We never really know what we’ll need until we have the animal on the table, but there are basic things we use with almost every animal we see.
I wince when my stomach brushes up against the corner of the table, protectively bringing my hand to my abdomen.
“Are you okay?” Pike asks, and it never fails to surprise me how concerned he looks. How even six weeks later, he still asks me as if it’s the first time he’s noticed something wrong.