Through the Fire (Daughter of Fire, #1)(49)

I shook my head. “Don’t be. It was exactly the catalyst I needed to do this. Who knows how long I might have made excuses not to leave otherwise.”

“I’m glad. From what Aiden has told me, what you feel for this Rain is very strong.”

I nodded. “I just hope it’s strong enough,” I confided.





AS I WALKED the cobblestone streets in Salem, I wasn’t comfortable. Among the milling tourists, I felt exposed and unprotected.

It had been so long since I’d willingly ventured into a crowd. Even while searching for Clay in Manhattan, I’d moved through alleys and avoided the more crowded areas. I’d grown increasingly agoraphobic as small groups of people jostled around me, vying for their place on the path. Some were tourists, their cameras always at the ready. Others were there in a more official capacity, dressed in period costume as they strolled along the streets, giving directions and offering assistance.

Just as I was about to give up and head for the safety of a deserted alleyway, he was right in front of me. I couldn’t believe it, despite how impossible it might have been, I was almost positive it had been Clay I’d seen from across the street, about to walk into the Witch History Museum. I was certain it was him.

Isn’t it?

The one thing that made me doubt myself was the tension that seemed to constantly invade my body from just being in this town. Everything I saw was another warning of how nonhumans were treated. The witches were ridiculed from shop windows, effigies with hook noses and green skin hung in open displays. It was more than a little surreal seeing Clay—whose family was top of the nonhuman hating list—right in front of me among so many reminders of the Witch Trials of the late 1600s.

If only they’d actually ended then.

My heart pounded as I stared at the dark-haired man I thought could be Clay.

Had I imagined him?

Were my eyes, and my heart, playing tricks on me?

After two years of silence he couldn’t be right in front of me, could he? It couldn’t have been that easy. Everything flooded back to me, every minute of our time together. My body ached to be held in his arms again. The unseen threat among the throng of people was the only thing that kept me locked in place.

A thousand questions leaped into my mind as soon as he took another step closer to the building. What’s he doing here? Does he know I’m looking for him? Where is his family?

In the years since I’d last seen him, the lean bulk he’d had on his wiry frame had firmed into a collection of well-defined muscle. Everything about him screamed strong and protective. His clothes, a faded black leather jacket and once-black denim jeans, were clearly well-loved and road-wearied. I wondered whether he’d been on the road for as long as I had.

He stood at the door and took one last glance into the street. Even though it was only the slightest glimpse, I studied his face intently. Almost-black scruff littered his jaw and framed his bowtie pout. The gash that had rested just above his cheekbone had healed into a slightly puckered scar just below his eye. While he surveyed the crowd, he raised a hand and scratched his fingers along his chin.

Just as my doubt over whether it was Clay peaked, his gaze fell on me. In that instant, I knew. It was his eyes that convinced me that it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. They widened slightly in shock as he stared at me through the throng of shoppers and sightseers. With a narrowing of his eyes, he turned away.

I followed his gaze and finally spotted his brother a few yards from him. When Clay turned back to me, it was clear that he recognized me despite the thread-worn hoodie I wore over my hair that obscured part of my face. His eyes still held a tenderness in them as they held mine captive, despite the years that had obviously hardened his body.

In the moment after our eyes had met, the corners of his lips tugged up into a small smile. It wasn’t the smile of a predator—not one of a hunter who’d spotted his prey—but one of someone remembering a long-forgotten dream. I half expected him to break out into a run and take me into his arms. Instead, the smile fell from his face to be replaced by something more melancholy. An instant later, he’d turned and headed into the museum.

Watching him walk away, I remembered passing the Hawthorne Hotel not too far back and thought it would’ve been a perfect place for a reunion attempt away from prying eyes, if only I could think of some way to let Clay know about it. I’d stopped walking for a moment as I’d paused to consider my options. A woman in a black dress and white bonnet walked up to me to ask if I needed any assistance. I smiled as a plan formulated instantly in my mind, all to do with the hotel’s namesake.

“Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?” I asked.

Although she gave me a strange look, she passed me a flyer and a pen. I’d quickly jotted down a phone number that I’d memorized when I was on my own in the months after he left, one belonging to a church in Arizona.

“My boyfriend just went into the Witch History Museum over there and I want to surprise him when he comes out,” I said, raising my eyebrow in what I hoped appeared a suggestive manner. “Can you please pass him this note and say these words to him, ‘The number written will be beneath Washington’s griffin on the eve of the fire. Meet me at Nathaniel’s house.’ He’ll know what it means.”

Once she nodded—still looking at me like I’d grown a second head—I gave her a description of Clay and passed her the last of my money as a thank you.