Harvest awakes the next morning to the sound of the ocean and the soft rumblings of a hungry sky. The balcony doors are open, allowing the sea-salt mist of the morning to surround them. She remembers drinking wine with Quinn on the balcony last night, the rain having subsided sometime between leaving the bar and her knocking on Quinn’s door.
They waited for Wild’s call while Quinn tried to subdue her worries until, annoyed with his platitudes that, while comforting in their sentiment, felt trite and coerced, she told him to tell her a story instead. He told her about sailing a pirate ship with Dominic in the 18th century. As plausible as it could be, she found herself a bit skeptical about one or two of the details.
“Wait, you’re telling me Blackbeard was a woman?” she asked incredulously.
Quinn took a smug sip of his drink before saying, “Yep. And while some of the legends may not be true, the beard definitely was.”
But after an hour of waiting, they came back inside the room, and Harvest sat next to Quinn on the bed while he flipped through the television channels.
She’s not sure when she fell asleep, but it’s obvious that Quinn shifted to accommodate her, putting his arm around her so that her head rested on his chest. His shirt is still only half-buttoned, and her cheek rests against his skin, much warmer than she would expect from someone whose heart doesn’t beat.
Still half-asleep, she stretches, arching her back, and Quinn moves in response, his arm instinctively tightening around her, pressing her against the full length of his body. His hand goes back to stroking her hair, brushing lightly against her neck, while he does a crossword puzzle on his phone.
The memory of the night before, of why Quinn is in her hotel room, comes crashing down on her, and she sits up suddenly, looking for her phone.
Quinn reaches out to still Harvest’s hand as she frantically searches her notifications. “It’s okay. Wild texted last night to say that Ronan is okay. He’ll give us a briefing when we get back later. But everyone is good.”
Harvest lets out a sigh of relief, her hand on her chest. Her heart is pounding from sitting up so suddenly. “Ronan sent me a text too. He says thank you for sending help. His shoulder is almost completely healed by now.”
“See, little witch? I told you he’d be fine.”
She nods reluctantly and takes a deep breath as Quinn stands up and moves toward the door.
Saying goodbye to Quinn over the threshold of a hotel room somehow feels more scandalous than waking up pressed against his body with her arm around his torso. She’s not quite sure what comes over her, because instead of saying something like “See you downstairs” and closing the door to get ready for the day, she presses a kiss to his cheek.
She’s fairly certain he can hear her heart beating frantically against her chest. But he leans into the kiss, his hand going to the small of her back to bring her closer.
Her skin feels flushed, and she swallows. “Thank you for staying with me last night.”
“Of course,” he says. His hand is still on her back, and she can feel his thumb tracing tiny circles through her shirt. She thinks, for one startlingly lovely and terrifying moment, that he might lean down and kiss her properly. But his expression shifts into a frown instead. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look pale.”
She begins to make an excuse for his concern, but, as if to prove her a liar, pain shoots through her wrist. She winces. “I’m still just a little tired.”
Quinn presses his hand to her forehead. “You’re feverish.”
“Maybe I’m just getting sick.”
His hand slides down her arm, resting on the sleeve that’s covering the spell-burn on her wrist. “Your wrist is getting worse.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m fine.”
And then she loses consciousness.
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Ronan grimaces in pain, wondering what made him lie to Harvest. His healing is alarmingly slow, and he’s fairly certain the bullet was laced with something. He stays in bed later than he should, thinking about his blood staining the floor of the diner and what a nightmare it’ll be to clean. He told Kipp to post a sign on the door saying the diner would open later than usual, and he’d given her the day off.
He thinks about calling his Aunt Moira. She would know how to get blood stains out of anything, even the white t-shirt he had been wearing when he was shot, which is now crumpled on his floor.
The morning sun trickles in through his window, warming his shoulder and his cheeks, which are perpetually scruffy from laziness. Maybe he’ll shave today, he thinks, rubbing his chin.
His thoughts shift to the agents he met last night, the fae with his paper-thin wings and dark curls and the witch named Angel, with short purple hair, calculating eyes, and a permanent smirk. Agent Angel Fernandez. He fingers the edge of the business card Angel gave him, wondering if he should have said as much about Locke as he did.
Though, to be fair, there wasn’t much to tell.
Ronan gets out of bed with a yawn and makes his way into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. In the short amount of time that Harvest has been staying in the spare bedroom of his apartment, she’s made her mark, whether she realizes it or not. Her suede ankle boots are lined up by the door, in between his Doc Martens and his gym trainers. A paperback she was reading is on the coffee table, a Tabitha’s Diner receipt sticking out of the top. Her favorite blanket—the amber-colored one that she brought from home—is arranged artfully on the sofa, bringing some much-needed color to the neutral tones of his flat-pack furniture and hand-me-down curtains.
He thinks maybe the room could do with a new rug. Something thick with deep reds and blues. He’ll ask Harvest if she wants to go shopping with him; if every woman in his life is to be trusted, he’s hopeless when it comes to picking the right color.
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When Ronan finally pushes open the door to Tabitha’s, the pool of blood on the floor is gone.
“I cleaned it this morning,” says Kipp, looking well-rested and decidedly much too chipper for him. “Well, me and Stuart.” She smiles at Stuart, who ducks his head sheepishly and focuses on his crossword. “And Davey came in on his day off to help out in the kitchen. You look awful, by the way.”
“Thanks,” he says with a yawn. “I’ll be in the back for a bit. Holler if you need anything.”
The back office is dark and cool, and Ronan sits in the chair with his head cradled in his hands. His shoulder is pulsing, and he’s fairly certain it will start bleeding through the bandage again soon if he moves too much. So he sits and breathes through the pain and wishes, despite the fact that it is just past noon, for a glass of the whiskey he keeps stashed in the bottom drawer of the desk.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
A knock on the door makes him jump, though his pain is momentarily forgotten as he looks up at the figure of Hazel Rosenbloom standing in the doorway.
“Hazel?” he asks breathily, wondering if, perhaps, the pain has gone to his head. Surely this is a hallucination.
“Hey, Kelly.”
The sound of Hazel’s voice washes over him, the same as it was two years ago but heavier with age and distance. He oscillates between worry and anger, his first instinct to inquire about her welfare vying with the pain in his shoulder and resentment he hadn’t known he was carrying. He lands on anger. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I’m sorry. It’s all become a bit of a—”
“That’s a fucking understatement—”
“It wasn’t supposed to—”
“Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, we can fix it together.”
She pauses, blinking back her emotions while she twists her necklace around her fingers. “I can’t do that,” she says finally. “I know Locke came for you, and I’m sorry. I’ll make sure he won’t hurt you again.”
“And what about Harvest? You know he was looking for her, not me.”
She sighs, letting her hand drop down to the strap of the bag she has slung on her shoulder. “I know.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side. “Your shoulder still hurts, right?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I should know.”
“I don’t have the patience for riddles, Hazel.”
“The bullet was laced with something. It won’t heal.” She extracts a vial from her bag, and when she holds it up to the light, Ronan can see something thick and dark writhing around inside. “A leech,” she says, in answer to his silent question.
“This isn’t a Jane Austen novel.”
“True. But leeches are still the most effective way to soak up a curse.” She smiles, and for a brief moment, Ronan feels like time has rewound itself, like Hazel was just here in this room a day ago, and now she’s trying to convince him to go out tonight despite his better judgment. “Do you trust me?”
“Never,” he says with a crooked smile.
She returns the smile and walks fully into the room, motioning toward the couch against the wall. They sit down next to each other, and he reaches out to cup her cheek in his hand. “Are you okay, Hazel?” he asks, his eyes searching hers for an answer. This close, he can see a few strands of silver in her strawberry blonde hair—a fact that startles him. Then again, he’s sure he has more than a few himself.
She smiles at him sadly but doesn’t answer. Instead, she tells him to remove his shirt.
He does as told, revealing his wound, which has started bleeding through the gauze again. He grimaces with the movement, feeling a dull ache move down into his chest, pressing against his ribs. Hazel’s fingers are cold as she gently removes the bandage. His skin is greenish-black where the bullet entered.
“I’ll have to remove the stitches first,” she mumbles, her fingers teasing the skin around the wound. “Got a pair of scissors?”
In the end, they find a sewing kit stashed in the back of the desk drawer, and Ronan grits his teeth against the sensation of Hazel tugging the sutures out of his skin. The wound opens up again, and blood flows freely down his chest. Hastily, Hazel extracts the leech using a pair of tweezers and places it over the bullet hole.
The leech latches onto his skin. Ronan takes a sharp breath, watching as it begins to swell, feeding selfishly on the curse in his blood. When he looks up, he sees Hazel staring at him with some unreadable emotion.
Suddenly, she is a stranger, her smile locked away, a wall constructed behind her eyes. He doesn’t know her anymore. She is merely passing him on the street, her lilac perfume just a whiff on the breeze, the feeling of her cold hands just a casual, accidental brush against his own.
She meets his gaze for a second before looking down at the leech, bursting with stolen blood and a curse. “I made a few mistakes,” she admits quietly.
“Tell me. I want to help you.”
“It’s okay.” She looks at him with a deep, steadying breath. “I have it under control. I have a plan, and I’m dealing with it.”
“At least tell me it won’t be another two years before I see you.” He knows it’s a meager attempt at levity, but it’s effective nonetheless, teasing a small, gentle laugh from her.
She shakes her head. “I am sorry about that. I didn’t know what else to do. Cutting all ties just seemed easier.”
“Because of Harvest and Ezra?”
She shrugs. “At first.”
“They broke up, you know. Because of your postcard.”
She looks up, startled. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“I didn’t say it was. But Harvest never truly got over the guilt of hurting you.”
“I bet you’re glad they’re over,” she says. “You never liked him.”
“He’s a selfish dick,” he says, feeling his anger returning. “He’s manipulative. He cut you off from your friends and family. He made sure you had nowhere to run, and then he broke your heart. He did the same to Harvest.” He sighs heavily, his anger spent. “He’ll never be able to deserve either of you.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Look, I’ll never tell you what to do—I’m not Ezra and I’m definitely not your dad—but I love you. Please let me help you.”
“He’ll hurt you,” she says softly.
“I can handle Locke.”
“Not Locke. Someone else. And maybe you could handle either one of them, but not now. Not after what I’ve given them.”
She pulls the leech away and it dislodges with a soft squelching sound. She returns it to the vial. “There,” she says. “You should start to feel better in a few hours.”
She moves to stand, but Ronan grabs her hand. “Hazel, don’t leave.”
“I can’t… I have to…” She seems to struggle with her words, looking away from him. It’s as if what she needs to say is the edge of a cliff, and she’s not sure if she could survive the fall. She must decide that she won’t. “I’ll see you around, Kelly.”
And then her hand is slipping through his, and she’s rounding the corner, down the hallway, into the diner. He follows, shrugging on his shirt, and sees her leave. She heads east, weaving between cars in the parking lot.
He glances over at Kipp, and when he turns back, Hazel has disappeared. Without thinking, he pushes open the diner door, saying, “I’ll be back soon,” over his shoulder. The door to Tabitha’s closes behind him.
Outside, it smells of rain and grease from the diner’s fryer. But there are other scents too, tangled lines of essence that he can follow, should he desire. He finds the green one—the one that smells of morning dew, linen, and lilacs—and he starts walking.
He follows it down the sidewalk and through the neighborhood. He loses it briefly as he gets closer to the highway, the scent mingling with exhaust and heavy concrete, still musky with rain from the night before.
But then he picks it up again, and he continues, walking past rows of homes and a park. He thinks he spots Hazel’s rose gold hair at one point, but then she disappears into the crowd again.
He crosses an intersection and cuts through an alley that leads him to a dive bar with brick walls and neon beer signs that cast red shadows on the group of vampires milling around, teeth sharp as knives.
He doesn’t stay.
He picks up the scent again around the corner, following Hazel to an old subdivision called Willoughby Woods. She must be right ahead of him, just out of sight, walking quickly.
The sun is high overhead, but the air is still cool. It’s finally well into the autumn season, after record-high temperatures for the past few weeks. He takes a deep breath, feeling his healing abilities finally kick in. He continues to follow the thread as it weaves down the sidewalk.
It ends at a house, the last on a dead-end street called Willoughby Glen Road. The house is an older Craftsman style, yet dripping with Victorian details, like it was designed by an overexcited first-year architecture student. From the sidewalk, it looks abandoned, with planks of wood covering the windows and a yard overrun with weeds. The tree standing in front lost its limb at some point, and the fallen branch rests quite happily in a hole on the front porch. Surrounding the house is a chain link fence. An official-looking notice—with a Valkaria Bay seal and a meaningless, presumably very important, string of numbers and letters—has been shoved inside a plastic sleeve and affixed to the fence with zip ties. The corner of it lifts gently in the breeze.
The house would be a hard sell, even without the condemnation notice, he thinks.
Hazel’s trail is completely gone, snapped off right before the fence. As he gazes up at the house, he feels the sudden urge to keep walking, which is why he very intentionally and precisely takes a step closer.
He reaches out to touch the fence, and instead of cold metal, his fingers brush against something warm and tingly. He glances down the street, making sure that there is no one else around, and then looks up at the abandoned house again. One of the 3s in the number 1313 nailed onto the mailbox is crooked.
It’s a small touch, which is precisely why the illusion is so good. His Aunt Moira has always told him that illusions fail because people don’t put enough details in them. “It’s the small things that count the most,” she would say. He would have missed it if he hadn’t followed Hazel’s scent directly to the front steps.
He fights the sudden urge to look away, bile rising into his throat as he steps forward, once, twice, and then his face is pressed against the fence, and he knows it isn’t really there, that, like the boarded-up windows and peeling paint of the house, it, too, is an illusion. His brain fights him on this point, of course, doing its best to remind him that he does not possess the ability to walk through solid objects.
He ignores this part of his brain and steps forward again.
The illusion parts for him with a loud pop, the air pressure bursting around him so suddenly that his stomach lurches as if he were on a roller coaster. The illusion hastily reforms behind him as he stumbles forward.