| |
For the first time in his life, Bryce wished his animal was different. If he could choose right now, he'd be a big cat. It was possible to walk quietly in the jungle as a grizzly, but everything felt too close. He had to squeeze through vegetation to create a path for himself. Shoving aside vines and scraping past smooth-barked trees, his footsteps were muffled by the dense, wet undergrowth.
The only path he wanted at the moment was the path that led to Margot's heart. Was she really ready to talk? What if she wanted to tell him that despite their attraction and affection, she didn't think they were mates? He didn't know if he could bear something like that.
Maybe he was pushing her too hard. He could be gentler with her, move slower. If he'd known he was really in her dreams, he wouldn't have pushed sex so soon. She had allowed it and he was glad, because there was nothing hotter than listening to and watching Margot pleasure herself. At the same time, though, he wouldn't have rushed things.
He missed his dad, and the feeling seemed to hit him out of nowhere. It had been a long time since the feeling had been so strong, that pang of heartache for his father.
"Son," his father had said from the sink where he was washing dishes, "you have a gift."
"But it doesn't do anything," Bryce had argued.
Dad had looked back at him. "But like most gifts of power, they change over time."
Bryce had dismissed it, ignored his father's wisdom. He hadn't wanted to talk about why it was wrong to conjure information about tests from his teachers' dreams, or why he shouldn't try to mess with his older brother's dreams to scare him. He'd tried, and he hadn't been able to do it.
Now he wished he could ask his dad how to do those things.
But most of all, he wanted to tell his dad that he was sorry. Sorry for leaving, sorry for fighting with Nolan about it. Sorry for breaking all their hearts.
The twisted, confining vegetation thinned slightly, and Bryce found himself on a narrow path. It wasn't so hard to make his way forward.
The path opened up into a tiny clearing. Now, Bryce was looking at a tiny hut, nestled in the shadows of the trees.
A young woman stepped out of the hut. She waved a fist of smoking plants in her hand and hummed something under her breath.
It couldn't be the witch—the guy in Aguas Calientes had said she was old, hadn't he? Or no, maybe he hadn't. Bryce had just assumed she would be old, because in his mind, a witch was an old crone.
As he watched, she waved the smoking plants around some more. Witchy stuff, he figured. He settled onto his haunches and waited.
After a few minutes of muttering, humming, and waving around her weirdo plants, the hut flickered and disappeared. He couldn't even smell the hut anymore. The woman stood in front of it and became still. Turned. Her dark eyes met with his.
And then she waited.
He shifted into his human form. This witch was the real thing, familiar with magic. Seeing a shifter shouldn't spook her too much. As he expected, she barely blinked at the sight of him changing forms.
Once he stood naked on the path, he said, "Illary?"
"That is my name, yes," she said in accented English.
"You speak English?"
"Some. Obviously."
"But Bronson hired a translator—"
"Sometimes it is easier to pretend ignorance of a language. Stay back."
The order went against his instructions. Jameson had wanted him to find the witch, get the information, and bring it back to the clan.
But he'd learned something in the past few days—sometimes it was better to go slow, gain trust. He'd learned that with Margot, and he would apply it here, with Illary.
"Okay," he said. "My name's Bryce, and I'll come back tomorrow evening."
She didn't say anything. She stepped inside an invisible doorway and disappeared.