November 19, 2020
70 days until the Crimson Eclipse
Another day without sunshine had passed.
Daylight meant ash exploding across the sky. Thick sad clouds hanging low, contemptuous fog, and cynical flatlanders. Sometimes snow and sometimes rain. A drowsy black and white film.
The bottom of my dress dragged across the sand, the charms of my bracelet jingled against my wrist, and November’s fierce temperatures numbed the tip of my nose, all while I maintained a brisk walk to the cave.
When I turned the corner, the cave was empty.
All that remained was charred wood from a dead fire.
Cold winds took my hair with them, blowing tendrils into my face as I turned, my gaze skimming the grim horizon. If the stranger wasn’t in the cave, it could only mean he was still alive and had made it through both nights. And he’d left.
Then why did I feel a pang in my chest?
I pulled my winter coat tight around me and leaned back against the cliff, unable to deny the disappointment of his absence creeping in. He was gone, and I was ... out of sorts. Disheartened. Which was appalling for me to think of a word that contained heart in it at all when it came to a stranger but disheartened all the same.
I gazed out into the horizon, trying to make sense of it, when a mop of white hair broke through the ocean’s surface.
It was him, and he shook his sopping hair, spraying water all around like a wild wolf would do. I’d never seen one before, only read about it in stories, but I’d imagined it the same way he’d done it. In his element, untamed.
I pinned my back to the cliff, my heart hammering against my chest, watching him push his fingers through his hair and down his face. The temperature had to be in the low thirties, and I’d concluded that the man was either inhuman or insane.
My fist tightened around the handle of my dagger in my coat pocket, and my splinter pressed into the wood, the comforting ache pulsing through my finger. This time, I’d come prepared.
Then the traveler laid his palms on the water, flirting with the ocean’s waves. A little boyish, a little free in the way his hands floated over them. Not quite splashing but seeking the water’s fingers. I imagined the icy, shapeless silk gliding through my fingers, too, and a shiver staggered up my spine, my breath coming out in a shudder. I clutched my necklace in my other hand as icy clouds fell from my lips, taking shape and disappearing.
He hadn’t seen me, didn’t know I was standing here, and the thought of him catching me staring at him in such a natural, unspoken moment made me feel like I was the intruder. But my eyes couldn’t sail away from his carved chest and lean torso as he walked closer and against the tide.
His indents cut around his hips when he stepped out of the water, and he ran a palm down the contours of his pale chest and stomach.
Despite the cold, a blush heated my cheeks. I lowered my eyes and traced his movements, knowing it was wrong to be staring. A buzz danced through my body at the sight of him. My secret, wild and gentle, in my ocean.
When my gaze made the journey back to his face, he was staring right at me.
I tried to turn my head, but his stare nailed me in place. A wind ruffled my hair and howled in my ears as I stood with his eyes fastened to mine.
Shock distorted his expression.
He looked at me like I was a creation of his mind. And he ran a palm down his face and back through his hair as if to wipe me away.
For a few seconds longer, we remained where we stood.
Then he walked toward me, the first to break the invisible thread, with undergarments hanging from his trimmed waist. His expression was hard, a shield, and a rush of adrenaline pulled me off the cliff to create space between us, but it was too late. He was here, his body surrounding me, and I found myself staring into cold, black eyes. Ones that managed to knock the breath from me. Like deadly nightshade.
Droplets rained down his flesh. The muscles in his body flexed. His lips twitched. But he didn’t say a word. He searched my face, his eyes like two drops of ink, confusion stirring within them, drifting down to my heaving chest and bouncing back up.
It felt like my lips were held by invisible shackles, but my grip remained on the dagger in my pocket, prepared to plunge it into him if he made a regrettable move. I wanted to say something, anything, but no words would come from me. I didn’t know why I couldn’t speak. Never in my life had I been paralyzed by a moment—by a man. Yet, he was standing over me, and I could smell the fresh salt of the ocean’s waves dripping off him.
I heard my own breathing. I heard my heart beating in my ears.
I saw my reflection in his glass eyes. The crack in my expression.
I was slowly coming undone, but he remained impassive.
Then, he tore his eyes from mine and stepped toward the cave.
My spine softened. My shoulders dissolved.
I thawed from his grip into the resolute woman I’d come here to be.
“I thought you left,” I whispered, chancing to look him in the eyes again should he turn back around.
The traveler did, and his brows pressed together, leaning closer.
It was odd how his eyes squeezed closed, then opened again. Wide, blinking rapidly, almost like they were unable to focus. He started to lean to one side, and I knew something was terribly wrong with him. His foot stumbled, and he dropped a palm on the cliff beside my head to steady himself.
The tall, perfect statue is about to go down, I thought.
Would he shatter like glass or turn into boneyard dust?
Before his body failed him, I released the dagger and wrapped an arm around his wet torso to keep him upright. “You were hurt. You need to lie down.”
The man was ice-cold and heavy with his weight against me. I guided him into the cave and to the ground to lie on his back, fully aware of everywhere my hands were touching.
Faint groans rattled in his throat, and his eyes were heavy, droopy behind long black lashes. His body trembled, finally feeling the chilling effects of November’s ocean.
I pulled his head into my lap and pressed a palm to his forehead. Much like everything else about him, his forehead was cold to the touch. Deathlike.
“You’re freezing,” I said, pressing my fingers to the artery in his neck to ensure a pulse was still there because everything about him seemed unnatural.
I’d been in the ocean before during winter when it felt like rusty nails thrust into every pore. But he was breathing steadily, even with ice-cold blood circulating throughout his body.
A gentle beat thumped against the pad of my finger, and I shook my head.
“How are you so cold?” I tossed a glance at his wound.
I’d managed to heal it from the inside, and though the gash was still open and bleeding, it wasn’t infected.
I freed a relieved breath. “It’s too much, too fast. You have to rest until your body heals,” I said with his head in my lap.
He looked up at me, his wet locks soaking my dress and the cold water slipping between my thighs. A groan scraped up his throat as he gripped on to anything within reach, fingers curling tightly around my dress, shoulders curling into the space between my thighs. He was freezing and in pain, seeking warmth and relief.
I reached for the basket, wriggling my fingers to latch on to the handle, then dragged it closer. The towel I’d packed was still inside, and I used it to dry his hair, arms, and chest, being careful around the wound. Afterward, I tossed it to the side and pulled the blanket around him.
His painful sounds scratched my heart, and I willed my hand to comfort him. For a split second, my fingers hovered close to his hairline. Every piece I gave of me was a piece that could not be taken back. I knew this ... but I still pushed my fingers through his thick, white hair until he drifted into a deep sleep.
The next day, I returned to the cave.
He was asleep. I could tell he hadn’t gotten up or looked inside the basket because Dad’s clothes were still folded neatly. He hadn’t moved from the corner, and the blanket was still wrapped around him in the same spot I’d left him in.
I started the fire and pulled Mom’s book from my bag.
“I brought something,” I said to him, even though his eyes were closed. I took a seat beside him. “I haven’t been able to read it yet. But I was thinking, since you’re here, we could do this together so I wouldn’t have to do it alone.”
For hours, I read pages of Mom’s book to him while daylight broke through a sheet of gray and haloed the mouth of the cave. Only the stranger and me. Flurries caught on a breeze, movements lazy then darting like embers would do over a fire.
Each time I stopped reading, his eyes opened and he looked for me. Our gazes would tether and hold. He never talked to me. He never said a word, but my presence must have brought him comfort because after his eyes found mine, they fluttered shut again. Each time, I continued reading until he was in a deep sleep. Once his eyes flickered beneath his lids, hopefully dreaming of soothing dreams, I dragged my palm up and down his back.
When night was approaching, I inched closer to say goodbye.
“Until tomorrow,” I whispered, grazing the back of my fingers across his cheekbone.
The following day, I found myself racing under gray skies to him.
My secret in the cave. He was always where I’d left him.
The only light in the cave was from the flames, and the only darkness came from the shadows they cast inside. A low groan came from him, the pain waking him.
He looked up at me, and we stared at each other for a string of hard seconds. I found that we would do this often, and it had always put us both at ease. This quiet connection between us was a relic I wanted to collect.
I scooted closer until my knee touched his arm, and I stroked his head with my fingernails. “I’m sorry. I was in such a rush that I forgot the book today.”
With nothing left to comfort him, I started to sing. I didn’t know what made me do it. I’d never been the comforting type, but each time his eyes squeezed tight from the pain, it felt as if it were pinching my heart.
His groan began to fade, so I continued the song—a song I hadn’t heard since I was a little girl. A story about a siren who fell for a mere mortal.
It was a sad song, one without a happy ending. I didn’t know why it had dawned on me, but the man seemed comforted by it. The same way I once was.
When the song ended, his hand inched closer until his fingertips brushed the side of my leg. Like he was searching for me and wanted to be sure I was still here.
My breath held in my chest when his hand moved, fingers outstretched and splayed across my thigh. He squeezed it as if exhuming something from me and pulled me closer until his face was curled into the warmth of my skin.
I let my breath go and started the song all over again.
On the fourth day, the hidden sun hadn’t softened the dip in temperature from the night, so I heated soup and carried it back in a thermos just in case he had the strength to eat. This time, I was determined to get answers if he awoke, like his name and why he was lying in a coffin in the Atlantic.
I would like to think I was not a naïve woman. I understood what my sisters would think of me if they knew about my time with him. In a few short days, you’ve already formed an attachment to this strange man who hasn’t even spoken to you. And perhaps it was true. But what would happen if he said things I didn’t want to hear or accept?
With every small step to the cave, the point of my dagger pricked my hip, reminding me that even though I saved him, even though I built this unspoken bond with him, I couldn’t be opposed to killing him if need be.
Only a small number of strangers had crossed Weeping Hollow’s magical borders. Mr. Pruitt had warned us of witch hunters, whose hatred for us was the reason the town remained hidden from the outside world. It was why our ancestors escaped, coming here more than two hundred years ago. The safety of the town had to come first.
I’d brought Mom’s book with me and began to read aloud. Much like all the other days, the man was comforted by my voice. And after half an hour passed by a slow-burning fire, a painful breath sputtered from his lips. I closed the book and craned my neck to catch his eyes opening.
He looked at me for a moment with eyes that were two swatches of asphalt and lacking any substance. And heavily hooded lids that wanted to hide them.
He blinked his eyes away and whispered in a croak to himself.
His voice was smoky yet strangled. Almost like he didn’t mean to say anything aloud outside his head. But I couldn’t make out what he had said. I couldn’t make out if it was a spell he was chanting, a question, or his name.
And I wanted to hear him again. “Excuse me?”
His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head as if the decision of whether to speak to me was difficult. It seemed he didn’t want to, but he knew he might not have a choice.
“Ouroboros,” he repeated, looking back at me again. And this time, his voice was harder around the edges and flooded my ears.
The sound of him pulled me to my knees, and I set the book down and grabbed the thermos. I was just excited to hear him, to finally speak with him, and I couldn’t let this moment fade.
“You should eat. I brought you soup. The broth will be good for you. Can you try sitting up?”
The man clutched his side and struggled to lift his back off the ground. I reached out a hand to help him, but he curled his shoulder away from me, inching farther until his back met the cave wall.
“Okay,” I said, holding my palms up and backing away to give him space. “You don’t need help. I get it.”
He dropped his head back against the wall, keeping his gaze on me, watching me through thick lashes as if I was going to harm him.
“Ouroboros,” I said, wondering if his meaning of the word was the same as mine. “What does it mean?”
I had to keep him talking to get answers, so I sat back on my legs and found patience. As I unscrewed the thermos lid, my gaze bounced back and forth between him and my hands. Mistrust embroidered the both of us.
The man lifted his head off the wall, laying his unbroken eyes on me. A frank, intelligent gaze. At his side, he drew a circle in the sand with a lazy fingertip.
He retraced it again and again.
The cycle of life, death, and rebirth.
Then he leaned back against the rock, studying me with black, velvet eyes. “Though I cannot say if this is an end or a beginning.”
I swallowed, trying to find my voice. “Where did you come from?”
The stranger didn’t answer, but his unwavering stare remained.
I pulled away first and lowered my chin to my chest, realizing I’d been clutching the thermos tightly with both hands. I lifted my eyes to his once more, and the steam from the soup rose between us. The smell of vegetables soaked in broth smothered the salt in the air.
I tried again. “Do you know how you got here?”
But he only stared at me.
A deep stare that arrested me.
I cleared my throat. “Well, then, do you remember your name?”
At first, he was hesitant.
Then, “Stone,” he said. And I watched the way his mouth barely moved as he said it. He left his blue lips parted, and I traced their shape with my eyes. Demanding yet generous.
“Stone,” I repeated, not only feeling his name rush through my teeth but also the chill of it sweep across my bones. The name was fitting and new to me, like him, considering the conditions in which I’d found him.
Stone dropped his head to the side, his eyes catching mine. “What is your name?” His voice was curious, and he looked at me as if I were the most interesting person in the world. Like he’d never seen another human before me.
No one had ever looked at me like this before.
I wondered if it was the same way I looked at my sea.
My jaw snapped shut. If I told Stone my name and he was found by another, it could be used against me. A weapon, a threat. I had to remain in control of the situation. Not him.
“Here.” I offered him the soup. “I made it last night for dinner. I’m not a very good cook, but everyone always says leftovers taste better the next day.”
Stone didn’t make a move for the thermos. He only stared.
“You’re weak. You need to eat something,” I insisted.
And he reached for the thermos and brought it to his nose to sniff it.
The act was odd and animal-like.
“It’s not poisoned,” I assured him, flashing an innocent smile.
The one word hung in the air as though he didn’t believe me. Then his eyes squinted, sweat dotting along his hairline as the fire left a glaze across his paling chest. His muscles tensed when he pushed the thermos into my lap. “I am more than capable of fetching my own food.”
The soup spilled over the rim and stained my dress.
One that I’d sewn when Mom stopped talking. I’d designed and created it to deflect her decline.
The scorching liquid burned my skin, its contents like fire eating my fingers, hand, and wrist. To prevent all emotions from reviving, I clenched my fists hard.
Stone watched me carefully. So, I stretched out my fingers as though he hadn’t affected me. I screwed the cap back on, anger finding its way inside me and distracting the painful burns.
All I’d done was save him—a stranger—which had been a colossal risk using my magic at all. If he only knew the lengths I’d gone for him.
I bristled. “After everything, you don’t trust me.”
Stone moved back, throwing more space between us. “Evil is often wrapped in all things I can only hope to see. In the end, someone like you doesn’t happen to someone like me.” His eyes settled. “I can’t trust anyone, mostly you.”
All that I’d imagined him to be left my mind, and what was left was the thought of the very witch-hating monster Augustine Pruitt was protecting us from. A murdering spy with the intention of burning our town to the ground with us in it.
With a quick hand, I pulled the dagger from my pocket and held the blade to his neck.
Stone didn’t flinch, and our lips were only inches apart, two enemies sharing the same breath.
“Who are you?” I asked through my teeth.
He didn’t answer. The blade’s sharp edge skimmed his dampened neck, and the apple in Stone’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. I tightened my hold on the handle, my eyes turning to slits. “How did you find Weeping Hollow?”
Stone picked his head off the wall, and the blade cut into his neck.
“Tell me,” he said, his icy breath hitting my lips. “Does holding a knife to the throat of a man who is in no position to defend himself make you feel powerful?”
It felt like nine-inch nails lined my throat.
Scratchy, dry, and hard to swallow.
I couldn’t find anything sensible to say. Words were lost on me.
The air around us thinned, and he stretched his neck like an offering, testing me, unafraid.
Lena was already dead the moment Augustine threw her into the cell.
This was different. And he was mine.
Could I still go through with it? Could I slit this man’s throat if I had to? No one would ever know, and I’d imagined this moment with Kane so many times.
My eyes bounced between his, and before I had a chance to understand how much wickedness possessed me, Stone’s fingers curled around the sharp end of the blade, his jaw flexing.
Jagged teeth sliced his palm when he ripped the knife from my fist.
He held the blade between us, thick red blood weeping down his wrist and forearm like wet paint. “If you are to slit someone’s throat, ensure the correct side is facing accordingly.” He turned the blade for me to see, then slammed it down at his side.
My shoulders tensed as I stared at the blood-painted blade in the sand.
Then Stone’s woolly and warm voice stole back my attention.
“Only the starving, evil, or insecure prey on the weak.” His hooded eyes narrowed as if to puncture my soul. “Which one are you?”
A chill ran down my spine and rooted itself in my gut.
It was an answer I’d always known without a question to attach itself to.
A question no one had ever cared to ask.
“Starving.”
Stone’s stiff posture weakened with my confession.
Like he somehow understood the whisper woven into the single word.
“How did you find Weeping Hollow?” I was firmer. More in control.
Stone relaxed against the wall, his dark eyes never leaving mine.
“I didn’t find Weeping Hollow. It seems this place has found me.”
Seconds ticked by, and the crackling of the fire counted each one. All the time spent tending to him over the past four days had meant nothing. No gratitude, no appreciation.
My gaze steered around the room at all the unopened bottles of water he hadn’t touched. He didn’t trust me. Not yet. It seemed somewhere along the way he’d built a tombstone of himself—a way to survive. Cheekbones made of granite. Stiff lips to prevent unnecessary words from slipping through. Hardened gazes to guard himself against opening up or getting close to anyone. And I wondered if anything sincere had crossed his mind—if he was as empty inside his tomb as he appeared, as dead as he was cold.
It would take more time to gain his trust and learn about him.
With that, I couldn’t let him leave this cave.
Forcing my chin high, I looked him in the eyes. “Since you have everything under control and don’t need me, I will leave and give you some time to yourself.” A bite had seeped into my words as I collected my belongings and shoved them into the nearby tote bag, feeling his watchful gaze on me.
I stood, flattened my stained dress, and peered down at him. “Leaving this cave would be a deadly mistake,” was all I could think of to say. A threat for the time being, as if he was in any condition to travel anywhere. Either way, I needed more time to consider my options—if I should turn him over to Augustine or keep him all to myself because if I turned him over, I’d have to reveal that I’d used magic to save him.
And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, my ridiculous attachment to him kept me from wanting to hand him over to anyone. He was a challenge, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to break through his tomb and unearth all the secrets he was keeping.
He was a place to escape to.
I gathered the bottom of my dress and crouched down to leave through the cave’s opening when his voice came, stopping me.
“But you never gave me your name.”
I didn’t turn back to face him, keeping my eyes on the Atlantic. “You’re right. I didn’t.”