Persie Merlin and the Witch Hunters - Bella Forrest Page 0,59

parted ever so slightly. Swallowing, I looked back to her eyes, silently asking permission to kiss those lips. Her hand reached up to cover mine, answering my question with a subtle “yes.”

Slowly, I leaned in… only for an obnoxious smacking sound to whip my attention away. Boudicca had her lips to the glass, smooching the surface in the most horrifying way, waggling her tongue all around. Beside her, Spartacus had his back to me, his hands rubbing up and down his sides as he wiggled his bare pixie behind. And Cynane wolf-whistled, cackling raucously between sharp bursts of sound. As fond as I was of these pixies, I wished I’d put the silencing spell on their orb.

Talk about a huge pin in the bubble of our budding romance.

“They’re suckers for comedic timing, huh? That’s the second time I’ve lost my appetite today.” Genie chuckled nervously as she retreated a couple of steps. “So… uh… are your parents into this monster stuff? I bet they’re proud of you.”

I froze, focusing on the orb, all thoughts of that almost-kiss dispersing. I realized she’d used “parents” and “they” without thinking, judging by the sudden look of remorse on her face like she wanted to stuff the words back into her mouth. “My mum always reads my papers,” I answered regardless. “As for my dad… who knows what he thinks. I doubt he even knows what I do, to be honest.” My tone came out brusquer than I wanted, and I noticed her expression soften.

“Chaos, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to say ‘parents.’ It just slipped out. I know you don’t like talking about your family much, especially your dad. I don’t know why I asked, when you’ve already explained.” She scuffed her shoe against the marble. “I guess it’s the only part of me that’s staunchly Atlantean. It’s an important thing in my culture, to know about other people’s families and stuff. But I can shut up, if you want me to. I don’t want you to think I’m nosey or anything.”

Other people’s families? Did she mean all people, or did she mean the families of potential romantic interests? If it was the latter, then we were in trouble before we’d even started. And perhaps, though I hated to even think it, it was better that we hadn’t had our moment. I felt my own walls starting to go up, brick by brick. My defense mechanisms were stronger than any urge I might have had to tell the truth—even my affection for her couldn’t change that. Already, I could feel all of the comfort that had blossomed between us dissipating, the warmth replaced by a stilted awkwardness.

“There’s just… not much to tell. My mum is my only parent, as far as I’m concerned. She loves what I do, and that’s enough for me.” It wasn’t enough, and I knew it. I could read it on her face. I saw her curiosity shift toward guilt and embarrassment for having broached the subject in the first place. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel bad. I just wanted to rewind the clock by five minutes, put a silencing spell on the pixies’ orb, and kiss her. If I could do that, maybe I could block out the shadows that loomed over my past. Maybe I could make them not matter.

Genie cleared her throat. “You should recommend some more monster books to Persie.” Her voice sounded stiff as she blatantly changed the subject. “Maybe go over that journal of hers again, too, to see if there’s a pattern or an order to things that you might’ve missed. I’m going to help her out with the fitness stuff, in case that does something to help her recover more quickly. But if you could help out with the monster stuff, I know she’d appreciate it.” She flashed me a smile, a glimmer of warmth returning now that we were in safer territory.

The problem was, monsters came easy to me. But when it came to beautiful, otherworldly creatures who left me speechless and turned my brain to mush… I had no idea where to begin. The pixies had put me back at square awkward, and I didn’t know how to make the leap to the next square.

Seventeen

Persie

I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know? Ernest Hemingway had hit the restful nail on the head. Sure, I had my nightmares of being trapped in a glass box,