so unnatural mingling with nature. I wipe my palm on my jeans; a white, chalky stain appears on the black material. A token of the witch.
She was the walking image of innocence, so kind and angelic looking. What did Asher see? Judging by how she looked at him she must have been something beautiful, something more than I have to offer, I’m sure. I swallow hard, my heart dipping down at the thought.
Man and mystics once worked together to eliminate the masses of dominating vampires that threatened to devour all of our races—mortals, witches, werewolves—we were a team against the vampires. And now the mystics hide from us because we have lashed out at those who helped us, making enemies of friends.
“What did she want with me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. All she had to do was touch you and you would have been whisked away to whatever hell she’s hiding in.” He pauses, and a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “Some say they eat humans.” My nose scrunches at the thought and he laughs. “I hear it’s quite the cuisine,” he says with a wink. A shudder crawls down my spine at a vivid image of her perfect teeth tearing the flesh from my bones. “Some say they keep humans like pets in a cage. Feeding them spells of food until they tire of them and dispose of them in creative ways.”
He laughs again at my horror, and I push away from his teasing … or is it honesty? As expected, he doesn’t stumble from my light shove against his shoulder; it just seems to make him more amused. My mortality is something of a joke to him. I turn to walk back to where we set up camp, but he touches my elbow, catching my attention.
“Seriously though, never forget what I told you,” he says, his palm slipping against my jaw, tilting my head up to meet his earnest eyes. “There are far worse things than me in these woods. Mystics live hidden lives out here in the forest. Communities of hidden mystics, like you wouldn’t believe.”
Staring into his pale eyes, I believe him. I’ve grown up hearing all the legends in my camp about the mystical beings our government shields us from; the sinister faeries that pull you in with their beauty and enchant your mind; the handsome men who under the light of the full moon shift into something else entirely, walking on all fours like snarling demons; the legends of the few vampires still inhabiting the shadows of the Red Hills, waiting to retake our world; and, of course, the tales of the violent pikes, the abomination race, the heartless monsters taken prisoner within the compound.
Asher doesn’t meet those descriptions. Not at all. He’s the furthest thing from them. He’s been nothing but my friend. More really. He’s become my unexpected and unrequested guardian angel.
“I have something for you,” my mother says in an unusually chipper voice as soon as we return to our camp.
She takes notice of Asher and I walking together from the same direction, but doesn’t question it. She doesn’t say anything about the time I’m spending with Asher, but I see her taking note of every little interaction we have in front of her. It makes me self-conscious of everything I do under her gaze. Do I glance over at him too often? Is this too close for me to stand next to him? Am I smiling too much at his jokes? Am I smiling at him too much in general? Should I stop smiling entirely?
It’s exhausting.
My thoughts are pulled from Asher for a moment when my mother takes something from her bag. She holds a black cloth in her hand. It’s folded in an odd shape, making it even more intriguing.
“Happy Birthday, hun.” She holds the item out to me, a big smile consuming her thin face. “It’s from Ky and me. And Ripper, too, I guess,” she says with an eye roll.
Ky walks over and stands behind my mother, his height shadowing over her small frame.
As I take the gift from my mother, my eyes can’t help but search for Asher. He’s restarting the small fire. The flames reach up around the fresh dry bark he’s carefully placed. Sliced fish hang over the eager flames. The meat doesn’t look as appetizing as the food the Infinity witch gave me. My stomach turns at the thought of ever eating fish again.
A hesitant