Made with chamomile, shea butter, colloidal oatmeal, calendula, hemp seed oil, vegan emulsifying wax, olive oil, rosehip seed oil, neem oil, and a little extra that didn’t make it onto the label, it was good stuff.
After nudging the bracelet up my arm, she rubbed the lukewarm cream over the pink spots.
“Thanks.” I studied her face, the new shadows in her eyes she worked hard to hide. “Are you still drinking your tea?”
“Yes.” She withdrew. “A cup before bed, as prescribed, which makes me have to pee ten minutes later.”
Firmly in mother hen mode, I might as well pester Camber while I was at it. “You too?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She wrinkled her nose. “How long until we’re cured?”
Never was too harsh an answer, but it was the honest one. Good thing I was used to filtering my truths.
As far as they knew, the blend of California poppy, lemon balm, ashwagandha root, lavender, linden flower, passionflower aerial parts, and red rooibos tea was to help them sleep and banish night terrors.
“One more week.” I crossed my heart. “Then I’ll let it go.”
The girls would remember what David Taylor had done to them for the rest of their lives, but the tea the girls had been drinking since they were released from the hospital blurred the edges of their recollection of the more peculiar aspects of their abduction until their brains filled in mundane excuses for the worst of their trauma. The fact they were best friends, and shared the burden between them, meant the more they talked about what happened, the more their experience blended into a cohesive, believable whole.
Between that, and the potion Asa dosed them with prior to the paramedics arriving at Tadpole Swim, we had done all we could to help them cope with the muddled aftermath of their ordeal. Or so Clay and Asa had assured me.
The person I was becoming marveled the girls held nothing against me. But I was quick to remind myself the fine details eluded them. They would feel differently if they knew the truth. About David Taylor…and me.
Still, life in a small town meant it was common knowledge that my fake ex-boyfriend was to blame. I wouldn’t have been shocked if that link to me was enough to get me written off by everyone, but I had done my job well. I had instilled in the population of Samford a wide protective streak that kept me safe.
The person I had been, the dark and power-hungry void in my gut, wasn’t surprised that I had purchased the girls’ forgiveness with lies and half-truths, given all the groundwork I had laid to this point. That cruel remnant was downright proud of how I manipulated a whole town into protecting what they ought to fear.
Me.
Accused witches had been burned at the stake while townsfolk toasted marshmallows in the flames, and that inbred fear never left us. White witches blended better, with their herb gardens and medicinal gifts, but black witches didn’t have a hope to hang their pointy hat on when a pitchfork-carrying mob marched to their cursed doors. They were always guilty of something. Usually of worse than their accused crimes.
“Your wrist looks better already.” Arden capped the lotion with satisfaction. “How does it feel?”
“Yes.” Camber sat on the floor to finish painting the baseboards. “How does it feel to be in lurve?”
“I’m not in lurve.”
“Aww.” She paused with her brush in the can. “Your boyfriend will be heartbroken to hear that.”
Yup.
Never should have owned up to Asa giving me jewelry as a parting gift.
Chalk it up to a hard lesson learned, never to be repeated.
“You do mean love, right?” I measured her expression. “Or do I have to consult the Urban Dictionary?”
“She means love,” Arden clarified. “Plain old vanilla romance.”
“Asa is not plain or vanilla.” Camber wet her lips. “He’s like that streusel-topped French toast with maple buttercream sprinkled with candied bacon cupcake from day four? Day five?”
That was a mouthful. Both the description and the cupcake itself. I remembered it well. It was delicious.
“Can you confirm or deny?” Arden arched her brows. “Have you taste tested your boyfriend yet?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I resisted the urge to scratch my wrist. “This is a friendship bracelet.”
Made from his hair. By him. Designed to ward off other men. Without any discernable way to remove it.