Hidden in the Heartwood {sapphic paranormal}

CHAPTER NINE

09. || after the fire is gone.

Mint and herb tickled the back of River's throat as their fingers alternated between picking a roll on the banjo and raising a morning joint to their lips. With every exhale, wisps of smoke intertwined with the blue mist that rolled slowly off the mountain, drifting down the road like a tempting finger. The rising sun poured gold around the hemlock trunks where spiderwebs stretched in between, glistening with dew diamonds, but River stared past their shine, just able to faintly trace the outline of the strange woman's cabin through the trees.

Both of their cabins faced one another, built before the winding dirt road had ever connected them. All the camps scattered along this side of the mountain had been used for the coal miners and their families, but now stood abandoned if they even stood at all. Most mornings, the woods were still enough to hear the leather flap of black wings as the crows left the tall pine, southbound to the valley. And most mornings, River woke to their call as they passed overhead. But today was different. Today, the slam of the screen door against the cabin down the road stirred River from their warm bed.

So as the crow flies, River stared down through the woods at the cabin below, wondering if the third slam this morning would be its last. But like most mornings, it wasn't long before their wondering got interrupted.

<I've got a bone to pick with you. Literally, might I add.> Rustling in the branches above River's porch, the Ghost Cat appeared. <Why are you smiling like that?>

"What?" Quick to take another puff, River hardened their jaw. "I'm not smilin'."

<You were definitely smiling.> As the white lynx turned his head to follow River's line of sight, the black tufts of his ears twitched when he spotted the cabin. <Really, River?>

"Really, what?" River scoffed, drawing a longer hit. "If I'm smilin' it's 'cause I'm lookin' down at the springhouse."

The Ghost Cat side-eyed River as he began to clean the fur between his toes. <The springhouse, right.>

With a heavy exhale, River looked across the road to find its stone walls between the maple trees. Beyond it, the black tip of the rotted hemlock pierced the morning sky. "Well, that and Vera's returned."

<Funny, you're not smiling now.> Stopping mid-lick, the lynx lowered his paw to stare back down at River. <Wait, Vera? The Hemlock Witch? Your dead lover you've been moaning about for the last century? That Vera?>

"I ain't been moanin' 'bout nobody." River plucked a couple strings, but the damn cat was right. At least, right enough to be irritating. "It's complicated. And don't act like you didn't know she was back, like it wasn't you feedin' her information." But the lynx was unusually quiet and kinda had a weird, pensive look on his furry white face. Almost made him look wise, the way you'd expect a woodland spirit to be. "She did say she's always been around, watchin' me."

<Through the trees. Told you to quit burying them bodies so close to your place.> Shifting uneasily on the branch, the Ghost Cat retracted his claws from the bark. <So what did she want?>

"Just as you said, that woman's the last of her blood."

<She wants to finish the rite, River. To crack open this mountain again while we're all still bound to it. If ever there was a time to break the curse, it's now.>

With a loud hum, River ignored the lynx and plucked a faster roll on the banjo.

<Oh, but no, you're too busy flirting with the only key we got, asking to pick her apples which is probably some perverted innuendo...>