Before Winter's End

VIII: THE FATHER, THE SON, & THE HOLY BONES

Mason. Oh.

The split second of shock was enough to dwindle the strength of my command. The next moment I was on my back, his weight holding me down, and a cold blade pressed against my throat.

"Dammit Netalie," he hissed. "That . . . agh, that hurt."

"Why are you sneaking in here then?" I snapped, more irritated by the presence of the blade than frightened. My own death, at this point, was really only a minor fear. "Did you forget how to knock? Not to mention coming in here when everyone has thought you're dead!" My voice broke, and I wasn't sure why I felt such a sudden rush of emotion. But tucked away in the corner of my cracked and breaking mind I had thought he was dead, and had stubbornly refused to acknowledge it with everything else weighing so heavily upon me. Now here he was greeting me with a knife and all I could feel was . . . relief.

He pressed the blade harder, and I felt his arm tremble where it pressed against my shoulder. His eyes were hard, set against showing any emotion. "Well, since you woke up, all the better. You're coming with me." He got up, pulling me with him, careful to keep the knife placed in such a way that it remained a threat but didn't slice me as he jostled me up. "Where is the Black Book? Bring it out."

"What do you need it for-?"

His mouth pressed close to my ear, and he said softly, "Don't test me Netalie. Do as I say."

"Or what?" I said. I felt him tense up even more. "What will you do? Kill me?" I turned around, ignoring the knife, all logic and sense of self-preservation fled. His face was merely inches from mine: dirty, soot covered, his eyes lined with dark circles. "Go ahead then. Go on. Cut my throat. Don't make me do this anymore."

His mouth gaped open and closed, his words lost. I stared at him, fearless, challenging. Even if I was wrong, and he would dare to hurt me . . . I was not afraid. I did not want to face this responsibility anymore, these nightmares, this terror. I did not want to stay in this cabin alone. I did not want to torture Cassidy to death.

He dropped the knife. He was shaking his head. "No, Netalie. No. I'm not . . . I didn't come here to hurt you." He leaned back against the wall, running his hand through his tangled hair. "I didn't mean . . . I'm sorry."

I didn't step away. My heart hurt looking at him. I had the irrational urge to wrap my arms around him, to cry, to apologize profusely. Perhaps, given all that had happened, the urge was not really so irrational at all. Instead I said gently, "Why do you need the Black Book? It's a Witch's book . . . you couldn't even . . ." I shrugged, trying to temper my words. "You wouldn't be able to use it."

"It belonged to the old Seer Danielle, didn't it?" he said. "I thought that maybe she would have written something about that place. About how to get in . . ." He shook his head quickly, his eyes suddenly brightening, as if a realization was dawning on him. "Of course . . . I need to explain. Netalie, I found her-"

"Witch Mother! Mother pleeeaaase!"

A weeping shriek quickly descended upon the front door, followed by an incessant, desperate pounding. Mason and I looked at each other, and then I quickly began to shove him into the other room. "Go, please!"

"What, why-"

"I'm not supposed to have a man in here!" I said. "Please just wait for me to come back. I want to hear you out, I promise. But please stay here where you're safe!" I shut him into Witch Mother's bedroom before he could protest any further. I rushed to the front door, where the pounding and sobbing was still ongoing and flung it open, only to have Hannah Fisher – old man Terry Fisher's youngest daughter of five children - fall face-first into my arms. She was red-faced and babbling, her long brown hair sticking out of its braid at all angles. She was wearing a too-large coat over her nightdress, and muddy boots upon her feet.