“I could rescue them,” she offered weakly, knowing it would never work. “I could get Tristan and Caleb and anyone else you wanted, and bring them all here.”
Rowan sat up, smiling sadly at her. “You know I can’t run from this,” he said. “I was born for the world I was born into. Here, I can feel good. There, I can do good.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” Lily said. Rowan was shaking his head before she even finished the sentence.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“But, Rowan, if this is really about doing good, I’m the one who can do the most good there.”
He rolled over, pinning her under him. “Look at me. You’re never going back there, do you understand? I can take a lot of things, but not that.”
“But—”
“No.”
Something hurtful squirmed behind his eyes. Lily heard a whisper in his thoughts, a whisper he shied away from.
… thousands of braves back in my world. An army. With them she could do the most good—or the most evil.
“I don’t mean that,” he said, his brow furrowed with regret. “You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t want an army.”
“It’s okay, Rowan. I worry about that, too,” Lily said softly. She laughed mirthlessly. “Look at what power did to Lillian.”
“You’re nothing like her,” he said. “You don’t think like her. You don’t agree with her or what she’s doing.”
“No, I don’t,” Lily said, although they both knew the truth even if they didn’t want to accept it. Lily had lived a different life from Lillian, learned different lessons, but they were still the same person down deep. Lily hoped that in her case nurture outweighed nature. “I’d fight her if I ever saw her again,” Lily added bitterly, thinking of her father. Rowan relaxed and laid his forehead against hers.
“Good,” he whispered.
They held each other for a while, both of them trying to get used to the idea that they wouldn’t have many more opportunities to be together. When it was dark outside Rowan stood and peeled off his white T-shirt and jeans, exchanging them for his darkest clothes. Lily watched his bare skin sliding through the faint moonlight filtering through her bedroom window, already missing him so horribly she couldn’t even cry.
“Wear all black,” he reminded her, looking out the window. “And dress warm. It’s snowing. I’ll call Tristan, Una, and Breakfast.”
They loaded up Tristan’s car with backpacks, weapons, axes to cut firewood, and shovels to bury the embers when they were finished with the bonfire. They arrived at the Framingham-Ashland border before midnight. On one side of Salem End Road there were Colonial-style houses, some of them ancient looking but well maintained; on the other side of the dimly lit and winding road was nothing but forest. A crumbling stone wall, centuries old, rimmed the side of the street, preventing them from pulling the car over.
“No place to park,” Tristan said. “And there’s no parking lot or hiking trails through these woods. It’s just rocks and trees in there.”
They had to circle around the forest to the Ashland side. They drove up another dark, rambling road, aptly named Winter Street. The snow-blasted trees bent over the road from both sides, forming what looked like a tunnel of white ice. It seemed to snow even harder here. The wind kicked up flurries from the ground so that the air billowed with sparkling crystals.
“It’s a dead end,” Rowan said.
“Let’s just leave the car here,” Una said. She looked back up the street. “Wait a sec.”
They all turned to see car lights coming up the street behind them. Tristan killed his engine. The car behind them seemed to slow down and stop. After a few moments the driver backed up and turned down a street to the right, the headlights finally disappearing.
They got out of the car, shouldered their gear, and sank silently into the woods. Rowan closed his eyes. “Follow me,” he said, feeling his way toward Carrick.
They found something like a path, and crunched through the super-chilled snow for almost an hour. The brush was thick underfoot in places, and it gripped at them, dragging them back with spindly fingers.
“Stop,” Rowan whispered. He pointed in front of them. In the moonlight, Lily could barely make out a rocky cliff through the trees. Close to the top, but still inside the cliff face, came the faint orange glow of a campfire.
“That’s it,” Tristan whispered. “I saw some pictures online. The Witch Caves are in the cliffs.”
“Damn it,” Rowan said under his breath. “He has the high ground.” The fire suddenly went out. “And he knows we’re here.”
“How—” Tristan began.
“Because he’s been waiting for us.” Rowan shook his head impatiently. “Let’s get a fire going.”