Cresent Prophecy by Axelle Chandler (sad books to read TXT) 📗

broke my heart. After all these years believing he was to blame for her death, to have his hope taken away… I sighed and turned toward him.

“I can’t feel anything,” I said with a shrug. “It’s just a forest, Boone. Trees, grass, ferns. There’s a deer somewhere close and a couple of birds. A frog. Maybe it’s a toad. I don’t know the difference. Aileen isn’t here.”

“The hawthorn led you here for a reason.”

I shrugged, starting to believe I’d misread the vision.

“Put your hands on the ground,” he said. “Please.”

“I’d know if she were here.”

“Please.”

I sucked in a deep breath and sank to my knees before him. If it finally put his mind to rest, then I would do it even though I already knew what I would find.

Winding my fingers through the grass, I set my palms on the earth. The air was full of the damp scent of dirt, grass, and fresh rain. Mud and dew seeped through the knees of my jeans as I allowed my magic to flow.

It trickled from the pit of my stomach and along all my nerve endings, tingling like I had a bad case of pins and needles. When my senses filtered through the top layer of dirt, I tensed and closed my eyes, aware Boone was watching me closely.

I delved deeper, passing a worm, a rock, and more dirt…but there was no sign of the unnatural roots of a spriggan, only the thick tendrils of the oak forest and the fine web of ferns around us. There were no bones. No remains. Nothing.

When I’d killed the fae that had stolen the face of my ex-boyfriend, Alex, he’d dissolved into ash and blew away on the wind. Hannah had probably wound up the same, but it didn’t account for Aileen. I would still feel some kind of trace. An echo. A ghostly tendril. A sprinkle of Crescent magic. Her bones…

Holding onto my sigh, I went as deep as I dared, but my search was fruitless. It was the same feeling I’d had when I’d tried to find Aileen in her coffin. She wasn’t here.

I opened my eyes, my shoulders sinking as my magic subsided. Glancing at Boone, our eyes met, and he knew.

“No…” he whispered. “I cannae believe…”

Standing, I cupped his cheek, my skin rasping on his stubble. “I’m sorry, Boone. I wanted her to be here, too. I really did. Maybe the hawthorn was trying to tell me something else. I’m beginning to understand symbols aren’t so literal in this world.”

“I thought…”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him close.

“Me, too,” I whispered. “Me, too.”

When we got back to the cottage, the light was already fading. It was totally weird how early it got dark here. Boone said the sun set as early as four p.m. in the middle of winter. I knew it was going to mess with my equilibrium, not to mention my sleeping patterns.

Speaking of Boone… I let him go on ahead, hanging back when I saw the light on in the garden shed. He was so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed, but he needn’t worry. Nothing evil was lurking among the rakes and shovels. One almost transparent wisp of magic told me it was just the demon child who’d taken up residence in my spare bedroom, otherwise known as the goth girl Mairead, doing God knew what.

Crossing the lawn, I readied myself for anything. I hadn’t taken her for having a green thumb, so either she had a crop of hydroponically grown marijuana or she… Well, I had no bloody idea, so I was going with the weed as the likely explanation.

Peering through the door, I raised my eyebrows when I saw her sitting on a wooden crate in front of a large canvas with a bag of paints at her feet and a mason jar full of murky water and assorted brushes. I didn’t know whether to be proud or disappointed.

Stepping into the shed, I shivered. How she could stand the cold was beyond my little Australian mind. I was used to blistering summers and mild winters. Snow sometimes happened back home but only for a second, and it never stuck around long enough for a snowball fight.

“Where have you been?” Mairead asked, glancing up from her canvas.

“Just went for a walk with Boone,” I replied, not wanting to disappoint her with my fruitless search for Aileen. “Quality time, you know. What’s all this about?” I nodded at the palette of paint in her lap. “You’ve got green on your face.”

“Cac, have I?” She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, making the dob of paint smear even more.

“What are you painting?” I rounded the canvas and took in the image. It was a mess of green splotches and didn’t really resemble anything. “Is it abstract?”

“No. It’s supposed to be a landscape.” She made a face and pointed to the picture sticky taped to the makeshift easel she’d constructed out of old boxes.

Narrowing my eyes, I studied the image she’d likely printed out at Irish Moon and nodded. It was Derrydun from a distance. The main road stretched across the picture, giving a great view of all the shops. There was Molly McCreedy’s, the bright pink of Mary’s Teahouse, Irish Moon was there, and in the center of the street was the hawthorn. Further afield, I could see the ruined tower house on the horizon and the forest surrounding the sleepy village.

“That’s supposed to be that?” I asked, pointing to the canvas.

“I’m workin’ on it,” she replied with a pout. “I watched a video on the Internet where they were dabbin’ all the colors on like this…” She slapped the brush against the canvas, adding more green to the shape she’d already created. “Buildin’ color.”

“What’s that green thing supposed to be?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.

“That part’s the hill.”

“Really?”

“Skye!”

I laughed, feeling a little lighter after mine and Boone’s emotional bender in the woods.

“Are you feelin’