Wild is the Witch (3)
Not that he can ever know that.
It’s his arrogance that bothers me. Nature is all about balance, but Pike walks around as if the whole world is his. He doesn’t understand humility or reverence, doesn’t respect the chain beneath him because he’s at the top.
Just once I’d like to show him all the things he doesn’t know, all the facets of the universe he’s missing by not having magic, but there’s nothing that could make me foolish enough to share my secrets with another person. Not even an insurmountable dislike of Pike Alder.
I take a deep breath and begin cleaning up for the day, gathering all the visitor forms from the last tour group and putting away the unclaimed brochures. I wipe down the glass display case where our Foggy Mountain Wildlife Refuge merchandise is kept and ignore Pike when he walks out and turns on the television hanging on the wall.
We typically only use it to show our tours a quick video explaining the mission of the refuge, but Pike prefers background noise to silence. I usually tune it out, but the word witch comes through the speakers loud and clear, followed by a name—a name that sits heavy on my chest as if it’s a physical thing, cumbersome and painful.
Images from that night on the lake invade my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish them. But they continue to play, over and over as if they’re the only movie in a twenty-four-hour theater. I force myself to go about my chores, making sure Pike can’t see the way I’m hanging on every word from the news anchor’s mouth.
But it’s no use. My hands slow as I listen carefully to the report, and I turn my gaze to the screen. “…early release has been granted. Amy Meadows was convicted of involuntary manslaughter by the courts and rid of her ability to use magic by the Witches’ Council…”
I exhale, a piece of that night breaking off my insides, not quite as heavy now. Early release has been granted. Amy’s going home.
“Bad call,” Pike says under his breath, shaking his head at the screen.
The glass cleaner slips from my fingers and drops to the floor, and I quickly pick it back up, trying to fight the knot forming in my chest. I spray more liquid on the case and wipe it up in fast circles, then do it again.
“They can’t be trusted,” Pike says. Then after a moment, his voice comes again, right behind me. “I think you got that spot.”
I jump at his nearness and almost drop the bottle again. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that there was a time I trusted Amy with everything. But it’s dangerous, letting him see me worked up over a witch, so instead I stand and say, “I once again find myself doing more chores because you can’t manage to do yours well.”
“I think I know how to clean glass,” Pike says.
I point to the upper corner of the case, where Pike likes to steady himself while cleaning. “Your handprint is so well defined I could cut it out and give it to your mother as a Christmas ornament.”
Pike laughs, but my focus is back on the television. The broadcast continues, and Pike’s words echo in my mind as if they were spoken in a canyon.
Bad call.
They can’t be trusted.
The door swings open and Mom walks inside, ensuring I don’t say anything I’ll regret later.
“Honestly, Pike, you know how much I hate finishing my day with the news.” Mom swats his arm before turning off the television, but she gives me a meaningful look as she does.
“Sorry, Isobel,” he says. “I was just leaving.”
“See you tomorrow,” Mom says before heading into the back room.
Pike is almost out the door when he stops and turns. “Shoot, I forgot to clean the sloth enclosure,” he says, giving me an overly apologetic look that’s anything but sincere. He checks the time and shakes his head. “I have plans tonight, and I’m already running late. You don’t mind doing it, do you, Gray?” His expression slips, and the right side of his mouth pulls up into a smirk.
“I’d believe you just a little more if it weren’t the third time this month you’d ‘forgotten,’” I say. “And yes, I do mind.”
“Why, do you have someplace you need to be?”
I grind my teeth and don’t say anything. He knows I don’t, that I never do, and his smirk gets bigger. “Didn’t think so,” he says. With that, he hops out of the office and lets the door shut behind him, sending a burst of cold spring air into the small space.
“Not even a thank-you,” I say, turning around and grabbing my things, grateful he can’t see the way my skin burns with frustration. I don’t want him to know that he gets to me, that his words actually mean something.
Mom comes out of the back room and turns off the lights, holding the insulated mug she uses every morning for coffee. She slips into her jacket and untucks her straight blond hair, a stark difference from the brown, curly mess I got from my dad.
I used to love it, but now I’d trade it in for my mom’s if I could.
Mom locks up the office, and we walk outside, the cloud cover from earlier getting darker as the day recedes.
“Pike left me to clean the sloth enclosure, so I need to do that before we head home,” I say, failing to keep the annoyance from my tone.
“That sounds like him,” she says with a casual laugh. “I’ll get the walk-throughs done while you’re cleaning.” She starts off toward the aviary and looks over her shoulder. “Meet you back here in twenty minutes,” she calls.