It's the Fear, and Not the Ghost (That Leaves Me Haunted)

Chapter Five

Being sixteen years old is a little softer, now. Hunter stands in the Noceda house's driveway, holding onto a flower pot as Willow sorts through bags of soil beside him. He doesn't know much about plants, if he's being honest — there weren't many around the castle, and it wasn't like he could spend valuable training time trying to take care of some little leafy thing — but Willow knows a ton, so he's doing his best to learn. He loves learning anything, really, but listening to Willow talk about how the grass here doesn't whisper and the sunlight turns plants green instead of red is more interesting than any book.

"The rain makes a big difference," she's saying, "since it isn't boiling. Flowers from this realm love it, but most of the outdoor plants I grow from back home get kind of pouty if I don't boil the water before I give it to them."

Hunter nods along, making a mental note to ask Camila how the stove works here (he knows you don't have to offer it your blood, but he can't remember whether or not there's a password he's supposed to give it) so he can help with the watering sometime.

"Maybe you can help me repot this one!" Willow says, hefting one of the bags up over her shoulder. "I've been keeping it in the flower box on the back porch, but its roots have gotten so long, I'm pretty sure that planter's days are numbered. It should be easy to switch it over — you just have to watch out for the teeth."

"Oh. Uh, maybe!" Hunter does his best not to show how unspeakably nervous the thought of this makes him. If he messes up one of Willow's plants, Hunter knows he will never, ever forgive himself, but maybe it's time to give it a shot — even if the thought of it has his nerves sparking. He's a thousand times more jumpy these days than he ever was as the Golden Guard. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

It's for this reason that he just about leaps out of his skin when a little green snake darts across the driveway right in front of his feet. The yelp that squeaks past his lips is a little funny, but the humor is lost to the way he flings his arms up in surprise, sending the pot he was holding straight into the air above him. He realizes his mistake and reaches out blindly, but he knows he'll never catch it before it shatters. He's going to ruin one of Willow's flower pots. He's going to ruin it.

A vine bursts forth from the ground to interrupt these spiraling thoughts, reaching straight for Hunter, straight for his face, and he's all but mastered holding still when the lash is aimed at his body but when it's his face he just can't help it, can't help the way his eyes screw shut, the way his breath hitches, the way his shoulders jerk upward and every muscle in his body goes tense and ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump—

But the vine doesn't touch him. The impact never comes.

"Hunter?" says Willow, and her voice has that note of concern twisting through it like ivy; the one that means she knows something is wrong. "Are you okay?"

He opens his eyes slowly. (If he had it his way, he'd leave them closed forever and vanish into thin air, but no such luck.) It takes him a second to focus on the flower pot half an inch in front of his nose; there's a vine wrapped around it, suspending it in midair to keep it from shattering on the concrete. It didn't even graze his hair. Hunter looks past it and sees Willow, her hands alight with magic, her brows drawn together. There's a bag at her feet that's split down the middle, weeping a river of soil that bleeds toward her boots.

"I'm fine," Hunter tells her, keeping his eyes on the vine. "I'm sorry for almost breaking something of yours. It won't happen again."

Willow guides the pot gently to the ground. Once it's out of harm's way, the vine recedes, and she folds her arms. "Hey," she says. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Hunter's not doing anything in particular; he's just standing there, back straight, waiting for her to stop looking at him so he can breathe again.