Touch The Fire

10 : Echoes That Follow

" Some voices aren't memories. They're warnings. "

***

Justine's mum, who insist I call her Cassandra, tells the boys to go home. Saying I should let the weight of the curse, and now knowing what happens when it isn't broken, sit with me overnight.

Everyone's agrees, except me.

I still have many questions.

But even after a cinnamon bun and hot chocolate, my muscles are sluggish, eyelids are heavy, and the only thing I can think of is falling onto a bed and crashing out.

Dylan places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, as if reassuring me that all my questions will be answered in time. "See you Monday."

All I can do is give a small nod in return.

I'm enveloped by two massive arms, dirt and iron cloud my senses as the air squeezes out of my lungs before any noise can escape. "Don't worry little stray, we'll get through this together."

"Call me that again and I'll scratch your eyes out." I wheeze out once he finally releases me.

Tate throws his head back with a laugh. "There she is."

Justine groans from the hallway. "Tate, stop emotionally strangling people and get out."

He salutes like a soldier, then turns back to me with a wink. "Get some rest, chaos queen."

I lift my mug in a solemn toast. "Long may I reign."

Dylan chuckles softly as he follows Tate out the door, casting one last glance at me before they disappear into the night. Then there's only one left.

Jake lingers by the door frame, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders tense beneath his leather jacket. The porch lights behind him cast sharp shadows across his jaw, and for a second, I can't tell if the look in his eyes is frustration, worry... or both.

I don't say anything, neither does he.

The silence stretches between us, taut and pulsing. I should fill it, c***k a joke, offer a thanks, something.

But I don't.

I just meet his gaze.

His jaw ticks as he pushes off the wall. Maybe he'll come over, maybe he'll offer some sort of comfort the way Tate did, but he doesn't. He gives the smallest nod. Barely there.

Then he turns and walks out the door.

I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding

Justine brushes past me with a muttered, "come one," already climbing the stairs.

The house feels too quiet without the other, well, without Tate. Like something sacred has been stirred, and now it's holding its breath too.

I follow Justine, my legs like lead, my brain still buzzing from everything I've learned tonight. About the curse, about the others, about our history.

The hallway lights behind casts a warm amber glow over framed family portraits and a wall of crooked art projects. From the photos, it looks like Justine has an older brother and two younger siblings, a boy and a girl, who are unmistakably twins.

Justine's room is large, there's books stacked in uneven piles, fairy lights strung across the ceiling like constellations, and a massive bed covered in pillows that might eat me alive.

"Do you want the left side or the side that has approximately six stuffed animals and a looming existential crisis?" She asks, flopping into the bed and grabbing a dragon plushie for emphasis.

I groan and fall face first into the non stuffed animal side. "Which ever side has less feelings."

"So... the floor?"

"Tempting."

She laughs, but it's quiet. Tired.

I close my eyes, letting the scent of cinnamon and the hum of fairy lights wrap around me like a cocoon.

"I know you still have loads of questions," Justine yawns, pulling out a pair of pyjamas. "But let's leave them for tomorrow morning."

"No arguments here." I grab the black silk set she offers me.

The weight of everything, the curse, secrets, Jake's unreadable expressions, settles heavy on my chest.

Tomorrow, I'll deal with it.

Tonight, I let myself fall.

•••

I'm back in the forest.

The trees bend towards me like they know my name.

Their silver branches sway soundlessly in a wind I can't feel, roots splitting through stone, curling over ancient markings with symbols I almost recognise. The sky above is cracked, fractured line of white light stretching across endless grey. The moon is blurred by shifting clouds, thick and bruised, shaking with the weight of something waiting.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Trees drift away like iridescent ash, weaving through the tall grass, until I'm standing in an open field.

Then the thunder rolls in.

It doesn't start with sound. It's starts with a breath. A sharp inhale, behind me. No, through me. Like the world itself is waking. The pressure builds in the air, heavy and humming, drawing every hair on my arms upright.

Lightning flashes. Once.

Then everything changes.

The forest bleeds away.

I'm inside a room, a chamber. Tall and suffocating, lined with dark marble veined of shimmering gold. It smells of crushed roses and burnt candlewick. The walls pulse faintly, like they're alive, like the palace itself is holding its breath.

A silk canopy looms overhead. A throne of a bed beneath it. Discarded robes spill off the edge carelessly. My steps are silent, my body is weightless.

I know I shouldn't be here. This place isn't mine.

And yet, I keep moving.

There's a man sitting on the edge of the bed. His back to me. Bare from the waist up. Tawny skin strung tight over muscle. A dark mark runs down his spine, a sword with a jagged lightning bolt striking down the middle, almost glowing. His shoulders curve slightly forward, like the weight of the world is shackled to them.

The storm is inside him. I can feel it.

He doesn't look at me, but his presence drags all the air from the room. And something else lingers on the sheets behind him. A perfume. Sickly sweet. Possessive.

My throat tightens, but I don't understand why. Perhaps it's the danger and wickedness that seems to cling to him.

I move closer, barefoot over dark wooden floors. Each step makes the candle flames tremble, though the air remains still. Untouched.

His fingers are curled into the edge of the bed, knuckles white as bone. A breath escapes him, ragged, raw. In relief or pleasure, I can't be sure, but it send a shiver right through me.

I reach toward him, trembling.

I don't know why. I don't know him.

But some ancient part of me does.

Something in me screams to turn and bolt. My gut twists with dread the closer I get, like touching him will unleash all sorts of mayhem.

My fingers hover over his shoulder.

The moment stretches.

Then—

He stiffens.

His head turns slightly, just enough to feel the storm rise beneath his skin.

He knows I'm here.

He feels me.

A sound, softer than thunder, sharper than glass, catches in his throat. He begins to turn.

And just before his face meets mine—

Everything shatters and I'm pulled backwards with a force stronger than a hurricane.

I wake with my heart racing. Skin damp with cool sweat.

Sun streams in from the window, and my hand is still outstretched. Reaching for someone who was never there. My skin hums with phantom static, like I've been standing beneath lightning.

"What are you doing...?" Justine stands at her door, two glasses of water in hand.

That's when it hits me. Not the dream. The headache.

It's a freight train of nausea, drumbeat pulse behind my eyes, mouth dry like I've eaten to much salted popcorn and then insulted god himself.

I groan and collapse backwards into the pillow, draping a bruised arm over my face. "I didn't think I drank that much last night."

"You didn't," Justine chuckles, crossing the room. "That would be Tate and his emotional glitter, it's ten times worse than any alcoholic hangover."

She passes me a glass. I sit up slowly, like I'm eighty years old and full of spite, and take a cautious sip.

"Please remind me." I croak. "To kick him in the shins tomorrow."

"Make it both shins. For me as well."

I grunt in agreement, pressing the cold glass to my temple and letting the silence stretch for a moment. The fairy lights still hum softly above us. The smell of cinnamon lingers in the air like a memory I don't trust yet.

Everything from last night comes crashing in at once. Every impossible truth. Every cursed name. Every piece of broken history dumped in my lap like it belonged to me.

But one thing still doesn't add up.

I lower the glass and glance at Justine, who's flopped onto her side of the bed, stretching like a cat that's been resting in the sun.

"So... can I ask something without getting the 'it's not my place' tone?"

She smirks without looking at me. "No promises."

"Last night, Dylan said the curse always passes to the youngest living member of a, what did he say... Godmarked family?"

"Correct."

"But Jake isn't the youngest."

That gets her attention. She pauses for a moment, then pops up onto her elbow. "How do you know he's not the youngest?"

"A young girl's been in his car at school drop offs and always goes home with him, I put two and two together. She looks about a year or two older than my sister."

"She's is."

"So why didn't she get it?"

Justine's expression shifts, like I've tugged a loose thread she didn't expect me to find. "We don't know," she eventually says. "We all assumed it would be her. She was... preparing for it."

"So the curse jumped up the ladder instead of down?" I ask, frowning. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know." Her voice drops, quieter this time. "It broke pattern. No one saw it coming."

"Did anyone ask why?"

"Of course we did. But Jake wouldn't talk about it."

Justine drops back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer her a cleaner past. "He didn't say anything. Just... showed up one day moving faster than any eye could see. Took the weight without a word."

I let that settle.

Jake with his sharp edges and storm cloud moods, wasn't meant to carry this. His sister was. And yet, here he is.

"So what?" I ask slowly. "The curse just broke its own rules?"

"Looks that way."

"Does that happen?"

She shrugs. "It's not like we have a rulebook. Just patterns. History. Pieces passed down from whoever survived long enough to remember them."

"But this has never happened before?"

"No, like we keep saying, it's always gone to the youngest living member. Always." She rolls onto her side to look at me. "Until Jake."

Something in her voice flickers. Curiosity, maybe, or something more brittle. Like this isn't just about Jake. Like the rules shifting scares her in a way she doesn't want to say out loud.

I lean back into the pillows, brain spinning through a million tiny cracks in the story. "And no one thinks that's weird?"

"Oh, we think it's weird," she mutters. "We just stopped trying to figure it out."

A knock sounds at the door before I can spiral any deeper.

"Girls?" Cassandra's voice is soft. "Breakfast is almost ready."

Justine groans into her pillow. "Tell them I died."

"Unfortunately, We still need help with the toast."

The smell of bacon sneaks in through the cracked door like a bribe. My stomach grumbles traitorously.

Justine sighs, flopping off the bed dramatically. "Come on, if you don't eat soon Tate's influence aftermath will start rearranging your brain chemistry."

"Fine." I mutter, dragging myself up. "But only because I'm scared of what toast duty means in this house."

We make our way downstairs, the moment we hit the kitchen, I'm hit with a full on sensory ambush.

Laughter. Music. Bacon. Pancakes. A million things happening at once.

Justine's dad is flipping pancakes like he's in a high stakes cooking competition, mumbling to himself about the structural integrity of maple syrup.

At the kitchen island, two younger kids are locked in a toast standoff. A boy, maybe twelve, holds a butter knife like a sword while the girl, same age, definitely his twin, snatches the toast off his plate and takes a victorious bite.

"You snooze, you lose, Rayne." She says around a mouthful.

Do not call me that in front of people," he hisses, glaring at me like I'm the people in question.

Justine leans over, "those two menaces are my younger siblings. The one with toast thieving tendencies is Skye, and her rage filled twin is Rayne, who likes to be called Ray."

"Hi," I say, unsure if I should wave or offer tribute.

Rayne squints at me. "Are you a cursed one?"

"Rayne!" Cassandra snaps from the sink, though she doesn't sound surprised. "We talked about tone."

Skye shrugs. "You do look kind of cursed."

"Thanks," I mumble, "I was going for 'mysterious witch' but cursed is cool too."

That gets a snort of laughter out of Justine.

Before I can locate a seat, someone new appears in the doorway, broad shouldered, sleepy eyed, and definitely older. He has Justine's hair, darker and a little messy, and he's wearing a shirt that says NOPE. in all caps.

"Did I hear toast warfare?" He asks, grabbing a coffee mug.

Justine motions towards him with a piece of bacon. "Clara, meet Trey. Older brother. Ex jock. Pancake critic."

Trey raises his mug in greeting. "Heard you survived a crash course is magical trauma. Respect."

I offer a tired salute. "Barley."

He grins and leans against the doorframe like he has no plans to be helpful whatsoever.

Justine pushes me toward the dining table. "Sit. Eat. Regret nothing."

I take the empty chair between Skye and Justine, and Cassandra sets a down a plate in front of me: pancakes, strawberries, and a dollop of cream shaped like a heart.

"I didn't ask what you wanted," she says gently, "so I gave you what you needed."

It's a small thing. But it undoes me more than I want to admit.

"Thank you," I say, voice soft.

Cassandra brushes my shoulder as she leaves to slide into the chair opposite me. "No need to thank me, Clara. I know you've had a lot dumped onto you, and there's plenty more to come."

I nod, trying to keep it together. "I just... I don't get it. Why didn't he tell me? Any of it?"

She hesitates. Then, carefully, "Sometimes parents think they're protecting us by keeping us in the dark. But what they're really doing is trying to protect themselves. From guilt. From fear. From parts of their past they still haven't made peace with."

I stare down at the plate in front of me. My fork doesn't move.

She pause, fingers curling around her mug, then exhales slowly. "I remember when he left. We were friends, close, once. I don't think he ever meant to stay away as long as he did."

I look up, startled. "Really? What makes you say that?"

She nods. "Richard was... determined. Brilliant. But grief makes people reckless. And when the last wave of the curse hit..." Her voice softens, gaze distant now. "His brother was marked, and Richard, he couldn't accept that. He became obsessed with the idea that there had to be another way. A loophole."

My chest tightens. "I didn't know he had a brother"

She gives me a sad smile, eyes still distant. "He came to the conclusion that there were other portals, outside of Wildecliff. Ones untouched by magic that kept the original founders memories fogged, and the Bradshaw's line of abilities from discovering it."

"He really thought he could find it." Justine's dad slides in next to his wife.

"But he didn't." I murmur.

Cassandra shakes her head. "No. He didn't. And when the moment came... he wasn't here. He missed it. He wasn't there to say goodbye."

A silence falls, thicker than before. My heart aches behind my ribs, something sharp and sorrowful twisting inside me.

That kind of failure, it doesn't fade.

He wasn't running from me. He was chasing a chance he never got back.

And it cost him everything.

"That's why he stayed away for so long." I say quietly. "Because he couldn't face it. The town. The people who remembered."

"Maybe," Cassandra says gently. "Maybe he couldn't face what happened. Or maybe he thought if he just kept looking, he could still make it right somehow. And when your powers surfaced... well, I imagine he panicked. He saw it starting again and had no new answers. Only old regrets."

I sit there, unsure how to hold the weight of all of this.

He wasn't hiding it to punish me. He was trying to outrun his past.

But it still caught us.

Cassandra gives my hand a soft squeeze. "You don't have to forgive him today. You don't even have to agree with how he handled it. But it's okay to let it be complicated."

I nod, and this time, a tear slips loose before I can blink it away.

Rayne slides me a folded napkin without saying anything. I take it whispering a small "thanks."

Skye starts talking about her school project to fill the air, and for the next few minutes, everything is loud and soft in the same breath, pancakes and syrup and sibling banter and someone accidentally knocking over orange juice.

The chaos is comforting.

Justine's dad packs me lunch "for later, or if you just want to hold something warm." He slips it into my bag like I might disappear any second. Justine smirks at the gesture, but her eyes are kind.

By the time I reach the back door, I feel a little less like I'm unraveling. Cassandra hugs me like she's known me forever, and Skye ambushes me with a hug before pretending she didn't. Rayne gives me a fist bump. Trey nods from the hallway, headphones slung around his neck.

It's weird. And warm. And everything I didn't know I missed.

Justine walks me towards the lake, the sun starting to sting.

"You okay?" she asks.

"No," I answer honestly. "But I think I might be later."

"Good," she says. "Later's allowed."

We trade quiet smiles, and I start to walk home.

It feels quieter that usual. The lake feels like it's watching me, like it remembers something I don't.

And somewhere, just under the surface, a question is clawing to be asked.

What if there is another portal?

And what if my dad wasn't wrong to look for it?

I reach the back steps. My house, familiar and strange all at once. I rest my hand on one of the doorknobs, hesitant, but step inside.

The air is cool. Too still.

"Clara?"

My dad's voice carries from the kitchen.

My throat tightens. I drop my bag slowly, pulse hammering in my ears.

He rounds the corner, and for a second, we just... stare at each other.

"You're home," he says, like he's surprised I came back.

I nod, "So are you."

He gives a quiet breath of a laugh, but there's no joy in it. Only weight.

"There's something I need to tell you."

He glances at the window, then back to me.

"No," he corrects himself. "I think it's time I show you."