Chapter 10 #2
“Well, that didn’t go the way I thought it would,” I mutter, climbing into the passenger seat of Sam’s red Mini Cooper.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes in a failed attempt to still my quivering stomach.
Despite Sam’s protests, I haven’t had breakfast, but I still feel as if I’m going to throw up any second now. And not just because I’m in a car.
Sam closes the door on her side. “At least we know that K—he,” she corrects herself quickly. She knows the rule: no pronouncing his name in my presence. “Wasn’t lying.”
I huff. “About that, he wasn’t. What if I never remember everything on my own? It took me eight years to get only some of my memories back.”
The sound of Sam rummaging through her designer bag fills the cabin. “Here, drink this. I don’t know, Iris, but you heard Iman. It’s too dangerous to even try tearing it down. Your scream earlier—I’ve never heard anything like that. My heart literally stopped.”
“Yeah, it was painful as fuck. Thanks,” I say, opening my eyes to take the vial from her outstretched hand. I uncap it and down its contents in one go.
“The other thing Iman said about the darkness inside you…have you considered your father might not have been human?”
“I have, yeah. Since Erik’s attack. What I did to him, and seeing ghosts on top of it. But I’ve never heard about a lightborn falling for a dark creature or having children with one.”
“Do you really think that in all history, since the initiation of the Order hundreds of years ago, it hasn’t happened? It not being in your history books at the compound doesn’t mean it can’t be true.”
She’s right. Of course, I’ve already considered it.
But that would mean, again, that the Order lies and hides things from us, and that’s a bitter pill to swallow.
A lightborn and a dark creature being in love would be sacrilegious for the Order.
One of the worst sins, next to falling for a demon. They would do anything to bury it.
Still, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for my father.
His name is not on my birth certificate.
Unless…my mother wrote something about it in her journal.
However, I still can’t imagine how combining the blood from a lightborn and a dark creature would allow me to have all these enhanced abilities.
“Maybe your Mom wrote something in her journal about your father.”
“That’s what I was thinking just now.”
“Have you started reading it?”
A boulder lodges in my throat. “No…I can’t.
Not yet. I—” I suck in a jagged breath. “It’s too hard, Sam.
I’ve tried so many times. It doesn’t feel right to do it unless I visit her, and I couldn’t even get past the cemetery’s gate when you dropped me off.
” I blow out a trembling breath. “What if I’ll never be able to go inside? ”
Her perfectly manicured hand squeezes mine. “It’s okay, Iris. Don’t rush into it. Grief doesn’t have a timeline. You’ll get in when it feels right. I’ll call Grammie and tell her we’re on our way.”
The drive to Sam’s grandmother’s house only takes fifteen minutes.
She moved from Ashville to Salem to be closer to her friends—all light witches—when Sam turned twenty, leaving her the Victorian house.
She now lives in a charming two-story Colonial, white with blue shutters.
As soon as we get out of the car, Beau, her Bernese Mountain Dog, runs from the porch to greet us.
I bend and scratch the cuddly giant behind the ears while Sam takes out the Himalayan cheese treat from her tote.
As soon as Beau sees it, he lets out an excited woof.
“Don’t tell Grammie, okay?” she whispers conspiratorially before giving it to him.
As if understanding his assignment, he runs off with it toward the back garden, tail wagging and ears fluttering.
“I saw that,” Grammie drawls from the open door, a hand perched on her hip.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam retorts in a nonchalant tone.
“The reason I don’t give him snacks anymore is because the vet said he needs to lose weight. You’re not helping by bringing him treats every time you visit.”
Sam gasps. “Don’t you dare call Beau fat. He’s perfectly chunky.”
Grammie shakes her head. “C’mon, you two.
I made muffins and they’re getting cold,” she says as she waves us in.
“Iris, my dear, it’s so good to see you.
” She pulls me into a warm, motherly hug.
“Oh, my. Your bones are stabbing me, child. Did you lose weight?” Concern flashes in her mossy green eyes—the same hue as Sam’s—when she pulls back.
Wild auburn curls frame her heart-shaped face.
Light magic helps her keep the color alive.
It’s the only indulgence she allows herself because even if she could decrease the signs of passing time, she always says that aging is a privilege.
Every etched line is a new year she got to live when her son—Sam’s father—couldn’t.
In fact, looking at her is like looking at Sam’s aged reflection in a mirror.
Not only is Sam the spitting image of her grandmother, but she also inherited her feistiness and quick wit.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, she’s not eating,” Sam says.
I scowl at my best friend.
“What? It’s true. And it’s killing me watch you do this to yourself.”
Grammie takes my hands in hers. “Heartbreak is a horrible thing to go through, my dear. I know it’s hard right now, but trust me when I say this: time heals all wounds. Also, fuck him for making you cry. No man is worth your tears.”
A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. After Sam and her grandmother share a long hug, we all shuffle into the living room, which smells divine, like a mixture of herbs and freshly baked pastries.
“So? Did Iman help you?” Grammie asks, sitting in the quilted armchair next to the arched window.
“Yeah, she asked for ten rafflesia arnoldii in return,” Sam answers as we both sit down—me gingerly because of my aching ribs, and her with feline grace—on the couch facing Grammie.
“I hope Harold didn’t cause any problems.”
“Oh, he was his usual asshole self. But Iris pinned him to the wall when he tried to blast me. He about pissed himself when he realized she’s a hellseeker,” Sam tells her.
Grammie chuckles. “I wish I were there to see it.”
“Iman is a doll, though,” Sam adds.
“She confirmed that the barrier is real, but she didn’t explain exactly what that means. Or how it works. She also said there’s this darkness inside me spilling through cracks that apparently have formed in it,” I chime in.
“There aren’t many texts about mind-altering magic since it’s not only rare and dangerous, but forbidden.
Most books about it were burned centuries ago.
You could use it to bend anyone to your will—transform them into mere puppets.
Imagine having that amount of power at your fingertips.
It’s the kind that could destroy worlds.
But it also comes at a high price. It can poison your soul.
” She pauses. “However, I did some digging these past few days and found a few things in a history book. Hecate’s daughters used magical barriers in the first war against the dark warlocks to render them powerless.
Think of it exactly like that—a wall built brick by brick, and the magic the mortar keeping it together.
That wall serves as a barrier on someone’s power.
It blocks it from manifesting. Locks it away.
The side effects are always unpredictable, though, as are all matters of the mind.
It is said that Hecate’s daughters cast the magical barrier on triplets.
One of them went insane, the second couldn’t remember anything about his life—just like you, Iris, dear—and the third remained catatonic until he died. ”
“And the cracks?” Sam inquires.
“Hm, the cracks are exactly that, fissures in the mortar of dark magic. I can only assume what happened at that nightclub flared your power, Iris. Akin to a tumultuous, overflowing river swelling and breaching a dam. Or perhaps the umbra demons gave you those cracks during their attack, and the darkness used them to slip through. The problem is, you can only chip it so many times until that barrier bursts.”
“So if something like that happens again, it might obliterate the barrier? And then I could go into a coma or get my memories back?” I ask.
“Or go insane…or die. There are endless possibilities,” Grammie retorts, her lips setting in a thin line.
A heavy silence falls over the room.
Sam’s worried gaze finds mine before she leans forward. “What if we fix those cracks somehow?”
“You already know that each witch or warlock has a unique weaving pattern they use to sew their threads of magic—light or dark. Because of that, the original dark magic wielder who cast the spell might be the only one who can repair those fissures. Even then, we can’t be sure it would work.
Another dark wielder can try, but it’s only like slapping Band-Aids on them. It wouldn’t be good as new.”
“And besides Iman, you don’t know of anyone else who dabbles in mind-altering magic?” Sam asks.
“Sadly, no.”
“Well, we have to search—”
“We’re not searching for anyone else,” I interrupt Sam.
Even though I’m aware Malik can access that kind of magic because he was supposed to erase Adramelech’s memory after we tortured him for information.
But at the same time, I assume that K—he thought of that already and probably came to the same conclusion as me: the consequences far outweigh the benefits.
Regardless, I can’t ask for his help. Not anymore.
She recoils as if I slapped her. “What? How can you say that?”
“I don’t want to repair the barrier. I want my memories back. And if this is the only way I can get them, then so be it. Plus, you heard Grammie. Even if we find the dark magic wielder who erected the barrier, it’s uncertain they can repair those cracks.”
Her nostrils flare. “But—”
“I’m tired, Sam. Of this void inside me.
Of feeling lost. You know how hard it’s been for me…
what happened in that Order mental institution.
What if repairing those cracks erases the last eight years of my life, too?
Erases you. We don’t know what might happen.
And I can’t go through that again. I just can’t. ”
She sucks on her teeth, then jumps to a stand. “Who wants muffins?” She asks before she storms off into the kitchen. I don’t miss the tears brimming in her eyes, though.
Grammie offers a smile, but it’s tinged with sadness. “Give her some time, Iris. She loves you and she’s worried.”
“I know. I love her just as fiercely, but the risks are not worth it.”
“I agree.” She pushes up. “I’ll put the kettle on for some tea and check on her.”
“Okay,” I sigh.