Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Iwoke to his mouth on my shoulder.His lips traced the line of my collarbone softly while his arm tightened around my waist and pulled me closer against the warmth of his chest. I made a sound that was not quite a word, and I felt him smile against my skin.
“Morning,” he murmured against my shoulder.
“Morning,” I replied, and the word felt strange in my mouth, ordinary, domestic, what people say when they’ve been waking up beside each other for years instead of days. I turned in his arms and his mouth found mine and we kissed slowly, lazily.
We dressed in the easy silence of two people who’d seen each other bare and weren’t pretending otherwise.
He pulled on his trousers and shirt and crossed to the hearth to build the fire.
I pulled grandmother’s dress over my head and sat at the table with the grimoire open in my lap, watching him crack eggs into the pan.
The domesticity of it should have felt wrong. A week ago I’d been his prisoner. Two days ago I’d cracked his skull open with a mortar. And now he was cooking me breakfast while I read at the table and neither of us found it strange.
He set a plate in front of me, eggs, bread he’d baked on the hearthstone, a cup of water. Then he leaned down and kissed the side of my neck, his mouth warm against my pulse, lingering there a beat longer than he needed to.
The pleasure that rolled through me was sudden and sharp, a bright flare in the center of my chest, and the power detonated before I could catch it.
The door blew off its hinges.
The oak slab sailed through the doorway and landed in the snow ten feet from the cottage, one hinge still dangling. Cold air flooded the room. Eggs slid off the spatula and hit the floor.
We both stared at the doorway.
He straightened slowly. Looked at the door in the snow. Looked at me, my hands still raised, power crackling and fading around my fingers.
“I’ll get wood to fix that,” he announced, his mouth twitching.
The laugh burst out of me before I could stop it, helpless, ridiculous, my body not knowing what else to do with it. He was fighting it too, the scar on his cheekbone twitching, his mouth pressed tight against the grin trying to escape.
“I’m sorry,” I managed.
“Don’t apologize,” he countered, pulling on his coat. “Just don’t do that when I’m near the fireplace.”
He kissed my forehead, quick and warm, and stepped through the empty doorway into the snow. I watched him disappear into the trees, his footsteps crunching away until the forest swallowed the sound.
The cottage was cold with the doorway gaping open. I pulled a fur around my shoulders, scraped the eggs off the floor, and went back to the grimoire.
The grimoire had new pages waiting for me.
I turned past the entries I’d already read and found fresh text where blurred ink had been, sharp and legible, the magic in the book responding to whatever had grown stronger in me since the clearing.
On the Nature of the Gift
The old blood manifests differently in each of us. The gift takes many forms, each unique to the woman who carries it.
Some have the Sight — visions of what has not yet come to pass. They dream true and see the threads of fate before they are woven.
Some have the Sensing — they feel what cannot be seen. Presences, intentions, the pull of supernatural things calling from beyond the tree line. They are drawn to what others cannot perceive and it is drawn to them.
Some have the Healing Touch — wounds close beneath their hands, bones knit, illness flees their presence.
Some have Elemental Mastery — they call fire from nothing, summon water from air, command earth and wind to their will.
And some have Forceweaving.
My finger traced beneath the word.
Forceweaving is the gift of raw power. Those who possess it can project force from their body, pushing, shoving, repelling with tremendous strength.
A Forceweaver cannot lift a cup delicately but can send a man flying across a room.
Cannot move a chair carefully, but can shatter a door with a thought.
I glanced at the empty doorway. A door with a thought. That was exactly what I’d just done.
The power responds to emotion. Fear creates barriers and shields. Anger creates blasts that destroy. And in rare moments, other strong emotions, joy, pleasure, grief, can trigger it as well, the force erupting in all directions without control.
To harness Forceweaving, one must learn to separate emotion from execution.
The power lives beneath your skin like a second heartbeat.
Feel it humming there, recognize it as distinct from what you feel.
Then direct it with intention rather than letting it explode in response to every strong emotion.
Picture the force as threads. Golden threads emanating from your body, from your chest, your hands, every part of you. Gather the threads in your mind. Twist them together. Aim them at your target. Push with your will, not your feelings.
Master this, and you become a weapon. Fail, and you become a danger to everyone around you.
I closed the book and reached inward. There — a humming beneath my skin. Warm and alive and waiting for direction.
I looked at the water jug on the counter. Gathered the threads. Aimed. Pushed. The jug exploded. Shards of clay and water sprayed across the room.
Too much.
I tried with a wooden cup. Gathered. Aimed. Pushed — gently. The cup shot off the counter and cracked against the far wall.
Still too much.
A spoon. Gathered the threads. Held them. Pushed with the barest whisper of intent. The spoon slid across the table and dropped off the edge.
Better. Still clumsy. Still imprecise. But the difference between the jug and the spoon was the difference between screaming and whispering, and I was learning where the volume lived.
I spent the next hour practicing. Moved everything that wasn’t breakable — spoons, a wooden bowl, a folded cloth, a boot Dietrich had left by the hearth.
Some I could nudge. Some I sent flying. Once I tried to move two things at once and the Forceweaving split and scattered and I couldn’t move either.
I was reaching for the boot again when a voice came from the doorway.
“Forgive me.”
I spun. The Forceweaving flared around my hands, crackling and unstable, half the threads already unravelling.
An old man stood in the open doorway, careful not to step inside. He held up both hands — palms out.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offered, dipping his head. “I was passing through these woods and heard a loud sound. Wanted to make sure no one was hurt.”
I stared at him, my heart slamming against my ribs. He couldn’t have come at a worse time, no door, no Dietrich, my Forceweaving spent from an hour of practice.
He was past fifty, maybe older, with silver threading through dark hair that hung past his collar.
Tall and broad through the chest and shoulders in a way that suggested he’d been powerful in his youth.
His clothes were worn but had been good quality once.
His face was weathered, lined around the eyes and mouth.
And he was staying outside. Just standing there in the snow like he understood the rules of threshold and invitation, even though there was no door to enforce them.
“I’m fine,” I assured him, holding the words steady by sheer will. “There was an accident. I’m not hurt.”
“That’s good.” He smiled slightly, keeping his hands visible. “Though that’s quite a sound for an accident.”
I said nothing. Dietrich was somewhere in the forest looking for wood. The doorway gaped between us with nothing to stop this man walking through.
He seemed to sense my wariness because he took a small step back.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he added, his tone apologetic. “Just an old traveller who’s been walking these woods too long. Saw smoke from your chimney and thought I might ask for some water.”
“You can have water,” I told him. “Stay there. I’ll bring it to you.”
“Of course.” He settled himself on the step outside the doorway. “I wouldn’t dream of entering uninvited.”
I filled a cup with unsteady hands. Closed the grimoire on the table. When I brought the water to the doorway, I kept several feet between us.
“Thank you kindly.” He took the cup with hands that shook. Drank deeply. “Bless you, child.”
I watched him. Something was bothering me about his face. Something familiar in the set of his eyes that tugged at a memory I couldn’t reach.
“You used to live in these woods?” I asked carefully.
“A long time ago,” he replied, handing the cup back. “Before things went wrong. Just passing through now.”
“Alone?”
“Always alone these days.” A heaviness settled behind his gaze. “Haven’t had company in more years than I care to count.”
“Are you hungry?” The question came out before I could stop it. “I have bread. Some dried meat.”
His face lit with gratitude. “I couldn’t impose ...”
“It’s not an imposition,” I cut in. “Stay there.”
I brought him bread and meat. He ate with the careful movements of someone who’d gone too long without food.
“You’re very kind,” he remarked between mouthfuls. “Especially a woman alone ...” He paused. “You are alone, aren’t you?”
“He’ll be back soon,” I blurted, the lie obvious even to my own ears.
“Ah.” Curiosity flickered across his face. “Well then. I should probably be on my way before he returns. Some men don’t take kindly to strangers near their women.”
The way he said their women made my skin prickle.
“What’s your name?” I pressed.
He paused mid-bite and looked at me for a long moment. “Does it matter?”
“I just gave you food and water. I think I deserve to know who I helped.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. A coldness crept into his expression which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Fair enough. You can call me Erik.”