Chapter 9
Julia
Is the binding spell making Hannah more delicious and addictive? Or am I just now realizing how hard it is to have restraint?
She’s quiet as she shivers behind me, unaware of what I’m about to do. Fog clings to the surrounding trees, their gnarled branches dark splotches against the cloudy sky.
She was so pliant beneath my hands, responding like Charlotte did in the beginning.
This sweet, innocent young woman has no idea what she’s inviting in.
Perhaps I should feel guilty about the pleasure I take in watching her discover these desires.
But a sanguine witch shouldn’t feel guilty about ruining what she touches, just like ivy doesn’t grieve for the tree it strangles.
The fresh power settles into my bones, warm and satisfying. It’s still pitiful compared to a full feeding, but it’s enough for some basic earth magic and a complex spell or two.
I crouch before Florence’s headstone, brushing my palm over the cold, wet grass. The faint remnants of her magic rise through the earth, still there after all these years.
“What are you doing?” Hannah asks in a high voice, shuffling her feet. I’m too aware of her after that feeding—her shivering body, her hands tucked into her sleeves, the breath misting from her lips.
I extend a hand toward the headstone, and with a sharp crack, a jagged piece breaks off. “Necromancy.”
Hannah gasps. “Absolutely not.”
I look back at her, exasperated. “Your moral compass is exhausting.”
“Your lack of one is terrifying!”
I sigh and pick up the broken piece of marble. “How would you have me ask the dead about my coven, then? Perhaps send a formal invitation to commune? This is our only lead, and we need to follow it.”
“There has to be another way besides raising a dead body!”
I laugh, the sound carrying into the trees. “I’m not about to raise a corpse. This is a simple bone reading.”
“Oh.” Hannah crosses her arms. “But that’s not much better. You’re still desecrating a grave like some kind of—”
“Monster?” I finish, fixing her with a glare that silences her. “We’ve established what I am, pet. Either accept it or walk away.” I pause, letting the words settle. “Ah, but you can’t, can you?”
Hannah stiffens. “Don’t call me pet.”
“Would you prefer darling? Sweetheart?”
She looks away, and even the darkness can’t hide her flush. “How about Hannah?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She snarls. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. But you want to.”
Before she can protest again, I raise the marble and draw it sharply across my palm. Crimson wells up in the shallow cut.
The sting of the blade is strangely comforting—a sensation I can control, unlike everything else spiraling around me.
Hannah is frozen behind me. “But what if someone sees?”
“I’ll make haste,” I snap. “Now be quiet.”
She covers her mouth, hands still inside her sleeves. Her rapid breaths become muffled.
Satisfied, I return my attention to the grave and let my blood drip onto the ground, the dark drops sinking into the earth.
The air shifts, becoming thicker, charged with a power that makes my hair stand on end.
“Ossa surgant, spiritus loquatur.” I press both hands to the cold grass. “Kwan, surge et responde.”
The incantation tears through me, consuming the magic I just gained. Necromancy is a ravenous art.
The grave trembles. Hannah must be backing away because the binding spell tightens its hold on my ribs, distracting me. How irritating that her proximity comforts me. Normally, being close to someone is anything but comforting.
The earth splits apart with a deep rumble, releasing the putrid scent of decay.
Hannah lets out a squeak, and the grass shuffles as she steps back further.
Pale particles rise from the jagged crack—bone dust. It swirls around us, catching the moonlight, and I breathe it in, letting Florence’s essence fill my lungs.
“Ohmygod,” Hannah says into her hands. “Is that— You’re really— This is the worst day of my life.”
“Memorias revela,” I command, my voice growing stronger as the necromantic energy builds. “Show me your bloodline.”
The bone dust settles on my skin like snow, and the world around me dissolves.
I’m standing in a dimly lit space filled with sultry music.
Cigarette smoke curls through amber light, and the stuffy air tastes like whiskey and perfume.
The floorboards beneath my feet are sticky with spilled drinks.
Behind a mahogany bar, a woman moves gracefully, her black hair long and shiny, wearing a red dress that hugs her curves.
When she turns, it’s Florence’s eyes staring back at me, the same warm brown I looked at across coven circles for decades.
The vision shimmers and shifts, and the interior changes.
The smoke clears, and the brass instruments fade.
Piano music fills the room instead, and behind the bar, a different woman is serving drinks.
She has the same smile, the same eyes. It shifts again, moving through time, through Florence’s descendants.
Above the bar, painted in red letters, are the words The Crimson Moon.
Finally, a location. A thread to follow.
But the image is already crumbling at the edges, turning to ash before it can show me what the place looks like now.
“Show me more,” I whisper. I push harder, drawing on what little power remains, trying to anchor the vision. I need a street, a face, a name. Where is this establishment? What is the name of the person I’m looking for?
But the vision continues to fragment, leaving me grasping at the faint outline of red letters.
“Damn it all.”
Darkness pushes through, and in my next breath, the shattered pieces dissipate like mist. I’m back in the dark cemetery, cold air biting my skin.
Dampness seeps through my trousers where I’m kneeling on the wet grass.
The bone dust falls to the earth, leaving a gritty residue on my tongue.
I turn my head and spit away from the grave, then wipe my brow, where sweat beads along my hairline.
“Hurry and fix it before someone sees,” Hannah whispers.
I’m vibrating, my heart pounding hard. Necromancy always takes its toll, but this felt more draining. I’m surviving on insufficient power, and my body knows it.
Pressing my cut palm against my cloak to stanch the bleeding, I sweep my other hand over the earth, settling it back to what it was.
Hannah lets out a breath, glancing around. “What did you see?”
I labor to my feet, drained. “Florence’s descendants. I don’t know how many she has or who we’re looking for, but we need to find a saloon called The Crimson Moon.”
“A saloon? You mean like a bar?”
I wave a hand. How should I know what people call them these days?
“Let me see…” Hannah pulls that rectangular device from her pocket, the one she used earlier for light. Her thumbs move across its surface, and it glows to life.
I step closer to peer over her shoulder. “What is this?”
“Phone.” As she taps it, symbols and images appear on the glowing surface as if by magic. “The Crimson Moon… Yeah, here it is. It’s a short bus ride away.”
“What? How do you know?”
She casts me a small smile. “It’s called the internet. It’s like…a network of information.”
I squint suspiciously at it, which makes Hannah laugh. It’s a pleasant sound, especially in the gloom of the graveyard.
As we walk back to the road, she says, “Phones have come a long way since your time. It can show me maps of anywhere in the world, take pictures, play music, and you can share status updates with all your friends…”
“More powerful than most grimoires,” I say.
She smiles again, and my own cheeks tug in response.
Back on the bus, I steal glances at her profile in the passing lights, taking in the way she worries at her lip, the way her hair shines in the street lamps, the delicacy of her nose and jawline, her even skin. There’s something simple and lovely about her.
I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the building heat as I remember the press of her body against mine and the rapid flutter of her pulse under my fingers. The little sounds she made, breathy and desperate… It’s like she was discovering something about herself she’d never known before.
And given what Charlotte always told me, that’s probably exactly what’s happening. I’ve shown Hannah how good it feels to be fed on.
Charlotte was never shy about telling me how much she liked it.
The games we made of the feeding rituals were better than anything in the world.
I used to push her limits, testing what sounds I could draw from her and how much I could make her lose control.
I can see her clearly in my mind’s eye, spread naked beneath me, her pale skin flushed, her blonde curls spilling across my pillow, that beautiful mouth begging me for more.
I recall sliding my fingers beneath her skirts, and her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer as I took what I needed while giving her everything she craved.
But now it’s Hannah I see—those blue eyes darkening with desire, her warm-gold hair tangling across the pillow, her pale skin flushed pink.
She’s clutching me as I show her pleasure she never dreamed possible, her lips parted as she begs for more instead of fighting not to make a sound.
I can almost feel her soft skin against mine, almost taste her essence.
I’m drinking her in, draining her, tasting whether her skin is as sweet as her life force, until…
I dig my nails into my palm, using the sharp pain to push those thoughts away. I can’t let Hannah’s feedings end like Charlotte’s did. My own life depends on my ability to have restraint with her.
This girl is a temporary inconvenience. I’ve lived my whole life without needing anyone, and I’m not about to start caring for some fragile non-witch who will be gone from my life by sunrise.