Blood Sorcery (Cursed Descendants #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Broomstix

Salem, MA

“ W ho the hell am I kidding?” Stella Aldren slapped her hands down onto the dozens of legal documents and bank statements spread over her sales counter. “It’s too late.”

With a small adjustment to the corset she wore over her black lace dress, she turned toward the store window and stared out onto the sidewalk. It was late in the afternoon and nearing the end of October.

More than three weeks had passed since she’d discovered her very own father was the proverbial monster under the bed. The thing that went bump in the night. The source of so much misery and despair.

Worse, she was no closer to stopping his reign of terror, but she was only one week away from the bank foreclosing on Broomstix.

She’d invested all of the inheritance she’d received from her mother into her magic store. Losing Broomstix didn’t just mean the ruination of her mother’s legacy; it would be like losing her all over again.

Stella fiddled with her mother’s gold bracelet. These days, she rarely took it off, and she found comfort in rubbing her thumb back and forth across the two runes engraved in its surface.

After all her mother had done for her—both in life and now in death, providing her an invaluable tool for finding her father, the Collector—Stella couldn’t let Broomstix fall into the hands of some heartless, non-magical banker.

She also knew that her victory over her budget—should she achieve it—wouldn’t mean as much if she didn’t save the store on her own.

But should she accept Ethan’s financial offer anyway? Probably.

Was she being a stubborn idiot about it? More than one person would give a resounding “ yes .”

And yet, she had to try and do this on her own. Her mother hadn’t had a lot of time to teach her life lessons, but one that had stuck: if you make a mess, it’s your responsibility to clean it up.

Magnus Moseby—who, somewhere along the way, had turned into her teenaged sidekick—had already agreed to go from being a part-time employee to a volunteer, but there had to be something more she could cut from her budget. She’d already sold her crappy car last spring. Yesterday, she’d dumped every single one of her online subscriptions. She couldn’t cancel her cell phone service, so… Hmmm . How badly did she need to eat?

Izzy Jacobs gave her an exaggerated wave through the large display window, and Stella blinked, noticing her friend’s raised eyebrows.

Oops. She’d apparently been staring out the window, totally lost in her thoughts. She didn’t know for how long.

Stella waved back, made what she hoped was a self-deprecating smile, and asked, “Are you done?”

Izzy read Stella’s lips well enough through the window, and Stella did the same when Izzy’s mouth formed the shape of the word, “Almost.”

Izzy stepped aside as a group of people in Halloween costumes strolled down the sidewalk. It wasn’t an unusual sight. Halloween in Salem was an all-month affair.

Once the people passed, Izzy pulled her long frizzy hair into a ponytail and got back to work. She and Jade, Stella’s younger sister, had been standing outside the store for the last thirty minutes, replenishing the magic in the protective ward they’d put on the door.

They’d done the same thing to Ethan’s and Antoinette’s apartments in Boston, the wolf den, the homes of every member of the coven, and—just in case—even the home of their late high priestess’s non-magical widow.

When it came to the Collector—not to mention his gray, pasty zombie minions—they couldn’t be too careful.

A tuneless humming came from the back of the store, and Stella glanced toward the sound. Catherine Renaudin Mather, Ethan’s mother and a prophetic witch, sat in the reading chair by the end of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She wore a short denim skirt and a red cardigan. Her shoulder-length, gray-blond hair was tucked behind one ear, and she doodled on a notepad that was balanced on the chair’s upholstered arm.

Stella could guess what Catherine was writing. For weeks, she’d been doodling random numbers, zero through five, but for some reason always skipping the number four.

Stella would find the numbers written haphazardly on discarded napkins and slips of paper tucked into books, even once on a gum wrapper.

When Stella asked Catherine about the numbers, she said she didn’t know what they meant, only that—if she kept writing them down—their importance would become clear. Such was the frustratingly imprecise nature of prophetic magic.

It made Stella glad for her fire magic. It was more direct. When she lit something up, no one ever asked what she meant by it.

The door opened, making the little bell jingle, and Magnus strolled in. He tossed his head to get the thick shock of dark hair off his forehead, then announced himself. “And voilà . Magnus the Magnificent. In the flesh.”

He said this with a flourish of his hand that seemed uncharacteristically sarcastic.

Stella frowned. Magnus’s high school talent show was in two days, on Sunday afternoon. He’d been practicing his sleight of hand for weeks. “Did your dress rehearsal go okay?”

The twinkle that Stella was used to seeing in his green eyes dulled. “It’s just the Spirit Week talent show.”

“ Just a talent show?” Since when did he dismiss any opportunity to show-off his tricks? “That doesn’t sound like you.”

He shrugged.

“Magnus, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He strode past her. “Just…nothing.”

She twisted her body to watch him pass, then called after him. “Well, I for one look forward to seeing you perform.”

“You’re going to be there?” He turned, and his face brightened, though only a little.

Oh, god. Had the other kids been mean to him? Magnus wasn’t the most popular kid in school. He was too unique to be everyone’s cup of tea. But the thought of anyone dimming his light made Stella see red.

She tried to play it cool though. He was sixteen. He didn’t need her making a scene about it. “Of course I’ll be there. Ethan too.”

Magnus exhaled, and one corner of his mouth turned up. “Okay.”

“So…” she hedged. “How was school otherwise?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically while sliding his backpack off his shoulder. It hit the floor with a heavy thunk . “HoCo fallout. Shrapnel everywhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Stella quickly shuffled her financial documents into a neat stack and flipped them over before Magnus walked behind the counter. “And what does that mean?”

“The dance is only a week away, and half the couples broke up today. Too many tears. Whisper sessions around every corner. And they served meatball subs for lunch.”

“That’s bad?” Stella asked.

Magnus stashed his backpack under the counter. “Let’s just say the restrooms weren’t very pleasant.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s high school. Hi, Darren.” Magnus tapped on the terrarium where Stella’s indigo snake was curled up and snoozing.

“Don’t tap on the glass,” she said.

“He likes it.”

“No,” Stella said. “He tolerates it at best.”

“Darren likes me.”

“Not as much as Alice,” Stella said.

To prove her point, the little red chicken came barreling out of the utility room at the back of the store.

“Awww,” Magnus cooed. “Did you hear my voice?”

Alice must have realized she was revealing too much enthusiasm. She dropped out of her run, gathered herself, clucked once, then strutted sedately behind the counter where she pecked at Magnus’s shoelace.

Magnus scooped her up and kissed her neck.

“If you think you’ve got everything under control,” Stella said, picking up her paperwork, “I’m going to head upstairs to work on a few things.”

Magnus glanced around the depressingly empty store and deadpanned, “Yeah. I think I’ve got it.”

“Cool.” Stella climbed the stairs to the second story, then up the ladder to her attic apartment—an apartment she would lose if she lost the store. Her mortgage and her business loan were both in dire straits.

The apartment was a mess, as per usual. Her bed was unmade, and the floor was covered in stacks of clean laundry and out-of-season summer clothes that she’d boxed but had never gotten around to putting away.

There were even two plastic bins of family photographs that she’d been meaning to put in frames once life got back to normal.

Stella ducked under a rafter and deftly stepped over two piles of clothes until she reached her sewing area tucked into the alcove beneath the gable window. She moved her sewing machine to the side—briefly considered how much she could sell it for—then spread out her legal and financial documents.

One week.

One more week to fix the last two years of mediocre revenue, or there’d be an auctioneer here, selling off her inventory to the highest bidder, then taking bids on the building itself.

She had to imagine there’d be a ton of interest in colonial-era real estate, especially with the basic renovations she’d already done. It would likely sell for pennies on the dollar. All the bank cared about was recouping as much as it could. Bloodsuckers .

And it wasn’t like she could offer them an excuse for the last six months of delinquent payments. Tales of enemy covens, magical battles, demons, zombies, and time travelers weren’t likely to fly with the bank’s board of directors.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead on top of the paperwork, then gently bumping her skull against the sewing table. “Come on, Stella. Get it together.”

She sat up, and her gaze landed on the poppet she’d made of her father. It was constructed of black holographic vinyl, and it had wide, gray-button eyes, a thick head of hair made from silver silk threads, and she’d stretched out the face to represent his melted features—something that was no doubt the result of his immersion into blood magic.

Over the last few weeks, she’d even gone so far to embroider his initials—RG—on the poppet’s chest.

But the thing that really conducted the magic—for without it, the poppet was nothing more than a rag doll—was the single strand of her father’s real hair, tucked inside the poppet’s chest.

So now, the poppet was as powerful as it was going to get, and while it might not be enough to kill him, she hoped it would wound him enough to give them an advantage.

The next time she faced her father, he wouldn’t escape. She’d reconcile all the damage her bloodline had caused magickind.

“Knock, knock.”

Stella glanced over her shoulder as Ethan’s jet-black hair, then his perfectly defined profile appeared in the open hatch in the attic floor. He turned those mesmerizing navy-blue eyes in her direction and—God help her—she was weak for him.

How he always managed to turn her to Jell-O she did not know. It was one helluva good trick.

“‘Knock, knock’ to you too,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Getting close to dinnertime.”

“Already?”

“You must’ve been busy to lose track of time.” He picked his way across her messy floor without comment, then landed a kiss on her lips.

“Just going through my budget.”

He nodded. Again without comment, though she could see the frustration in his eyes. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t take him up on his offer. He was filthy rich. He could rectify her accounts and not even flinch.

Secretly, she wondered if maybe she would. But only if it came to that. Only if there was no other option. October was historically her best month for sales. There was still time.

“Have you heard from the wolves today?” he asked.

“Nothing except their daily update of ‘all’s well.’”

“ Hmmm ,” Ethan said.

“It has been eerily quiet, hasn’t it?” she said. “I was glad for the first couple days of peace, but now… What’s my father waiting for? If he means to get his revenge by killing every witch hunter, historical, modern, literal and otherwise?—”

“Kind of ironic, isn’t it,” Ethan said. “At this point, he’s the biggest witch hunter of all time.”

Stella drew in a breath. My god, he was right.

Ethan’s phone rang, and he checked the screen.

“Who is it?” Stella asked.

“It’s Doherty.”

Stella recognized the name of Ethan’s former campaign manager, Shawn Doherty. “What does he want?”

“Let’s find out.” Ethan answered the call, putting it on speaker. “Hey! What’s up?”

“Ethan!” Doherty said. “I can’t believe you’re picking up, man. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You too. You’re on speaker with me and Stella.”

“Ah,” Doherty said, doing nothing to mask his apparent disapproval that she was still in the picture.

Although he’d never said it, there was little doubt that Doherty blamed her for Ethan’s decision to drop out of the gubernatorial race.

Ethan met Stella’s eyes, and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. Well, at least one of them found it funny.

“I noticed you hadn’t RSVP’d to the Halloween Ball tomorrow,” Doherty said.

“Shit,” Ethan dragged his hand down over his face. “I’m sorry. I meant to send my regrets. I can’t go.”

“It’s for charity,” Doherty said.

“I know,” Ethan said.

“All the important players will be there. Judges—state and federal. The partners from all the top law firms. Members of the house and senate?—”

“I get it,” Ethan said firmly. “And I know. I attended last year, remember?”

“Which is why I thought you’d want to go again,” Doherty said.

Ethan sighed. “I suppose Terry Patterson will be there.”

Patterson had been Ethan’s opponent for the party’s nomination. Now, he’d won it and would soon be facing the current governor in the upcoming election.

“Of course he will,” Doherty said. “And it would be good for you to be seen in public if you’re ever going to resurrect your political future.”

“Do you really think I still have a future in politics?” Ethan asked, with just a hint of regret slipping into his voice.

It was something Stella hadn’t heard in a long time, and it gave her a sharp stab of pain in her heart. She really had upended his life.

Ethan turned toward the wall, aiming the phone away from Stella even though she could still hear everything.

“I’m hardly a party favorite anymore,” Ethan said. “I dropped out of a campaign that the polls said I was winning for undisclosed personal reasons. Hardly the behavior of a horse anyone would want to back.”

“Personal reasons, by the way, you still haven’t disclosed to me,” Doherty said with some annoyance.

Ethan didn’t acknowledge the jab out loud, but continued, saying, “The media had a frenzy with it.”

“True,” Doherty agreed, “until a bigger story came along. Thank god for celebrity sex tapes.”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said on an exhale. “You won’t be seeing me at the masquerade this year. Maybe next year.”

“Fine,” Doherty said with an exasperated sigh. “But let’s get a beer soon and catch up.”

“Soon,” Ethan promised and hung up. He turned to Stella with a smile that looked a little forced. “Hungry?”

“Always,” she admitted. “Are you sure you have an appetite?”

“I’m starved, and I know exactly what I need.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Pasquale’s.”

Pasquale’s? They hadn’t eaten at the Russo family’s Italian restaurant since June, back when Ethan was being pursued by not one but two covens, including her own. What a difference four months could make.

It would take them an hour to get into Boston at this time of day, maybe longer, but they probably wouldn’t have to wait for a table once they got there. Mr. Russo kept a private table in the kitchen that Ethan was always welcome to use.

“Sounds perfect. Just let me change.”

“You don’t want to wear a corset into Boston?” he asked.

“Not if I’m eating Italian, I don’t.”

Stella got into her most comfortable pair of jeans and an oversized men’s sweater she’d thrifted at the Fancy Flea, a vintage flea market in Marblehead. She left her mother’s bracelet on her wrist, then brushed her long auburn hair up into a high ponytail and swiped on some strawberry lip gloss.

Together, she and Ethan headed downstairs.

Magnus had already gone home for dinner. Now, Catherine was behind the counter, making another one of her number doodles, this time on a blank sales slip.

“Can you close the shop for me in thirty minutes?” Stella asked.

“Of course, dear.” Catherine looked up, then her lips parted, and her eyes took on a glassy, dreamlike expression. “Do you have the key?”

“To the store?” Stella asked. “It’s in the drawer to your right.”

Catherine’s head turned slowly toward the drawer. She opened it, but frowned at its contents. “Not that one. Do you have a round key?”

“Uh…no.” Stella looked up at Ethan and gave him a questioning glance. The key to her store was square.

He shrugged.

“Huh,” Catherine said, still staring down into the drawer, and her eyebrows knitted as if in deep concentration.

“So, you’ll lock up?” Stella asked.

Catherine’s head jerked up. She blinked those same navy-blue eyes she’d passed on to her son, then plastered on a smile. “Yes, of course. Didn’t I say that? I’m sorry.”

“No worries, Mom.” Ethan leaned over the sales counter and kissed her temple.

She patted his cheek. “All right now. You two have fun tonight. Just, please…for me… be careful .”