Chapter 11 Brynn
brYNN
It's been five days, seven hours, and approximately twenty-three minutes since a freaking dragon—an actual, scales-and-fire, nightmare-inducing dragon—snatched my sister right out of Heathborne.
Not the metaphorical kind from my Mythical Beasts and Where They Hide textbook, but a massive obsidian monstrosity with wings that blotted out the moon.
I've reread every dragonology text in the Darkbirch library twice.
None of them prepared me for the smell of sulfur that still clings to my clothes or the way my hands haven't stopped shaking.
“He's going to get better,” Mom says, her voice too steady.
We're sitting beside what I refuse to call Jax's grave.
“Deep sleep chamber” is the technical term, though I've been calling it his “dirt nap” in my notes. Below us, my brother lies wrapped in ancestral spirits, still healing from whatever arcane bullshit those Heathborne assholes hit him with. It’s taking much longer than any of us hoped for.
“Spectacular timing,” I mutter, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Jax is practically Esme's twin in everything but birth order. He'd have tracked her in half the time it'll take Corvin's team. And now he's—”
“Alive,” Mom cuts in, her frown deepening the lines around her mouth. “Like Esme. If she'd passed, her spirit would've returned home. She's too stubborn for anything else.”
“Yeah, well.” I swallow hard. “She's probably terrorizing her captors as we speak. Classic Esme—punching first, asking questions never.”
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, reading reports and pretending Corvin's “specialized team” isn't moving at glacial speed.
There's something else brewing in Darkbirch—whispers in the corridors, conversations that stop when I enter rooms. Whatever Heathborne was experimenting with has the elders spooked, and nobody's telling the bookworm anything useful.
I glance at Mom, who's been staring at the same patch of dirt for twenty minutes. “How're you holding up?”
She gives me that smile—the one that doesn't reach her eyes.
The midnight moon catches on her cheekbones, making her look like some haunted museum piece.
Her funeral-chic dress is all Salem matriarch drama: black satin cinched at the waist, lace cascading over cemetery grass like she's posing for Darkblood Monthly.
“I'm still here, waiting to see my children gathered around the dinner table again,” she says calmly. “It's a matter of when, not if.”
“Your optimism is adorable,” I murmur.
I was annoyed when I learned we sent practically all our spirits to Heathborne after Esme, but now it doesn’t feel like we’re doing enough.
“Feels like we're sitting on our asses while Esme is gods-know-where. The coven should be mobilizing more than just Corvin's B-team now. If we’ve any chance of getting her back, we should be hunting that dragon with everything we can.”
“Corvin and Director Reinhardt are gathering intelligence on Heathborne,” Mom replies. “The clearbloods were damaged that night, but they're still dangerous. With our cover blown, we're looking at retaliation.”
“All the clearbloods ever needed was an excuse to declare war. Again.” I dig my fingernails into my palm. “But seriously, Mom—a DRAGON took Esme!”
“We don't know where the creature went.” Mom exhales.
“They've been 'searching for tracks' for days,” I make air quotes, “and we've got jack shit to show for it.”
Mom ticks off facts like she's reading from one of my research journals. “Southwest trajectory. Heathborne in lockdown. Clearbloods hiding a dragon that went rogue. Magic signature matching what fried Jax's nervous system. And—” she pauses for emphasis, “—it took Esme alive. Wanted her that way.”
I dig my fingers into the cold dirt above where Jax's head must be, like I could somehow transmit my thoughts directly to his comatose brain. The night sky stretches black as a chalkboard, stars scattered like someone flicked a wand carelessly. The moon hangs there, judging me.
I clench my jaw, pushing my nails deeper into the dirt.
“If our situations were reversed, Esme wouldn't be sitting here playing cemetery gardener.
She'd have already hexed half the continent trying to find me, probably burned down Heathborne for good measure, and be halfway to wherever that scaly bastard took me.”
Mom gives me this look—the one that says she's about to drop some Salem matriarch wisdom bomb. She tilts her head that quarter-inch that always precedes psychological dissection. “You two are almost polar opposites.”
“Um, yeah? That's like saying grimoires and grenades serve different purposes.”
“She's been punching her way through problems since she could make a fist. Resilient. Hard-headed. Ambitious.” Mom's eyes narrow. “But so are you.”
I snort. “Pretty sure you just contradicted yourself there.”
“Different weapons, same war. Esme's the witch who'll kick down the door and hex everyone inside. You're the one who'll spend three days finding the architectural weakness, then collapse the whole building with a single spell. Salem blood runs through you both.”
“We used to build forts in the cemetery when we were kids...”
Mom gives me her patented “I see your weakness” look. “Perhaps that's why you're so determined to go after her instead of letting Corvin and Director Reinhardt do their job.”
“Oh please. I'm determined because she's my sister. Your daughter, might I add. Why aren't you losing your mind over this?”
She glances down at Jax's dirt nap. “I'm spread thinner than grimoire pages, darling.
But let's be crystal clear—going after Esme means going after a dragon.
A. Dragon. Not some clearblood you can outsmart with a clever hex.
I've got one kid in a magical coma and another kidnapped by a mythological nightmare. The last thing I need is you becoming dessert for a fire-breather.”
“Well, I can’t just sit here doing nothing. Plus, bonus—I'll escape before the elders unleash their new trial system. We need someone actually doing something, not more stupid trials for darkbloods to trip through.”
“Those trials produced our coven's greatest witches, including Helena,” Mom counters with that history-teacher tone. “Their return isn't coincidence. Dark times, etcetera.”
“I'm not a fighter, Mom. I belong in a library, not trials.”
“And you definitely don't belong solo-hunting a dragon. We have protocols. Trust the coven.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might fall out. “I'm not interested in your precious trials, but I can be useful with books and spells. I've been modifying ancient runes and—”
“Brynn.”
“Fine,” I sigh, shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon. Here comes the loyalty lecture. Duty to Darkbirch. Blah blah. Same speech, different cemetery visit.
Whatever. I was perfectly content with my nose buried in dusty tomes while Esme played assassin. But then this happened.
Mom fixes me with that Salem-matriarch stare. “Finding Esme is paramount. But you said it yourself—you're not a fighter. You'd be stumbling around like a drunk tourist in the dark, hunting an ancient fire-breathing nightmare we barely understand.”
“That's literally what libraries are for,” I counter, picking at my chipped blue nail polish. “Pretty sure there are a few books that could help me, somewhere between 'Blood Rituals' and 'How Not to Die Horribly.'”
“You lack field experience,” she says in her this-isn't-a-debate voice. “The trials aren't optional. They'll sharpen your blood magic for whatever danger comes next—because trust me, that dragon's just the appetizer. The clearbloods are already sharpening their pitchforks.”
“I know, I know, they'll retaliate.” I exhale. “Hunt us like it's Salem 1692: The Sequel.”
“And bookworm or not, you're getting drafted,” Mom says. “All hands on deck, no exceptions. You can't help Esme by getting yourself barbecued. Help her by stepping up. That's why you have a mentor.”
My skin crawls. The thought of that smug asshole “mentoring” me makes me want to dig a hole next to Jax and pull the dirt over both of us.
Mom's logic is annoyingly sound. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
I've dodged the Salem family drama for years—hiding in library corners while Esme was out being Darkblood Barbie: Assassination Edition. If she hadn't gotten dragon-napped, I'd still be happily drowning in dusty tomes instead of... this.
“I don't need a mentor. I need—”
“That's ENOUGH.” Mom's voice cracks like a whip. She never loses her cool, which makes this ten times worse. “We all have our parts to play, Brynn, however shitty the script. Yours is training. The coven needs you. Your family needs you.”
Yeah, well, Esme is my family too.
Footsteps crunch behind us, and I turn to see three figures emerging from the greenhouse like some goth family portrait. Black and red uniforms, dark hair, those trademark Salem smoky grays—genetic lottery I see in my bathroom mirror every morning.
“Uncle Edwin,” I mutter, while Mom stands.
Nyv and Ridge nod at me with that twin-telepathy thing they do.
Gods, Nyv is nearly Esme 2.0—same killer curves, almost the same killer instincts, but with extra clearblood genocide enthusiasm.
Ridge is like someone took Jax and pumped him full of protein shakes and testosterone. Dude's biceps have biceps.
Edwin approaches, face grim. “Defense shield inspection's done.”
“Status?” Mom's arms fold across her chest.
“Holding on by a thread.” His eyes drift to the fresh dirt covering Jax, and something in my ribcage constricts.
We had to strip most of the darkblood spirits from Jax’s healing cocoon to try to reinforce the coven’s spirit wall, because our clearblood “protectors” are really just pissed-off ghosts doing time as barrier filler.
Darkblood spirits are essential for keeping those trapped souls in check, and our boundary reliable.
No wonder Jax’s recovery crawls at a snail's pace.
Edwin gives Mom his best funeral director face. “How are you holding up?”