Chapter 11 Brynn #2
“I've got my son to look after. I keep busy,” Mom says in her I'm-fine-but-not-really voice.
Nyv won't stop staring at me like I'm some fascinating lab specimen. “So, our cousin Esme got rowdy with a dragon, huh? Leave it to her to rediscover ancient species, I suppose.”
“Any word at all?” Ridge asks, all concerned puppy eyes.
Of course he's worried. He and Esme were practically joined at the hip growing up. While they were out here playing blood-magic-tag in the cemetery, Jax trailing after them like a lost duckling, I was holed up with my books. Call me crazy, but necromancy summer camp never made my bucket list.
“Not yet,” Mom says. “But we're hopeful.”
“We're 'hopeful' as in we're doing nothing but since the dragon didn't immediately barbecue her, we're pretending we have a chance,” I snap, anger finally bubbling up.
Mom shoots me her shut-it-down glare. “Your uncle and cousins are here to assist. Keep your brother company while I talk to them.”
“Mom, Jax is in a literal coma. What am I supposed to do, read him bedtime stories?”
The look she gives me could freeze hell. Not magic—just pure Mom-force. Soft until she's not, and right now she's definitely not. Fine. She's dealing with a lot, I get it. I'll play nice. For now.
Uncle Edwin gives me a smirk that tries to be comforting. “Don't worry, Brynn. Esme's a firecracker. Probably giving that dragon heartburn as we speak.”
“Come, Ed. We should talk,” Mom says, herding my relatives back toward our creepy-ass lodge.
Every window glows with candles—dozens of them—while moths kamikaze themselves against the glass.
Super on-brand for the Salems: when someone's missing, light a million fire hazards and hope they find their way home. Like a supernatural airport runway.
I stare down at the patch of grass where my brother isn't quite dead. My heart does this weird flutter thing.
“Can you hear me in there, Jax?” I whisper, feeling stupid talking to dirt. “I know, I know—magical coma, healing trance. But sometimes I swear I can feel you listening. Like you're trapped in the world's worst game of charades.”
If Jax were conscious, he'd already be halfway to Dragon Central with a backpack full of hexes and a middle finger to protocol.
He's kind of Esme 2.0, too, just with less cleavage and more dad jokes.
He'd probably summon our half-dead grandmother Esther from whatever magical limbo she's stuck in, consequences be damned.
Mom knows it too.
Meanwhile, I'm supposed to play by the rules? Be the good little witch? Take remedial ass-kicking classes with Chad McPerfectHair?
“It's like they want me to be her replacement model here...”
Hot tears suddenly streak down my face, which is just fantastic. Nothing says “powerful darkblood” like sobbing in a cemetery. My chest feels like it's housing a small nuclear reaction. I could never be Esme, even if I wanted to. She’s irreplaceable.
Part of me wants to say screw it—she was confident enough to take on a mission with unknown parameters, she can claw her way out.
But... a dragon. Not some clearblood with a god complex.
A literal fire-breathing, village-eating monster from the bedtime stories that gave me nightmares until I was twelve. How the hell do you ghost a dragon?
How will she ever make it back to us?
A throat clears behind me. “Didn't peg you for the weepy type, Salem.”
I whirl around, nearly tripping over my own feet. Great. Chad-freaking-Valgrave, because this night wasn't already a dumpster fire. He's standing there with his arms crossed over his chest like some CW heartthrob, his coven uniform stretching across shoulders that should require a building permit.
“What are you doing here?” I wipe my face with my sleeve, hoping it's too dark for him to see the mascara tracks.
“It's a cemetery. Public space.”
“It's our cemetery. Salem's lot. Scram.”
Chad takes a step closer instead, because of course he does. Personal boundaries? Never heard of 'em.
“We can't postpone your training forever,” he says, like we're discussing a dentist appointment.
“It's literally midnight. Can’t your motivational torture wait a few more hours?”
His mouth twitches. Gods, even his smirk is symmetrical. What, did the universe run out of flaws when it made him?
“Couldn't help overhearing your little family drama,” he says.
“Oh, so you were eavesdropping. Classy.”
“Call it strategic reconnaissance.” He shrugs, all casual, like we're discussing the weather instead of my sister's dragon abduction.
“Just trying to figure out how the Salem gene pool produced.
.. well, you. Your siblings are practically death magic prodigies, and then there's—” he gestures vaguely at my entire existence “—whatever this is.”
I lower my gaze, heat crawling up my neck like some kind of demonic rash. “I don't have to explain myself to you, Valgrave.”
“I'm just trying to understand.”
“Mom was too busy making sure Esme and Jax didn't turn each other into corpse confetti while we were growing up. Which gave me plenty of time to hide in the library with actual books instead of, you know, practicing how to liquefy someone's organs. There's your Salem family recap. Happy now?”
He cocks his head to the side. “There's a killer in you, Brynn.”
“Yeah, and there's a unicorn in my left nostril.”
“There is. And I will make her come out and join us.”
“Wow. That's not creepy at all. Why would you even want to?”
“Because we need her. Dark times ahead. All hands on deck. I don't have to repeat Reinhardt's speech again—”
“For the love of all that is unholy, please don't.” I roll my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain. “If I have to hear that motivational garbage one more time—”
“Then come on.”
“Come on, where?”
“Enough moping about your sister. We've got training to do.”
I stare at him, jaw practically unhinged.
Meanwhile, Chad's just standing there looking like a recruitment poster for Hot Darkbloods Monthly.
For a split second, I actually feel like my sister—homicidal.
I wonder if I could just snap his stupid perfect neck like a breadstick.
Probably not. That's one thick neck. Bet he has to special-order turtlenecks.
“Hello? Earth to Brynn?” he waves a hand, one eyebrow doing that annoying arch thing.
I grimace. “There's no escaping this torture session, is there?”
“Your midnight training? No. Our blood runs thickest at night.”
“That's literally just something they tell baby witches so they'll go to bed.”
“But the moon does juice our magic,” Chad insists, “and we need every advantage for those trials.”
“So basically, the only way to get rid of you is to train with you. Right now.”
“Exactly.”
Joy.