Chapter 12 Brynn
brYNN
“With ninety-seven percent of our spiritual power depleted, we need to get our hands dirty,” Chad announces like he's reading from some darkblood training manual.
“Yeah, well, Grandma Esther nearly flatlined when that overgrown lizard took Esme,” I mutter. “Can't we just borrow juice from the other covens? Last I checked, Darkbirch doesn't have a monopoly on death magic.”
“We're the biggest, but not the only target,” he says without looking back.
“The clearbloods will be hunting all of us.
If we drain the smaller covens dry, they're sitting ducks. Corvin suggested tapping into the deeper veil, but Reinhardt vetoed that faster than your sister could start a bar fight.”
He snorts and shakes his head like that's the dumbest idea ever.
“‘The deeper veil’ would be a reckless bet. Just like begging the little covens for their power reserves,” I retort.
Chad pauses mid-stride. “Why not? The afterlife is a bottomless pit of spiritual energy,” he counters.
I laugh, sharp and dry. “Did you nap through four years of Spiritual Mastery? Or do you just skip the chapter on postmortem power dynamics?”
He swings around so fast I almost collide with him. His glare is surgical. “Is that your subtle way of calling me ignorant, Brynn?”
I shrug, casual. “If the shoe fits. Because if you’d paid attention, you’d recall that every darkblood scholar agrees: afterlife energy is volatile, unstable. Totally untested. We have no clue how spirits shift once they pass on.”
Chad’s eyes narrow. My heart kicks up. He stays silent. Perfect—time to drive it home.
“The afterlife’s supposed to be eternal peace, Chad. Who knows what horrors we unleash by trying to yank souls back to animate our wards? And don’t even mention offensive spells. That’s a whole extra vat of juice.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. I lose ground, but I knew this was coming.
“And that, Brynn,” he drawls as he resumes walking, “is why we drill at midnight. Why we resurrect the brutal trials. The greatest darkblood witches were forged in catastrophe.”
I mutter under my breath, “Well, count me out.”
He doesn’t pause. “Don’t take it personally. I’d rather not be paired with you, either.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs. “You’re what my circles call a lesser Salem.”
My blood simmers. A rune flickers in my mind—just a drop of my own blood and I could paralyze him for days, then toy with him until the curse lifts.
“How dare you,” I snap, every muscle twitching, already imagining the rune’s shape dancing on the wall beside us.
Chad shoulders through the training hall's double doors like they're made of cardboard.
Great. On second thought, one rune probably wouldn't cut it for him.
And I'd need to get close enough to prick him for his own blood, too, which seems about as likely as Grandma Esther joining a clearblood yoga retreat.
He laughs—actually laughs—at my death glare. “Relax, Brynn. No need to go all Salem-psycho on me. I'm just repeating what everyone said when they heard we were paired up. 'Poor Chad got stuck with the lesser Salem.'”
“And who exactly is 'everyone'?” My fingers twitch with the urge to trace the rune on his stupid face.
I’m really starting to think like my sister. Two weeks ago I was organizing the library's necromancy section alphabetically. Now I'm fantasizing about hexing people?
Chad claps his hands like some theatrical villain, and the torches ignite around us, washing everything in golden light.
Through the ceiling's massive window, the moon watches our little midnight drama.
“Truth is, I was hoping for your cousin Nyv.
Now there's a witch with potential. But you?” He eyes me like I'm a disappointing book review.
“Bookworms don't survive what's coming.”
“Yet here you are, stuck 'mentoring' me. Are we done with the insult marathon?”
“It's not an insult if it's true.” His voice is infuriatingly calm. “Face it, Brynn. You'd rather be alphabetizing grimoires than standing here with me.” Was he watching me two weeks ago?
I cross my arms. “No shit. I'd rather be anywhere else.”
“You'd rather be looking for Esme?”
“You're damn right I would!” My voice suddenly cracks.
“Unfortunately, that's not an option for you,” he replies. “What happened at Heathborne exceeds your capacity to react and respond, at least for the time being. Which is why we need to train.”
I hate it when Chad makes sense. It's like finding a perfectly organized index in an otherwise garbage textbook. Mom's lecture from earlier sinks deeper into my brain, like one of those earworms from the clearblood radio stations Esme secretly listens to.
“I take issue with Darkbirch's decisions of late,” I say, recrossing my arms because the first cross clearly wasn't emphatic enough.
“You don't trust their judgment.”
“I don't trust their ability to gather accurate intel. Like, hello? Heathborne has had an actual dragon in there for how long? And we didn't know? That's like missing a basilisk in the bathroom. Doesn't it reek of incompetence to you?”
He offers that smirk, the one that says I've almost solved the equation but missed a variable. I'd bristle at the condescension, but it's like when Professor Mortimer lets you figure out which poisonous herb you've misidentified before you accidentally kill yourself.
“Would you like my honest opinion?” he asks.
“Isn't brutal honesty your default mode? You sure love using it to piss me off.”
Chad's face does that annoying thing where he looks both smug and serious at the same time. “I don't think Darkbirch was actually clueless about Heathborne. They had an idea of what was up, just not all the specifics. Classic need-to-know basis BS.”
Wait. What? I blink at him, momentarily forgetting to glare. It's possibly the first time he's said something that doesn't make me want to hex his teeth out. “That's straight-up conspiracy theory territory. Corvin would have an aneurysm.”
“I’m pretty sure Corvin would’ve been in on it too. It's just my theory.” He shrugs those ridiculous shoulders. “They sent Esme to find whatever magic hurt Jax. If they'd told her 'hey, we think there's a dragon,' she might've missed something else important. In hindsight? Not the worst plan.”
“Wow,” I snort. “Took you all of five seconds to defend the people who basically fed my sister to a dragon.”
Chad's expression hardens. “Brynn, we can waste time playing detective, or we can prepare for the clearbloods to come at us with everything they've got. They caught our people inside. And honestly? That 'dragon' probably saved your sister from being tortured to death.”
Ugh. I hate when Chad makes actual sense while being a complete ass about it. We're like some toxic relationship case study waiting to happen.
“Now quit whining and prove me wrong,” he adds.
I narrow my eyes. “About what exactly?”
His smile is all teeth. “They don't call you the lesser Salem for nothing.”
My pulse goes haywire. Something hot and thick clogs my throat as I square my shoulders and glare up at him. Chad godsdamned Valgrave with his stupid perfect jawline thinks I'm not Salem enough to take him on? Like hell.
I didn't choose books over bloodshed because I couldn't hack it. I chose them because I wanted to. Because unlike the rest of my family, I don't get off on watching people bleed.
Fine. Whatever. Let's get this over with.
Chad struts to the center of the training hall like he owns it. “Ready?”
“Just FYI, my specialty is more in the fields of healing and research,” I say, flexing my fingers. “You know, spell modifications? The boring stuff that actually saves lives?”
“And just FYI, I don't give a rat's ass.”
Chad's lips twitch into that stupid smirk. One second I'm thinking about how much I'd enjoy slapping him, and the next—a blood droplet is flying at me. The bastard didn't even flinch when he cut himself.
The droplet morphs mid-air, crimson catching the torchlight as it sharpens into something wicked and blade-like. It slices toward my shoulder, but I stumble sideways. It splashes against the stone floor, leaving a gross little puddle that'll probably stain.
Chad flashes his little metal dagger like he's so clever. “Always be ready to use your blood as a weapon.”
“How original.”
“Yet I almost sliced through your subclavian artery.”
I glance down at my shoulder, half-expecting to see blood.
“It runs just below your clavicle,” Chad says with that condescending mentor face. “Didn't they teach you basic anatomy during combat training? Elder Farrow's mandatory twice-yearly seminar?”
My cheeks burn. “I know where it is. And I was present at the seminar—even if my brain wasn’t.”
“Another one's happening Friday. Check the bulletin board,” he says. “You will attend. And maybe try staying awake this time.”
“I’ve never needed combat training to memorize artery names, okay? Some of us had actual career plans that didn't involve stabbing people.”
“Yeah, well.” His eyes harden. “Times have changed.”
I cross my arms. “So what other inadequacies would you like to point out? My inability to recite the periodic table of death? Or my failure to memorize 'Modern Dissection Techniques for the Vengeful Mind'?”
Chad steps closer. “The point of the anatomy seminar is knowing where to strike for maximum damage. Hit an artery, and your target bleeds out. Fast or slow, depends which one. Blood spells are perfect when you're cornered without fancy weapons.”
“There are curses and hexes too,” I mutter.
“Which take time and ingredients. Blood projectiles? Quick and dirty. You do know the incantation, right?”
I exhale. “I'm not magically illiterate, Valgrave. I can spell-check your ass six ways to Sunday.”
“Then hit me with one. Come on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Try to hit me.” His mouth quirks up with that insufferable Valgrave smugness. “I won't even move. Scout's honor.”