Chapter 25 Brynn
brYNN
The second I step inside, my insides turn to ice water.
The room's trying to play it cool—just your average creeptastic study with shelves lining the walls.
But then you notice the marbles. Hundreds of them.
Perfect little glass spheres scattered across every surface, black candles burning between them, throwing these trippy rainbow fragments everywhere.
Dust motes dance through the light show and there are no windows.
And center stage: a massive tombstone squatting in the middle of a pentagram drawn with blood.
“Holy smokes,” I choke out, my eyes landing on the name carved into the stone.
“That's—”
“Dominic Merlin's tomb,” Corvin cuts Chad off, because heaven forbid Chad finish a sentence. “One of the first darkbloods during the Schism. Darkbirch founder. Etcetera etcetera.”
I jab a finger at the pentagram. “That's not standard-issue blood magic.”
“Because it's not finished,” Corvin says, circling the tomb. “Look, here's the deal: Darkbirch runs on spirit juice from our cemetery. Powers our defenses, important attack spells. But our grid's still damaged, and even when it's fixed, it won't cut it for what's coming.”
“What's coming?” My voice sounds tiny even to me.
Chad jumps in, all serious business. “Clearbloods are plotting something big. That dragon experiment is just the appetizer. They want us extinct so they can sleep better at night.”
Which, okay, I get. Clearbloods are scared of us.
We're scared of them. Tale as old as time.
Our elders just find it easier to paint them as the mustache-twirling villains in this story.
But if we're really heading into another full-blown war, I'd rather not be on the team that gets their asses handed to them.
“So what's the plan with Merlin's tomb?” I ask.
Corvin stops to look at me. “What do you know about him?”
“One of the first darkbloods, like you said. During the Schism, he went full spirit-nerd and basically invented our whole magical system.” I tap the edge of the tombstone with my boot.
“Dude figured out how to juice up his magic by sweet-talking ancient spirits.
Hence why we're not just regular witches with daddy issues—we're darkbloods with daddy issues and ghost friends.”
Corvin's eye twitches. “And what do you know about “crossing over”?”
“About as much as anyone with a pulse,” I reply with a shrug. “It’s supposed to lead to a spiritual place beyond the world that we know of. Darkbirch’s spirits haven’t crossed over, choosing to stay with us, to power our grid and to protect the generations to come.”
“Dominic Merlin's spirit is not in our grid,” Chad adds, like he's dropping some mind-blowing revelation.
Corvin gives him a flat smile. “Attaboy. Merlin never moved on, either.”
“So where'd he go? Spiritual sabbatical?” It makes me think of my dad, who’s been a sore spot between Esme and me since we were kids.
She'd get all teary-eyed and say, “He chose to cross over because he preferred it to being around us.” Meanwhile, I'd be like, “No way, he's just lost in the spirit world somewhere, trying to find his way back.” Classic Salem sister drama.
“If Merlin didn't cross over to the afterlife, that is...” I add for Corvin.
“I suppose you're both familiar with our mythology regarding the Ides,” Corvin says, all professor-y.
“The lost souls?” My eyebrows scrunch up.
“Yeah, they're basically the cosmic equivalent of that one person who gets super drunk at a party and wanders off into the woods.
Except forever. Just spirits floating around in their own personal hell-bubbles, going slowly nuts because they can't talk to anyone. Ever. For eternity.”
Corvin nods. “Spirits that wander the world. In and out of consciousness. Lost. Probably maddened by immortality spent in isolation. Disconnected from each other; a purgatory per spirit.”
So basically, if you're a spirit with commitment issues who ditches your coven's grid but also doesn't cross over, you're screwed.
Kind of like the clearblood spirits we trapped in our barriers.
But the Ides faced eternal solitary confinement.
Even I wouldn't wish that on Chad, and he once made me run laps until I puked.
I shake my head. “I've done seances outside the coven walls, and I've never bumped into an Ide. They're basically unreachable.”
“Unreachable with that attitude.” Corvin's finger traces the edge of the blood pentagram.
“This spell requires a series of—let's just say challenging trials. A darkblood must prove their worth.” He gently taps the tombstone.
“Merlin's our only shot. According to his diary—which, by the way, has been the Director's little secret for generations—he actually wanted to become an Ide after death.”
“Wait, he volunteered for eternal solitary?” Chad's face scrunches up. “Why would anyone choose that?”
“Power,” Corvin mutters.
“Power?” I echo, though the pieces are already clicking together in my head like a really messed-up puzzle.
“Merlin had this theory about untapped power in the Ides realm.” Corvin keeps pacing around the pentagram. “Easier to access than farther-afield spirits, and way more controllable… You both know why we don't just tap the deathscape for juice while our grid's in recovery mode.”
Chad frowns. “Wait, the deathscape? You mean the afterlife?”
Corvin shrugs. “Two terms that are thrown around, without any of us truly knowing what they mean. The deathscape’s used more specifically, though, if you’ve read Dampfield’s Lives of the Dead. It’s where spirits congregate beyond our realm, supposedly to seek eternal rest.”
“And they'd fight like hell if we tried to disturb that rest,” Chad mutters.
“But the Ides,” Corvin says, eyes gleaming, “they could be persuaded.”
“Could?” I say. “Sir, this is all way too theoretical. We know exactly zero about the Ides either. Not what they want, nor how they'd react.”
Corvin gives me a tired look. “That's why we have Merlin's tombstone. The only one bold and self-sacrificial enough to untether himself from the coven's grid to delve into the unknown. Once we complete your trials, you’ll have the juice to summon Merlin and bind him to this tombstone. It’s our belief that he will have quite the stories to tell after all these centuries...”
“That's like putting a chain on a great white shark, sir,” Chad replies, and I nearly get whiplash turning to stare at him. Since when does Chad Valgrave disagree with Corvin?
“It's already settled,” Corvin says.
My stomach does this weird flippy thing. “What if I, uh, like, don't want to go through with the trials now that I know what's up? What if I just say no?”
“Then you'll be imprisoned and put under a spell until the others complete the ritual,” Corvin says, like he's telling me we're out of tea in the break room.
“Are you actually kidding me?” The words burst out before I can stop them, my heart doing the drum solo from that metal band Esme used to blast.
“It will amount to treason. You're a darkblood of Darkbirch, Brynn. You may have had your nose stuck in the books for most of your life, but your coven needs you now. It's your blood-bound duty.”
And there goes my stomach, dropping straight through the floor. I shoot Chad a “help me out here” look, but he suddenly finds the ceiling super fascinating. Typical. They're soldiers down to their bones—coven first, no matter what.
Esme would probably be all “let's summon ancient spirits, what could possibly go wrong?” about this whole thing.
If I say no, I'm basically signing up for magical prison. My whole life is here at Darkbirch, even if this Ides ritual is sketchy as hell. But maybe I can wiggle out sideways if I dangle something shiny enough...
I take a deep breath. “Sir, I have a proposition, if you'll just hear me out.”
“Brynn, don't—” Chad hisses, but Corvin holds up a hand.
“Go on.”
I clear my throat. “Look, I get it. All hands on deck, especially us Salems. And yeah, things are totally FUBAR right now, but this Ides ritual is sketch city.” I rush on before Corvin's scowl can fully form.
“But hey, I actually stumbled onto something that might help us find my sister.
Let me chase that down instead. Esme would crush this ritual—girl's been spirit-whispering since she was like, three.”
Corvin shakes his head. “We've sent three parties after her. I led the last one myself. Nothing.”
“She's my sister,” I say, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. “I've got tricks up my sleeve that your teams don't. Chad can vouch.” I shoot him a glance. “If I strike out, I'll come back and do your tombstone ritual, scout's honor. But if I find her? Two Salem sisters for the price of one.”
“That's... actually not terrible logic,” Chad says, and I’m glad I’m not forced to glare him into submission.
“Sir, I can babysit—I mean, accompany Brynn. I’ll make sure she stays safe.
Best case, we bring back Esme, who could perhaps even summon Esther for the ritual.
Worst case, we're back in three days for Plan A.”
“It would make reaching Merlin easier,” Corvin mutters, scratching his stubble as he turns away.
“Just give me a shot,” I press. “Two birds, one stone. Efficiency!”
His eyes narrow. “And this lead is...?”
“Just a hunch from some old journals,” I admit. “Nothing solid enough to waste your time on, but the coven can spare Chad and me for a hot minute while you prep everything else.”
He turns back, eyes dark as a new moon. “Three days, Salem. That's it… And Chad: you’d better make sure she returns.”
Chad exhales like he's been holding his breath since we left the crypt. “That was insane.”
We're back on the less corpse-y side of Darkbirch, thank gods, but Dominic Merlin's tomb clings to my thoughts. It wasn’t just creepy. It was wrong. Loaded with an unnatural silence that seemed to eat away at the room…
“It’s as if his tombstone was… telling us to keep clear,” I murmur to Chad. “Didn’t you feel it?”
“I did. And so did Corvin.”
“But they’re going ahead with this madness,” I say. “Why?”
We duck into the library—perfect for avoiding eavesdroppers this late.
My research mess is right where I left it, but Ezekiel has disappeared.
Typical Salem ancestor: drop the breadcrumbs and vanish.
But I'd probably be an idiot to ignore their cryptic guidance.
They didn't bring me to these dusty journals for no reason.
“Desperate times,” Chad mutters with his new permanent frown.
The guy looks like he's aged five years since the crypt. His usual stick-up-the-butt expression has been replaced with something genuinely worried. It's weirding me out.
“What's your damage?” I ask, stuffing notes into my bag.
“What do you mean?”
“You've been acting like someone swapped your protein shake with sour milk ever since we saw that tombstone. In the crypt, you were all 'yes sir, no sir' with Corvin, but your face was screaming 'bad idea.' So spill it, Valgrave. What's your actual take on this mess?”
Chad perches on the edge of the table, twisting his cufflinks like they’re some kind of stress beads. “I don't like it,” he mutters. “The Ides? Come on. Every story about them is basically 'and then everyone died horribly.'”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Dad used to tell us these creepy bedtime stories about the Ides when we were kids.
After he disappeared, I convinced myself he'd somehow joined them.
Esme and I had a fight about it—me insisting he was out there trapped in some hellish bubble, her calling me delusional.
Gods, we were just desperate for answers back then.
Chad goes full soldier-mode. “I get why Corvin's desperate, but the potential blowback if this goes sideways—”
“Or maybe they know exactly what could happen and just don't care?” I cut in. “I mean, hello, untapped power source that could flip the tables on the clearbloods in a war?”
“Yup.” Chad nods.
“Doesn’t make it right though,” I mutter.
“Smart move, by the way, not mentioning Draethys to Corvin,” Chad adds, giving me a side-glance. “He'd have shut that down, probably called it a kids’ story.”
I shrug, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Let's just say I don't think Darkbirch needs to know everything right now. Not when they're already messing with forces that could blow up in all our faces.”
“Your sister probably would be perfect for this Ides thing, though,” he says.
I nod, my lip curling. That’s exactly her brand of genius: let’s summon ancient death spirits, followed by a shrug and oops, apocalypse.
“You'd probably crush it too,” Chad says, totally straight-faced. “You've got what it takes, Salem.”
I nearly choke. “Wait, rewind. Did the Chad Valgrave just admit I'm not completely useless? I should record this.”
“Don't get used to it,” he replies. “I have something I need to do before we go. I'll meet you back here in an hour.”
“Don't be late. Bonneville awaits.”
My palms are sweating so bad I have to wipe them on my jeans.
Like, pick your poison, right? Stay here, do the trials, and probably get my soul ripped out through my eyeballs.
Or go chasing after my sister in some mythical dragon city that might actually be a giant lizard buffet with me as the appetizer.
Either way, I'm screwed six ways to Sunday.
But it's Esme. My sister. The one who used to sneak into my room during thunderstorms because she knew I was scared even when I pretended not to be.
Besides, if anyone's got the magical chops to handle those Ides freaks, it's her. Girl could probably summon and bind a death spirit while painting her nails and complaining about the Wi-Fi. Meanwhile, I'd be lucky not to accidentally turn myself inside out.