Chapter 28 Brynn
brYNN
Ilean back against the Joshua tree, wincing as my ribs shift. “You know, this whole thing could've been avoided.”
My special blend of spices and salt—thank the gods for Bonneville's premium stuff—is doing its thing, knitting my bones back together. Still hurts like a mother, but at least we're not dead in the middle of the salt flats.
Chad's all twitchy, scanning the horizon like he expects an army to materialize any second. “Your injury?” he asks, not even looking at me.
“Duh. You could've just gone full demon on them from the get-go instead of—” I freeze mid-sentence as it clicks. “Wait. That's what you meant earlier about smelling them, isn't it?”
He taps his nose with this smug little half-smile. “Perk of the job.”
“I have like a million questions right now!”
“Well, I've got zero answers,” he shoots back. “Nobody at Darkbirch knows about this, Brynn. Nobody. And I need it to stay that way.”
“But why? You're literally their golden boy.”
“Golden half-breed, you mean. They'd stick me out in the woods with all the other monsters if they knew. With the incubi you're so fond of.”
I suck my teeth. “Shut up. And no they wouldn’t.”
“At the very least, Darkbirch would never truly see me as one of them if they knew what I really am.”
I exhale. That, maybe. I guess it would be hard for him to escape at least a bit of discrimination. Chad just gives me this look, like I'm the world's biggest idiot.
“We both know better,” he says, then suddenly goes all concerned again. “How're you feeling now?”
My ribs feel less like they're being stabbed with hot pokers, so that's progress. “Better. But don't change the subject, demon boy. How the hell are you even possible? I've read practically every demonology text in the Darkbirch library, and hybrids are barely footnotes.”
“Practically every text?” Chad smirks. “Not all of them?”
“There are like three volumes I haven’t gotten to yet.”
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the way his jaw tightens. “Biology 101, Salem. Demon dad, human mom—darkblood, specifically. Boom, you get me.”
“Wait, a Valgrave woman shacked up with a demon?” The gossip potential alone makes my head spin.
“Yeah, and they threw her out faster than you can say 'family disgrace.' Coven expelled her and everything.” His voice goes flat. “She raised me alone for years.”
I can't help staring at him now, watching those little red flickers dance behind his eyes. Not gonna lie, it's kind of mesmerizing. “Must've been a bitch hiding all this at Darkbirch.”
“Breathing exercises and a decent blocking spell do wonders.” He flexes his fingers, and I swear I see phantom claws. “Blew the spell to bits when I went full demon back there, though.”
“You did that for me.” The words feel weird coming out of my mouth. “Thanks, I guess.”
One corner of his mouth ticks up. “Don't make me regret it. Let’s just find this stupid dragon.”
“Hold up, I'm not done interrogating you.”
“Of course not,” he mutters. “Stupid of me to hope.”
“Your dad… who is he? Where is he?”
“No clue and don't care. Never met him. Mom wouldn't talk about him, said he 'didn't matter anymore.'”
“And your mom?”
“Dead.” The word falls like a stone. “Valgraves took me back a few years ago.”
Chad stands up, clearly done sharing. “Can we go now, or do you want to drag this out until more clearbloods show up to finish the job?”
I push myself up, testing my weight on shaky legs. My lungs expand without screaming in protest, so that's something.
I stretch my arms overhead, feeling my ribs shift without triggering a fit of agony.
Damn, I'm good at potions. I wish I could rely mainly on alchemy-based magic for combat too, like Esme sometimes does on undercover missions.
But no, Darkbitch Academy—and Chad—insist I master the “purest form” of our craft: slicing myself open every time I need to cast something useful.
Mental note: brew more cut-healing serum when we get back.
I sigh. “We made it this far, right?”
Chad scans the horizon like a paranoid hawk. “There's no one else around, for now. So find those warding runes Hedder mentioned before that changes.”
“Okay...”
I squint across the endless white expanse.
My gut says we're not out of the woods yet, but if demon-boy says we're alone, we probably are.
His face is doing that thing where he's clearly stressing about something he's not telling me.
Whatever. Not my problem if he wants to be all broody and mysterious.
“We need to get to the middle of the salt flats,” I tell him. “I can summon my ancestors there. If they can manifest, they'll know.”
We trudge across the salt, our shadows stretching under a stupid-gorgeous canopy of stars. The night wraps around us like a blanket, quiet and empty. No animals, no people—just endless white salt that crunches under our boots. Kinda eerie, if I'm honest.
“So Corvin has no clue about your whole demon situation?” I ask, because the silence is getting awkward.
Chad doesn't even look at me. “Nope.”
Great. So much for small talk.
When we reach the center, I plop down cross-legged and start my breathing exercises, trying to ground my spiritual aura.
Chad hovers nearby like some demonic bodyguard while I close my eyes.
The weirdest part? I actually feel safer knowing he can go full demon-mode if something attacks us. And that's annoying as hell.
It was easier to just hate him, but now I owe him the debt of life. Great.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, slicing my palm open with zero ceremony. Blood wells up as I carve the summoning runes. “Helena... Ezekiel... Angus... get your ghostly butts over here.”
Crickets. Literally and metaphorically.
A whole minute of absolutely nothing. Great. My ancestors are ghosting me—pun totally intended. Could be the distance from Darkbirch, but my gut says it's because that blue fire knocked me sideways. That crap probably did more than just crack my ribs. The kind of damage even my potion can't fix.
Then—Helena's whisper tickles my ear like a cold breath.
Chad's eyes go dinner-plate wide.
I whip my head around and there she is. Like, really there. Still dead-girl pale, but so much clearer than usual. Like she's upgraded from 240p to 4K.
“The Farrow Circle,” she whispers, her voice sliding into my brain like ice water.
Oh. That ritual. The nasty one.
“Helena, you can actually talk!” I can't help grinning like an idiot. “You're leveling up, huh?”
“No, you are,” she says, then—poof—vanishes like someone yanked her plug. Typical ghost drama.
My stomach drops. At least I got my answer, even if I feel like someone drained my battery to 2%.
Chad kneels in front of me, all concerned puppy eyes. “What'd she say?”
“The Farrow Circle,” I tell him, still staring at the empty space. “You saw her too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And she seemed—”
“HD quality? Absolutely.” He smirks. “You're getting good at this, Brynn. Might have to retire the 'Lesser Salem' nickname.”
“You could do that right now, asshole,” I grumble, shoving his shoulder.
He laughs—actually laughs—and pulls me up. For a second we're just... there. Holding onto each other. His eyes are doing that flickery red thing that's annoyingly hypnotic. His lips part and I'm thinking maybe—
Then he opens his stupid mouth and ruins it.
“So, are we doing this Farrow Circle thing or just waiting for more clearbloods to finish us off?” he asks with his typical charm.
“Do you even know what the Farrow Circle is?” I ask.
“Nope.”
I roll my eyes. “And here I thought you were one of the smart ones at Darkbirch… or were supposed to be.”
“All brawn, baby,” he says with that stupid smirk.
My face goes hot. Ugh. I turn away before he notices. Seriously, I prefer just hating him.
The salt flats stretch out around us, endless white under the stars. I inhale, tasting salt on my tongue. It's weirdly peaceful out here—present company excluded—no monsters, no clearbloods, no Darkbirch politics. Just... space.
“Earth to Brynn,” Chad waves his hand in front of my face. “What do we need for this ritual?”
I snap back to reality. “Right. So the Farrow Circle is kind of a bitch. It needs a sacrifice.”
“What kind of sacrifice?” His eyes narrow.
“Blood. Like, a lot of it. Can't be mine since I'm casting, and I need to stay conscious.”
“How much blood are we talking?” The furrow between his eyebrows deepens.
“Enough to make you dizzy as hell.”
“Brynn. How. Much.”
I wince. “Two pints?”
Chad's laugh sounds like gravel. “Let me guess, there's a catch. There's always a catch with blood magic.”
“Hey, I didn't write the spell,” I say, shrugging.
He rolls up his sleeve and thrusts his wrist at me. “Whatever. Just do it.”
“You sure about this?”
“Unless corpse blood works, in which case those three assholes I killed are right over there.”
Before I can answer, he's already slicing his wrist open.
The blood wells up dark against his skin, and I guide him around the salt flats, watching as he paints our circle.
By the time we finish, he's swaying on his feet, his face ghost-white.
I grab his arm before he face-plants and help him to the ground at the edge of our bloody artwork.
I step into the center and take a deep breath. “So... there's kind of another unpleasant part coming.”
“Seriously?” His eyes widen. “Bleeding me like a stuck pig wasn't the unpleasant part?”
I cup my hands and summon green flame—my specialty—then sprinkle salt into it. “Sorry about this,” I mutter, and I actually mean it. I drop the flame onto Chad's blood.
The whole circle ignites in emerald fire, and Chad hits the ground screaming. Like, full-on horror-movie screaming.
“The circle needs a piece of your soul,” I explain, wincing as he writhes. “Only a Salem can cast it. There wasn't another way.”
“Fuck you, Brynn!” He's curled into a ball now. “You could've fucking warned me!”
“Would you have done it if I had?”
“No.” He gasps through clenched teeth. “Maybe. I don't know. But I deserved the choice!”
“I'll make it up to you,” I say, raising my hands. The ancient words taste like metal as I whisper them into the night. Green pulses ripple outward through the salt, like someone dropped a stone in glowing water. I scan the horizon until—oh gods—there it is, about a mile away.
Golden lines start to shimmer across the salt flats like someone's drawing with a magic marker. Damn, the Farrow Circle actually worked.
“I see it!” I tell Chad, practically bouncing. “It worked! I can see—”
“Turn the godsdamned circle off, then!” Chad's voice is all gravel and pain. “I'm in agony here!”
“Oh, yes, sorry...”
I tap the design with my boot, and just like that—poof—the green fire dies. The blood lines go dark against the salt, looking way more serial-killer-y now without the magical glow. Chad and I lock eyes, and wow, awkward much?
He pushes himself up on one elbow, face still ghost-white but eyes flickering demon-red. “I think, at this point, it's safe to say you're no longer the lesser Salem,” he wheezes. “You're the worst Salem.”
Yeah, I totally deserve that.