Chapter 8 #2
For a moment, I found it difficult to breathe.
I wasn’t ready to explain what happened in the graveyard.
It was easier to talk about with Bastien because he was there.
But now that I was sitting in front of two people who had no idea what I’d been through, in this very formal tea room, with a vase of freshly cut moonflowers sitting in the center, my voice stuck in my throat.
This wasn’t a story for tea.
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
The white wolf set her muzzle in my lap, pushing her cold snout against my hand, as if to say she understood. She’d lost members of her pack, too. I set my hand on her head, gently petting her soft fur. As soon as I did, a scene flashed before my eyes. A woman and a man abed, entwined together.
“Why wouldn’t we believe you?” Tansy reassured me. “We’re your friends. Besides, you’re sitting with the king and queen of unbelievable stories. Who has crazier stories than two witches who don’t charge their magick, and who come from different covens? If anyone is going to believe you, it’s us.”
She was right. Of course, she was. I tried to find the words to explain what had happened. “Last night, the Duke and I were attacked.”
Devlinn’s tea cup clattered onto the saucer.
“Someone attacked the Duke?” Tansy rushed to ask. “In his own territory?” I nodded, and she covered her mouth.
“It wasn’t just someone,” I said, then stopped, unable to get any more words out.
I was in the tea room and the graveyard at the same time.
I was shivering despite the warm tea. I could taste the coppery flavor of blood in my mouth, which made my head swim.
I was living in two realities at once. Stuck in two timelines woven together, no matter how much I wanted to separate them.
I drew in a deep breath and told myself I was brave.
That I was strong. That I’d survived. But it didn’t stop the tears from falling past my lashes.
I wiped them away, embarrassed for crying in front of them.
But I’d nearly died. Bastien had nearly died.
Had it not been for Cora, I wouldn’t be here to tell this story. She saved us both.
“You must die.” Imogen’s words. Haunting me again.
I’d escaped death once, only to be told it was inevitable. I reminded myself they were all lies. She was trying to manipulate me. She knew telling me these things would unsettle me. About my death. About Bastien.
“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Devlinn said. “It’s okay. We understand.”
I slipped my hand back in my pocket and gave the sheep’s horn a squeeze.
When I did, the worst of the sadness and fear began to trickle out of me.
“No, it’s okay. I want to tell you.” I drew in a full breath and tried again.
“The Duke and I attended a funeral at Kemp Manor. Or what I thought was a funeral. There was a spell. Some ritual. It went wrong and—”
“In generationem et generationem,” Devlinn said. When Tansy and I gave him curious looks, he elaborated. “That’s the spell. Well, it’s a funeral ritual. It transfers ancient magick from generation to generation. It’s sacred in old families. Not every coven has that kind of power.”
“So you’ve heard of this before?” I asked.
He raked a hand through his red hair, mussing it.
“My coven didn’t possess that kind of magick.
Probably why my family was so twisted and bitter.
” He expelled a humorless laugh. “That kind of inherited magick is rare. It’s said to have come from the time when Dark Witches and demons would, you know… ”
He left the rest of his sentence hanging, his gaze dropping to the swirling tea in his cup.
“Fuck?” Tansy offered.
Devlinn laughed again and lifted his cup to Tansy in acknowledgment. “You always know how to take the words right out of my mouth, love.” He smiled at her in a way that warmed my heart. “Yes, when demons and Dark Witches would fuck. Long before the Blood Treaty forbade summoning demons.”
My mouth dropped. First, Damien and Diana.
Now demons and Dark Witches? Was everyone having sex?
I removed my hand from my pocket and wrapped it around my teacup, trying to find a steady breath.
Slowly, the dots began to connect. This darkness inside me.
The simmering anger. The endless want. It wasn’t just dark magick. It was more than that.
It was… demonic.
But if this magick was passed down between generations, then I shouldn’t have received it, even if I was the most decent witch in that graveyard. “I think they were trying to pass it down,” I explained, “but the spell didn’t work. Something went wrong.”
There was a charged silence.
“It went to you, didn’t it?” Devlinn said.
Tansy covered her hand and gasped, “Oh, Claire.”
I kept my gaze trained on my cup, trying to stay present. “It all happened so fast. And after it did, they all came for me. Accusing me of stealing the magick. Bas—” I slipped, catching myself a second too late. “The Duke defended me.”
I didn’t mention feeling occupied by the darkness. Nor did I mention what I’d done with the horn alone in my room. Or Imogen’s prediction. It was all too much, and I was already stripping pieces of myself bare that were still raw.
“Well, of course, His Grace protected you. He’s a decent man. Not to mention you’re his sanguine partner,” Tansy said, completely unsurprised.
I swallowed hard. It was more than that. Much more than that. But I couldn’t tell her that either.
Devlinn regarded the wolf at his side, then said, “You’re more than just his sanguine partner now. You’re a powerful Dark Witch. One with the power to lead an entire coven.”
“I couldn’t lead a coven,” I said dismissively. “I don’t know the first thing about dark magick.”
I saw the tears swimming in his eyes. Saw the bone-deep empathy. Neither Devlinn nor Tansy charged their magick anymore. They chose to live a magickless life. But he understood better than I did what it meant to have dark magick.
“Claire,” he said, “if the stories are true, you are more than just a Dark Witch, but a living relic. A source of demonic power.”
I held his gaze, a crease forming between my eyes. It felt like trying to push a puzzle piece into a space that didn’t fit. How could I be a source of demonic power when it wouldn’t even work for me?
“I need your help understanding what that means, because these so-called ancient powers aren’t working for me.”
He scrunched his nose. “What do you mean?”
A swell of terror rose up, threatening to drag me back to that graveyard, but I clutched the horn even harder, leaning on it for strength.
If I wanted answers, real answers from people I trusted, unlike Imogen, then I had to be honest. “Right after the magick came to me, I had the power to call flames from the dirt. But then,” my voice wavered, “they just stopped.”
Thoughts of my experiment with the horn and the candle swam through my head. “I can’t seem to make the magick last for longer than a few moments. Even with a relic.”
I reached into my pocket and removed the sheep’s horn and set it on the table. When I did, a thrum of power shook the cups on their saucers.