Chapter 24
Fine,” I finished. The Shroud fell from view.
God, what is wrong with me? I was finally unearthing the answers to what I’d been seeking my whole life, including the one who had loved me and waited for me all this time.
And what did I do? Wake up. Of course, when I wanted to wake up I never did, but when I didn’t?
Poof—back in the woken world. And, naturally, I was late for even that.
I flooded into Rita’s office, all tousled hair and flailing limbs. “Sorry I’m late. I slept in, my alarm didn’t wake me up, and I’m just … so sorry!”
“It’s quite all right,” Rita laughed. “Happens to the best of us. And, considering you slept in, I’d venture to say it’s a good thing you were late.”
“Good thing?” I fell onto the blue couch and caught my breath.
“Well, yes. When you arrived you fought sleep, and now look at you! Sleeping through the night.” She smiled, wide and genuine. “I’m proud of you.”
The words fell over me like a warm summer night, the light beneath my skin purring in response.
The word rattled through me: proud. In my entire life, I’d never heard that word spoken in regards to me.
It set my soul alight, the same way as when Cillian—I swallowed hard.
As when Cillian called me strong. Why couldn’t I shake him?
It hit me like a sledgehammer to the face.
The bonding spell.
When I’d shown him the stone the night Bethesda burnt my hands, he must have done something. Activated the bonding spell or … something! That was why he kept popping into my damn head no matter how much I wanted to be rid of him.
“Fey.” Rita tapped a hand on my knee. “Is everything all right?”
I shook myself back to attention. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, I was just … thinking. Sorry.”
“Thinking about what?”
Magic? Spells? The Shroud? A stupid guy I couldn’t get out of my head? Instead, I said, “Nobody has ever said that to me.”
“That they’re proud of you?”
I shuffled in my seat. “Yeah.”
“Well, it’s true. I am so sorry if no one has ever told you how capable you are or reminded you of the inner strength you possess. Keep it up.”
For the remainder of our time together, I floated on that cloud.
Proud, I’d made her proud. And I planned to continue doing so.
I’d stay away from those who sought to tear me down, to lie to me, to keep me from becoming the person I was always meant to be.
I’d learn all I could about who I was, both past and present.
And above all else, I’d erase the smudge that was Cillian O’Connell from my life.
Miss Celine scratched her short chalk piece across the whiteboard, underlining her final word thrice: Witchcraft. My toes curled in my shoes, the light beneath my skin riling.
“Who here can tell me what this word means?” Her eyes fell on me. “Fey? Would you care to share with the class what witchcraft means to you?”
I fought back both embarrassment and resentment. Twice she’d called me out like this; made me bear the weight of a question I now knew was truly aimed at me for ulterior reasons.
“I thought this was Art History,” I bit out. “What does witchcraft have to do with—”
“Witches and witchcraft have helped shape the world of art from day one. Take this very building for instance. I’m sure by now you all have heard at least one rumor surrounding Saint Peter’s history, yes?”
The class mumbled a unanimous yes.
“And I’m assuming those rumors had something to do with witchcraft?”
Again, a mumbled yes echoed around the room.
“So, tell me.” She continued. “What emotions surrounding these rumors do you see reflected in the artistic expression around these halls? Does it further your belief in a magical origin story or deter your belief? How does it make you feel?”
A man in the back called out, “Like this place is haunted as fuck.”
“Language, Mr. Reed,” Celine sniped. “But sure. The craft does tend to lean into dark emotions and melancholy artistic expression, like we see in the gargoyles that sit atop the roof. As history would have it, gargoyles originated as protectors though, not monsters. I’d argue societal stigma perpetuates our views in this regard. What else?”
“There are a lot of eyes,” Jess—a friend of Sam’s—called out. “Like everywhere. Once I saw the first one, I couldn’t stop seeing them. At first it made me feel like I was being watched, but after a while I started wondering if maybe it was meant to be a comfort. Like … I’m not alone.”
My ears pricked, pulling me back to the stained-glass eye near Fhírinne’s door. What others had I missed? I searched the room. Though nothing caught my attention, that familiar knot in my gut returned, like I was standing next to a double-sided mirror I didn’t know about.
“Good deduction, Ms. Klein. See, this is precisely what I mean about societal stigma and how it has shaped creative minds. To the critic, witchcraft is wicked. Like an eye always watching. To the witch, the craft is the raw power to create something out of nothing. A comfort. Depictions of both have been portrayed in pottery and paintings for centuries to showcase the wiles of women. How their power ensnared and entranced those around them. And while I can neither confirm nor deny the origin story surrounding these halls, I can confirm that this building is a prime example of exquisite craftmanship. A work of art. For today, I ask you all to suspend your disbelief, and let us play devil’s advocate.
” Celine turned back to me. “I’ll ask you again, Fey.
” Her eyes narrowed. “What is witchcraft to you?”
I wouldn’t let her get the best of me. Couldn’t. I pushed my shoulders back. “Magic.”
“A great guess, but not the true workings of witchcraft. What is witchcraft?”
I readied a sassy retort, but a spindly woman in the corner beat me to it.
“Witchcraft is the practice of spells,” she said, “incantations, and rituals tied to nature herself. Mother Nature willing, magic will arise in response to one’s loyalty.”
Celine nodded. “Very good.”
I was basically right, just in fewer words.
Celine returned to her desk and flipped the page of a leather-bound book propped up on a stand.
“Now, witchcraft brought forth freeform styles. It inspired symmetrical expressions such as the pentagram and sacred geometry and showcased color palettes far darker than traditional pieces before it. We recently explored what you all felt enlightenment to be—peace, light, love, etcetera—and based upon your answers, you were to showcase this through an artistic critique, correct?” A flurry of grumbled yeses sounded about the room.
“Right, so this week’s homework is to play devil’s advocate. What do you feel is chaos?”
Chaos? Really? My blood began to boil. So, this was a private lesson aimed at me. If she was concerned about what I did and didn’t know, why force me to piece information together in a classroom instead of just telling me? Why play games?
“Keep that in mind as I read an excerpt from this spell book, better known as a grimoire,” she continued.
“This grimoire belonged to a woman by the name of Gianna Costa, an Italian witch steeped in the magical world. People from miles around sought out her medicines as the Spanish influenza took its toll. Much the same as the Irish Potato Famine of 1845, the death toll was vast, claiming more lives each day than one could even imagine.”
My hands shook, word vomit threatening to spew out regardless of the innocent bystanders.
Celine’s gaze fell on me, intense and pointed.
“Gianna’s magic worked wonders: her herb and crushed crystal tinctures were recognized by even those who no longer believed in the ways of holistic healing.
She believed the spreading influenza was no natural occurrence, but rather a spell of great darkness. Baneful magic, she called it.”
My muscles tensed. What a cheap shot. She couldn’t convince me to hear her out one-on-one, so she’d taken it upon herself to explain things in a place she knew I had no ability to object.
My shoulders grew heavy, and—despite every natural reaction triggered inside me—my attention stayed firm on her.
Whatever little game she was playing, I’d play right back.
“She believed that widespread death such as that,” Celine continued, “was tied to sacrificial spells; the type that would allow a dark magic wielder to absorb more strength than the Goddess had intended for her children. And so, she fought against an unforeseeable foe, one she never came to name before her premature death. But she did leave this little nugget of truth: Magic is no simple figment, but a vessel. One which, if gifted enough fuel, can become firm and take on physical form. With a fierce will, even blood can become stone.”
Blood … stone—every hair on my body stood up.
She knew. About the stone, about the dreams, about God knows what else.
Why? Why hadn’t she been honest from the get-go?
Now I hardly knew who or what to believe unless the explanation came directly from Leeran’s mouth.
He was the one who’d shared the truth with me.
Who hadn’t treated me like a vase, breakable and frail.
He’d been the one to wait. I threw my bag over my shoulder and started for the door.
“Ms. Masterson,” Celine called, but I kept my pace. “Ms. Masterson, you can’t just leave in the middle of class …”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t turn back. No matter where I went, that stone found me; touched every relationship I’d made, both good and bad. What was it about this hunk of minerals that held so much control over my life?
The closer I got to my room, the sicker my stomach grew.
Cillian had said not to touch the stone.
Said it was evil and drained the light. Well, he wasn’t here, and I’d about had it with his excuses for things.
His bullshit lies created to pin me in a corner so he could deepen our “bond” or whatever the hell. I’d do as I damn pleased.
In moments of dire need, I did what I always did: I whipped out my tarot deck.
While others kept tight lips, my trusty little deck never held back or steered me wrong.
The card’s shuffle soothed me in time with the patter of rain against my bedroom window, and I knocked on the deck three times for good luck. “Okay, universe, let’s chat.”
As if in direct response to my words, a single card shot out across my bare mattress—which I’d flipped and dressed with clean sheets—landing face down.
Another card came quickly behind, face down as well.
I continued to shuffle in hopes a third might come out to help clarify the first two, but after three more times, it appeared the universe had only two messages for me.
I flipped the first card over and sighed.
The Tower: one of the most dreaded cards in tarot, known for being a harbinger of upheaval and incoming disaster.
I flipped the second card. The Seven of Swords: deception, trickery, and betrayal.
If that wasn’t a cut-and-dried message of what Cillian and Celine were up to, I didn’t know what was. My eyes drifted to the bedside drawer. Time to get a better look at this supposedly cursed stone.
My magic parted the sea of darkness within and I snatched the bloodstone.
Tongue pressed to my teeth, I picked at Chaos’s essence stone, trying to break it free, but to no avail.
It was fused, fitting into the bloodred stone’s divot like a lock and key.
What is this damned thing? Why was it here?
Where did it even come from to begin with?
At least one thing was crystal clear: the longer I held it, the more paranoid I became, looking over my shoulder at any subtle sound.
The howls I’d heard upon Chaos’s death rushed through my head with gut-wrenching accuracy, and the sensation of metal tearing through flesh seeped into my fingertips.
Then it hit me.
Those cries I’d heard after Chaos’s death, how he’d mentioned his brothers having their revenge—I shot to my feet, acid rising up in my throat as I ran my finger along the stone’s dimpled surface.
The divots … the Ancient Lores … they were the same: one pocket for each essence stone.
I skipped over Chaos’s filled pocket, chills racing up my arms as I counted.
One, two, three, four … I swallowed hard … five, six … seven.
Seven more divots. Seven new enemies. And one pissed-off witch queen who’d promised me war.
In, out. In, out. In, out. In—