“Holy shit,” I gasp, my fingers pressing against my lips. “She knew! She knew that they wanted her dead, and she didn’t stop them. Why?”
There’s a heavy tap on my shoulder, and looking behind me, I find Connor and Donovan staring at me with matching ‘explain now’faces. I glance up to check on Coach Harris, who’s still enthralled with his phone.
I lean over the back of my chair, putting the journal on Connor’s desk. The guys crowd closer, and as quietly as I can, I explain what I’ve found.
“When I started reading this on Sunday, it seemed strange that she kept talking about what spirit witches were... are?... and some of our history. Who does that?” A tightness builds in my chest, and my brain can’t seem to make sense of the pieces I’ve been handed. Swallowing heavily, I continue, “Someone who’s trying to preserve all that future generations will need to know.”
Donovan frowns, strands of his black hair falling into his eyes. “I don’t get it. Why would an all-powerful witch let herself be murdered?”
“Not just her,” I utter. “Every one of her bloodline, of all the original bloodlines, that showed signs of being a spirit witch was slaughtered too.”
Connor growls, and instinctively, I reach out and put my hand on his. He intertwines our fingers, his thumb running along the life line creases on my palm, and a little shiver races up my arm. His skin is warm and smooth against mine, and for the first time, I wonder if it’s so soft because of his healing abilities. Hard to create calluses when with every shift, he’s good as new.
“So why?” Donovan repeats, bringing me back to the present.
“I don’t know,” I reply, somewhat intrigued that Donovan, for once, cares about motivations. “She mentions feeling overwhelmed by the unrest of her people, like she can physically feel them turn on her.”
He rolls his eyes. “People are idiots. Did she know who was going to kill her?”
“I’m reading between the lines here,” I mutter, my lips quirked to one side. “She doesn’t write, ‘Hey, I’m pretty sure there’s a plot to murder me, better write all this important shit down.’”
Connor chuckles, and Donovan flashes an annoyed glare at him.
“No talking!” Coach Harris bellows from the front of the classroom, and I flinch, forgetting where we are for a minute.
“We’re working on a group project,” Donovan replies completely deadpan, the lie easily rolling off his tongue.
Harris narrows his eyes, looking between the three of us and our odd assortment of books, before sighing, “Fine. Just keep the noise down.”
“I can’t believe that worked,” I murmur, as the Coach turns his attentions back to his phone. “He didn’t even say anything about yourDraculabook.”
Donovan snorts. “Draculabook?”
“What? It looks like a prop from an old movie.” I shrug.
He shakes his head, then with a smirk, he asserts, “It’s all about confidence. Harris will pretty much let you get away with anything if you give him a good reason. Now, what else does it say?”
Glancing back down at the journal, I skim with my finger, searching for anything that jumps out as important. My finger stops when Agata talks about the wolf shifters. For a moment, I blink stupidly at the words in front of me, because my rabbit hole decided to get a whole lot deeper.
Connor squeezes my other hand, the one laced with his, and I look up into his deep set, amber eyes. Questions swirl within their depths, and I don’t know how to tell him what I’ve found.
“What?” Donovan asks, his gaze trying to read the words upside down and sideways.
“This um… She says that…” I stammer, my throat dry. “She talks about those that will come later-- meaning witches like me, I guess-- that uh, they… I… should seek out the wolves for protection, but only those that hear The Call to me.”
Connor stills, tilting his head slightly, as if the angle will allow him to absorb my words better. His gaze stays riveted to my face, not bothering to look at the truth on the pages before me.
“The call to you? Not your call?” Donovan comments, his brows furrowed and showing signs of the academic I saw when we tried experimenting with my magic. His fingers tap out a rapid pattern on his desk.
Licking my lips, I subtly shake my head. “No. It says ‘The Call to me’, because… those wolves are, um… well, they’ll be loyal to me because…”
“Callie,” he groans, the gravel in his voice highlighting his growing impatience.
“Because they’re the direct descendants of shifters my bloodline made,” I huff.
“Made?” Connor whispers, his voice low and soft.
My stomach feels like I swallowed a lead ball, and I drop my right hand to my lap to nervously trace the denim lines of my jeans with my fingers. This morning I was given fresh underthings that I don’t want to know where came from, but my jeans are still the ones from the day before, and Nolan lent me another one of his t-shirts-- his spicy cologne following me all day.
