“Fine,” I sigh, shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon. Here comes the loyalty lecture. Duty to Darkbirch. Blah blah. Same speech, different cemetery visit.
Whatever. I was perfectly content with my nose buried in dusty tomes while Esme played assassin. But thenthishappened.
Mom fixes me with that Salem-matriarch stare. “Finding Esme is paramount. But you said it yourself—you're not a fighter. You'd be stumbling around like a drunk tourist in the dark, hunting an ancient fire-breathing nightmare we barely understand.”
“That's literally what libraries are for,” I counter, picking at my chipped blue nail polish. “Pretty sure there are a few books thatcould help me, somewhere between 'Blood Rituals' and 'How Not to Die Horribly.'”
“You lack field experience,” she says in her this-isn't-a-debate voice. “The trials aren't optional. They'll sharpen your blood magic for whatever danger comes next—because trust me, that dragon's just the appetizer. The clearbloods are already sharpening their pitchforks.”
“I know, I know, they'll retaliate.” I exhale. “Hunt us like it's Salem 1692: The Sequel.”
“And bookworm or not, you're getting drafted,” Mom says. “All hands on deck, no exceptions. You can't help Esme by getting yourself barbecued. Help her by stepping up. That's why you have a mentor.”
My skin crawls. The thought of that smug asshole “mentoring” me makes me want to dig a hole next to Jax and pull the dirt over both of us.
Mom's logic is annoyingly sound. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
I've dodged the Salem family drama for years—hiding in library corners while Esme was out being Darkblood Barbie: Assassination Edition. If she hadn't gotten dragon-napped, I'd still be happily drowning in dusty tomes instead of... this.
“I don't need a mentor. I need?—”
“That's ENOUGH.” Mom's voice cracks like a whip. She never loses her cool, which makes this ten times worse. “We all have our parts to play, Brynn, however shitty the script. Yours is training. The coven needs you. Your family needs you.”
Yeah, well, Esme is my family too.
Footsteps crunch behind us, and I turn to see three figures emerging from the greenhouse like some goth family portrait. Black and red uniforms, dark hair, those trademark Salem smoky grays—genetic lottery I see in my bathroom mirror every morning.
“Uncle Edwin,” I mutter, while Mom stands.
Nyv and Ridge nod at me with that twin-telepathy thing they do. Gods, Nyv is nearly Esme 2.0—same killer curves, almost the same killer instincts, but with extra clearblood genocideenthusiasm. Ridge is like someone took Jax and pumped him full of protein shakes and testosterone. Dude's biceps have biceps.
Edwin approaches, face grim. “Defense shield inspection's done.”
“Status?” Mom's arms fold across her chest.
“Holding on by a thread.” His eyes drift to the fresh dirt covering Jax, and something in my ribcage constricts.
We had to strip most of the darkblood spirits from Jax’s healing cocoon to try to reinforce the coven’s spirit wall, because our clearblood “protectors” are really just pissed-off ghosts doing time as barrier filler. Darkblood spirits are essential for keeping those trapped souls in check, and our boundary reliable.
No wonder Jax’s recovery crawls at a snail's pace.
Edwin gives Mom his best funeral director face. “How are you holding up?”
“I've got my son to look after. I keep busy,” Mom says in her I'm-fine-but-not-really voice.
Nyv won't stop staring at me like I'm some fascinating lab specimen. “So, our cousin Esme got rowdy with a dragon, huh? Leave it to her to rediscover ancient species, I suppose.”
“Any word at all?” Ridge asks, all concerned puppy eyes.
Of course he's worried. He and Esme were practically joined at the hip growing up. While they were out here playing blood-magic-tag in the cemetery, Jax trailing after them like a lost duckling, I was holed up with my books. Call me crazy, but necromancy summer camp never made my bucket list.
“Not yet,” Mom says. “But we're hopeful.”
“We're 'hopeful' as in we're doing nothing but since the dragon didn't immediately barbecue her, we're pretending we have a chance,” I snap, anger finally bubbling up.
Mom shoots me her shut-it-down glare. “Your uncle and cousins are here to assist. Keep your brother company while I talk to them.”
“Mom, Jax is in a literal coma. What am I supposed to do, read him bedtime stories?”
