“Wow. That's not creepy at all. Why would you even want to?”
“Because we need her. Dark times ahead. All hands on deck. I don't have to repeat Reinhardt's speech again?—”
“For the love of all that is unholy, please don't.” I roll my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain. “If I have to hear that motivational garbage one more time?—”
“Then come on.”
“Come on, where?”
“Enough moping about your sister. We've got training to do.”
I stare at him, jaw practically unhinged. Meanwhile, Chad's just standing there looking like a recruitment poster for Hot Darkbloods Monthly. For a split second, I actually feel like my sister—homicidal. I wonder if I could just snap his stupid perfect neck like a breadstick. Probably not. That's one thick neck. Bet he has to special-order turtlenecks.
“Hello? Earth to Brynn?” he waves a hand, one eyebrow doing that annoying arch thing.
I grimace. “There's no escaping this torture session, is there?”
“Your midnight training? No. Our blood runs thickest at night.”
“That's literally just something they tell baby witches so they'll go to bed.”
“But the moon does juice our magic,” Chad insists, “and we need every advantage for those trials.”
“So basically, the only way to get rid of you is to train with you. Right now.”
“Exactly.”
Joy.
12
BRYNN
Itrudge after Chad through Darkbirch Academy's gates, ignoring the gargoyles perched on every turret. The whole place screams “we sacrifice virgins at midnight,” with its pointy arches and stone walls that probably cost more than my entire existence. Creepy demon statues hold actual flaming torches above us—because apparently electricity would ruin the whole “we're perpetually stuck in the 1600s” aesthetic.
“With ninety-seven percent of our spiritual power depleted, we need to get our hands dirty,” Chad announces like he's reading from some darkblood training manual.
“Yeah, well, Grandma Esther nearly flatlined when that overgrown lizard took Esme,” I mutter. “Can't we just borrow juice from the other covens? Last I checked, Darkbirch doesn't have a monopoly on death magic.”
“We're the biggest, but not the only target,” he says without looking back. “The clearbloods will be hunting all of us. If we drain the smaller covens dry, they're sitting ducks. Corvin suggested tapping into the deeper veil, but Reinhardt vetoed that faster than your sister could start a bar fight.”
He snorts and shakes his head like that's the dumbest idea ever.
“‘The deeper veil’ would be a reckless bet. Just like begging the little covens for their power reserves,” I retort.
Chad pauses mid-stride. “Why not? The afterlife is a bottomless pit of spiritual energy,” he counters.
I laugh, sharp and dry. “Did you nap through four years of Spiritual Mastery? Or do you just skip the chapter on postmortem power dynamics?”
He swings around so fast I almost collide with him. His glare is surgical. “Is that your subtle way of calling me ignorant, Brynn?”
I shrug, casual. “If the shoe fits. Because if you’d paid attention, you’d recall that every darkblood scholar agrees: afterlife energy is volatile, unstable. Totally untested. We have no clue how spirits shift once they pass on.”
Chad’s eyes narrow. My heart kicks up. He stays silent. Perfect—time to drive it home.
“The afterlife’s supposed to be eternal peace, Chad. Who knows what horrors we unleash by trying to yank souls back to animate our wards? And don’t even mention offensive spells. That’s a whole extra vat of juice.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. I lose ground, but I knew this was coming.
