“Is this your mom? Calla?” Asher asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. He picked up the photo by the edges, careful not to smudge it.
The agony of her death freshly speared my heart whenever I thought of her, but I’d been staring at that picture for days, and this time I was finally able to smile through the pain, more grateful than sad. Grateful she’d adopted me. That she’d loved me. That I still had this connection to her through the book she’d gifted me as a child.
From the moment she’d first told me about magic as a toddler, she’d been with me through every step of discovering and nurturing my own, right up until the night she died and I turned my back on the craft. On myself.
“I took that picture on her fiftieth birthday,” I said. “I’d made her these horrible black cupcakes as a joke, but she loved them, even though the frosting turned her teeth green.”
Asher smiled, and Calla seemed to return it, her eyes sparkling as always.
She looked happy, green teeth and all.
“What was she like?” he asked, returning the photo. Our fingers brushed as I took it from him, and a spark of awareness skittered up my arm.
It felt shockingly intimate, sharing this moment with him. But at the same time, it felt right. Natural.
I blinked back tears, smiling. “She was sarcastic and funny and she didn’t take any shit from anyone. She could do complex magic and cook a gourmet meal with nothing but clippings from her garden, but she couldn’t figure out how to work the DVR or find her way around the town she’d spent her whole life in. She was tough and fair and kindhearted and the best person I knew.”
Asher nudged my knee with his, stopping me from slipping under a fresh wave of grief. Ten years after her death, they still snuck up on me, doubly so now that Sophie was gone, too.
“Was she as much a pain in the ass as you, too?” he teased.
“Absolutely.”
“I think I would’ve liked her.”
I laughed, imagining her standing in front of us, giving him the stink-eye. She’d never trusted demons to begin with, and Asher was his own special brand of crazy.
“Hate to break it to you,” I said, “but Calla would’vehatedyou.”
Asher shrugged. “I have that effect on parents. I think it’s the tattoos.”
“Yeah, that must be it.” I tucked the picture back inside the book, closing the cover and smoothing my hand over the triple moon design on the front.
“Hey.” Asher nudged my knee again. “You’ll figure it out, Gray. You just got the book back, and it’s only been a few days since the shit hit the fan. You probably just need a recharge.”
“I guess so.” I shrugged, appreciating the vote of confidence, even if I didn’t quite believe it myself. “I was just hoping I could—wait. What did you say?”
“That you’ll figure it out.”
“After that.”
“You, ah, need a recharge?”
“Oh my God.” Frantically flipping to the first entry, I read over the details of the ritual I’d performed when Calla had first gifted me the blank book. “I can’t believe I missed this. It’s so obvious!”
Magical tools worked best when they were properly cleansed, consecrated, and dedicated. Regular use and care kept them charged.
After spending the last several years buried in my safe in the backyard, the book had simply gone dormant.
The book seemed to think I was on the right track, too, suddenly warming in my hands.
Beaming, I turned to Asher and said, “Put a shirt on, Sex Vibe. We’re going outside.”
“Now?”
“Full moon tonight. There’s no better time for a ritual.”
“A ritual? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Asher rolled his eyes, but there was no trace of annoyance there. Smirking, he said, “What are the chances that we figure this out onexactlythe right night? Coincidence?”
