But I’m too busy laughing my half-dead little ass off. Because suddenly, all I can think about is that stupid magnet.
Love is the real magic.
And just like that, everything makes perfect sense.
Life is crazy sometimes, isn’t it? We spend so much time searching for meaning where there’s none, and in that frantic distraction, we miss the obvious signs that were actually meant for us.
Love is the real magic.
It isn’t the grimoire. It was never the grimoire. Not really.
It was what the grimoire represents.
Blood of our blood of our blood.
We are always with you.
Calista, and her love for her baby girl, Davina. Davina’s love for the daughter that came next, and all the ones that followed,right up to my mother, Evelyn. I think of these women, my ancestors, my strength, my inspiration.
And I think of us. My sisters and me. Our bond. A love that’s been battered and frayed, tested to its absolute limits, but never destroyed. A love that we’ve only just begun to find our way back to.
I’m notaboutto lose them now.
We three are the last of the Bonnivarde witches, for fuck’s sake. That has to mean something. More than a book of spells. More than a demon portal and the power Brendan and his Wielders of the Righteous Fucksticks want to steal.
I reach for Rachel’s hand, stretch until our fingers brush. She meets me halfway, pushing closer until our hands finally lock. Together, coughing and wheezing, we reach out for Kate. Find her, grab hold, refuse to let go.
Inside me, the magic flickers back to life.
Somewhere in that blackening book might be a spell that could save us, but it’s beyond my reach. Right now, truly, all I have is love. The love of my sisters, the love of the witches who came before us. So I say the only words I can think of—the ones shouting through my mind, over and over.
Blood of our blood of our blood.
We are always with you.
It’s more a prayer than a spell, but it comforts me to say it, to mouth the words, to give them the very last of my breath. I say it again. Again. A whisper at first, growing louder, stronger. Soon Rachel joins in, and then Kate, our voices weaving together in a dark symphony.
Blood of our blood of our blood.
We are always with you.
Blood of our blood of our blood.
We are always with you.
The flames surge. Brendan holds up his hands, stumbling backward. “What… what thefuck?”
Our prayer turns defiant, a call to arms, the words clearing the haze from my vision and the smoke from my lungs. The flames dart and weave, dancing before my eyes.
It’s Calista I see first, flickering into my field of vision in her smoldering dress. Another woman appears beside her, taking her hand. Davina, I sense. A third woman, then another. Dozens upon dozens. My grandmother, my great-grandmother, great aunts and cousins, sisters, all of the Bonnivarde Witches, joining hands and forming a circle around us.
Then, at long last, Evelyn. My complicated, enigmatic mother. She glances at us in turn, then moves past us, through the circle of witches, to stand outside of it.
But this time, it’s not because she’s leaving us. It’s because she’s choosing us. Protecting us. Her children. The daughters she gave up in life, thinking she could keep us safe. And now, as close to death as we’ve ever been, she’s come to try again.
I watch the ghost of my mother raise her hands to the deadly fire surrounding us.
And I watch, in utter awe, as the flames turn silver, surging as bright as the full moon. The choking heat recedes. The world stops spinning. The flames that seconds ago were nearly all-consuming suddenly draw themselves back, away from the cemetery. Away from us.
