Max will be mine—whatever the cost.
Chapter 6
The Real Me
MAX
Isit cross-legged under the ladder, my sketchbook balanced on my knees, and glance up at the opened trapdoor. “I’m ready. Describe that first rune.”
“It’s a circle divided by a line that swirls out in spirals at about one and seven o’clock,” E explains.
The piece of charcoal flies across the page, his rigorous description allowing me to make quick work of it. “Like this?” I angle the drawing toward the attic.
“Exactly like that.”
I flip the page. “Next one.”
“The next one is a ‘K’ reflected backward with a diaeresis on top.”
My nose wrinkles. “A what?”
“You know those double dots used in French words likeZoë,Chloë, orNoël.”
“Got it.”
Damn, my ghost is well-read.
His voice is smooth and heavy, like velvet sliding over skin, but sharp and clear in a way that makes the air tremble around it.
The hairs at the back of my neck are still prickling from the séance, and I rub the space behind my ear, trying to disperse the warmth gathered there. No matter what I do, the pins-and-needles sensation in my fingers won’t relent.
I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to cast a successful spell.
Blood magic pumped me full of endorphins. I feel elated. Weightless. My pulse thuds as I force my breathing to slow.
Not only did my spell work, but for a few seconds, we touched.
His skin was softer than expected, and so warm… They say touching death is like touching the heart of a glacier, but I disagree. It’s more like reaching into fire. I didn’t dare test how long it would last, for fear of watching my hand spontaneously combust.
But what intrigues me even more is how I knew to reach for his hand when I couldn’t even see it.
I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to the task at hand. “Next one?”
“It’s an S-shaped, wiggly vertical thing with a looped tail, but with an angry unibrow forming a sort of cross in the middle.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “An angry unibrow?”
“Yes, like a thick, evil brow with coarse hair.”
I bite back a grin and sketch it out, then tilt the page to show him. The exaggerated curve of the cartoonish drawing makes me snort. “Spot on?”
“Mm, close enough,” he confirms, and I flip again.
“The next one looks like a flattened frog face with whiskers and a cravat.”
My head jerks up. “Are you toying with me?”
“I’m only describing the runes,” he says, voice perfectly level, the picture of sincerity.
