“Wait—”
In the blink of an eye, Mabel shifts into a white raven and takes flight, wings catching the light as she disappears into the wind with a sharpcaw.
Chapter 9
Knock, Knock
MAX
Mabel’s dramatic departure was all shock value and no explanation. After her brief visit—those half-finished sentences and cryptic one-liners—I’m more determined than ever to dissect every secret she left behind.
Recreating the exact pattern and phrasing of her wards on the kitchen island is a maddening puzzle. The next few days are spent discerning the smallest, most infinitesimal differences in the designs. It’s complicated and slow-moving, but deeply satisfying. I’ve always loved puzzles, and this one matters. Every translated rune and matching scrap of paper brings me closer to the truth.
By the end of my first week of captivity, we’re almost finished. The late afternoon sun filters through the curtains, casting soft stripes across the wooden floorboards. Grimoires, dictionaries, and parchment clutter the counters.
E and I work well together, our quiet chatter broken only by the scratch of charcoal on paper and the occasional scrape of my stool against the tile.
His near-perfect photographic memory helps tremendously. He recounts the attic wards with very little back and forth, his precision rivaling any of my most meticulous colleagues.
“That one is ‘Heart,’” I say.
“And this last one is ‘Blood,’” E finishes.
I punch the air with an exaggerated high five, even if it connects with nothing, and start carefully lining up the drawings to recreate the entire phrase. Runes don’t form sentences, exactly, more like the lyrics of a song.
“If I’m understanding this correctly, the wards prevent anyone but those of Mabel’s blood from entering the attic.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Too bad I’m not her real family.”
“You’re her family. Blood has nothing to do with it,” E says softly. “But where does that leave us?”
“Blood from a Bloodsinger might trick the wards into letting me pass, but we have none of that either.”
My gaze drifts to the gardens. Would I be brave enough to step outside and gather a pinch of earth soaked with Aunt Kerri’s blood? Would there even be any trace of her left?
“Do you know anyone else who could help us?” E asks. “Some relative of Mabel’s who lives nearby?”
The word relative lodges in my ear, and my eyes widen. “You… You’re a Bloodsinger.”
“What?”
“You got into that attic without a hitch. You’re a Bloodsinger. These runes here—” I tap the symbols with my charcoal-stained fingers. “They mean nosoulcan cross the threshold but those of Bloodsinger blood.”
“Do ghosts have blood?” E muses.
I chew on the thought for a moment. “With Mabel, there’s no such thing as coincidence. She and Devi didn’t share custody of you just because they knew you when you were alive. They keptyou close because you’re family. It would explain Mabel’s pet name for you, and why she’s watched over you all these years.”
When he speaks again, his voice cracks. “So Mabel would be what—my mother?”
“Oh no,” I say quickly. “Mabel still lived in the Red Forest when she had her kids, so she only had daughters. Her eldest, Siobhan, died a long time ago. I’m not sure if she had children. Kerrigan only had one daughter with her mortal lover. We don’t speak of Morrigan often—she’s a real nut-job.”
I hesitate. “Mabel confirmed the black sheep of the family had a secret child, but she said it was a girl, so…” I trail off. “Maybe a nephew? I can’t remember if Mabel had any sisters.”
“As far as we know, I might be her old, crumbling father,” E adds grumpily.
I’m about to deny that possibility when the sharp ring of the doorbell cuts through the house, freezing me in place.
I grab the longest knife from the butcher block and turn to face the door.
E drifts to the bay window.
