To any mortal, this family tree would seem like a lovely, if rather intense, genealogy experiment—a way to keep track of one’s lineage. But the names written on this tree could bring empires to ruin. Names that could bind or enchant people who are otherwise all-powerful.
This is a secret war code, a weapon of mass destruction.
Mabel immortalized the names of her enemies and allies alike, making sure Bloodsingers could research here for ways to influence, even manipulate, their peers.
The witches’ names are written in blood that has sunk deep into the grain. Threaded next to the witches are the Reds—their names darker and blistered, a record of the priestesses who ransacked our forest and singed hallowed ground.
Only a few names are etched there, Lillivere among them.
Lillivere Janina Cross.
I commit the wretched name to memory. If the opportunity presents itself, I will use this war-book as intended and destroy this woman. My throat constricts, a bitter tang flooding my mouth as I consider the empty spaces flanking her name. So few Reds are revealed here.
“Yes. Here. The passage leads into the Red Forest,” Nick says on a rushed breath, barely able to contain his excitement.
I trace my own name, then Nick’s, our middle and last names burned right off the wood, our true names hidden from everyone, including ourselves.
I’m just Maxine. Like Zendaya or Madonna.
The line leading up to our mother, Sierra Lilith Morgan, draws tears to my eyes.
Common sense dictates that Nick and I shall bear her surname, but after my encounter with the Mist King, I doubt it.
I follow the long, sinuous twine leading to our father, holding my breath. The space where his name should stand is more than burned off. A piece of bark is missing, carved out, a hollow dark spot in its place, right at the heart of the tree.
My shoulders sag.
“That’s frustrating,” E says on an empathic breath.
It is. But the emptiness pulls my attention outward, away from my broken family.
“You’ve got to be on there, too,” I murmur.
I leave my own bloodline behind and move to Mabel’s name instead. Then her daughters and their issues. My pulse stutters.
“Mabel’s daughters bore her surname. Witches are matriarchal, but her daughters abandoned that tradition with their own children to keep them from danger,” I explain. “It’s no wonder they didn’t want to flaunt the family name, considering how renowned Mabel had become after the Mist Wars.”
“But you use her name,” E says.
I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment before answering, “Which means my true name must be even more dangerous.”
E steps closer.
I thought I came up here to find the spindle, not scratch at the old wound left by my absent father, but right now I’m far more excited to search for my ghost.
Because if his name is written here—if it survived all these years in Mabel’s attic—it means he existed. That he lived. That he belonged to this world.
“It’s written here. Siobhan Bloodsinger gave birth to two boys. Ezra and Elio Lightbringer of the Sun Court.” My heartscreeches past my feet as I quickly scan his lineage. “You’re Mabel’s grandson. And a Fae prince.”
“I’m not,” he says, his voice unsteady. “I can’t be.”
A Fae prince.
Suddenly, I understand why I never finished the King of Wands. I was waiting for him—the invisible prince hiding in the lines of graphite, the one whose light I could never quite capture because he hadn’t stepped into my life yet.
Of course, he’s charismatic.
Of course, he’s beautiful.
