Nah. From him, even a neutral statement would sound like praise. “Do Warlocks ever inherit magic like Witches?”
“It’s possible. But it’s sporadic. Higher magic often skips generations. We don’t have direct lineages like Witches. Our parents can be ordinarily human.” His jaw clenches, then releases. “To a fault.”
Strong power, but inconsistent. Whereas a Witch’s lower magic is more practically bound, but guaranteed in a family. Balance.
“Hence why some might perceive Warlocks as immortal. We’ve had more opportunities, thus more collective time, for our magic and population to expand.”
“And consume.” The words jump out like popovers before I can stop them. But something about the Warlock makes me feel like I can speak plainly.
Throughout history, men learned they could take midwifery skills, herbal knowledge, and folk remedies and monetize everything. All while they imprisoned or killed Witches for following the same practices, just outside formal institutions that didn’t allow women in the first place.
He nods. “Warlocks have often played a shameful role in the history of Witches.”
“Some have,” I clarify. “The ordinary men are always the most dangerous, though.”
“Don’t let Oris Webb intimidate you. You’re a talented Farewitch, Ms. Frost.”
Maybe heistrying to compliment me. “And you’re better with people than you think. You certainly don’t seem like a man who’s lived in a creepy farmhouse forever.”
“Some days, I feel like I have. More often than not, lately.”
That’s my opening. Before his walls close ranks, I say, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call this placehome. Onlyhouse. Manor. Estate. Yourparents’ home, maybe, if you slip up.”
“When Islip up?”
“Mmm. When you tell me something you clearly haven’t told anyone in a long time. Or ever. Right after you do, you talk a little too fast, like you’ve been running.”
“I do not run to anything. It’s terribly demeaning.”
“You’d rather run away, right?”
His gaze narrows. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for you to say something like that.”
Crap. The verbal sparring was so tempting, so natural. Maybe I do need a nap.
“Does anyone know you well enough to say something like that?”
“As in, from my childhood?Ages ago, I believe you said during your interview.”
Did I say that…? Surely not. “I wasn’t trying to imply you were old…”
“You did already assume I was more than three hundred.”
Recover, recover. “I didn’t mean—”
“Is it the gray hair?”
I’m too nervous to stop rambling. “No! It’s more pepper than salt—”
“How old do you think I am, really?”
Oh boy, back up.Retreat. “No thank you.”
“No thank you?”
“Not a fan of that question. Sounds like a trap.”
The Warlock of Foxe Hollersnortsat me. His stern exterior fractures, lips twisting to the side. He’s…teasingme. And I fell for it.
