Page 32 of Grave Expectations

Roz reached in and removed the book slowly, carefully. It was old and heavy and smelled of mildew. When she gingerly pulled back the brown cover, a plume of dust flew into her face and she sneezed, nearly dropping the book.

“This must be it,” Alaric said, sitting on the floor next to her.

The first pages were the family tree, identical to the one on the wall, but with nothing marked off or blacked out. It stopped several generations before Roz.

Roz was quiet for a long moment, her finger still resting on the page. Alaric looked past her shoulder at the family tree at the front of the book, the names stretching back further than most towns existed. Each one a life. Each one a thread in something continuous.

He had no such thread. No family tree, no cottage kept intact by people too afraid to move his things. The museum had his clothes and a painting of his death. The town had a statue with a face more handsome than his own. Neither of those was the same as this—a house that still smelled like the person who lived in it.

"Are you alright?" Roz asked. She'd turned to look at him without him noticing.

"I was thinking about continuity," he said, because it was true and easier than the rest of it. She gave him a small smile, her fingers interlacing with his.

“Go ahead, keep reading,” he encouraged, because this wasn’t about him and his discomfort. This was about her, finally learning who she was.

Then came the magic.

Page after page of magic that Roz had never heard of before. Blood magic, reanimation, traveling to the spirit world, taking others to the spirit world.

“Goddess,” Roz breathed. “This is serious magic.”

“Have you never seen anyone do this?” Alaric asked.

“No. Honestly, it makes my family seem like they do parlor tricks. This is more than just delivering messages to the other side, this is…” Roz trailed off.

“Do you want me to step away?” Alaric asked.

“I…” Roz started. The idea of him leaving never occurred to her. “No,” she said at last. “I’d like you to stay.”

Alaric’s arms closed around her, holding her steady as she read through generations of lost magic. When she got to the page about blood magic, Alaric held her tighter, his presence a steady anchor as her world spun.

Blood magic is not for every witch. Within us is a core of energy and life. With our blood, we offer life to those who would otherwise not have it. Blood can reanimate, it can revive, it can sustain. Vampires are indiscriminate with blood and its life force, but for the witch, it is more selective.

Those who can utilize the magic in their blood have the ability to heal. This may seem at odds with necromancy, but we must always remember that a balance exists. Opposite of death is birth. Opposite of living is dead. For a necromancer to have the gift of blood magic is a rare thing. For a necromancer to control both life and death is impossible.

Like all things, blood magic has rules. To use one’s blood to heal or give life is to give a piece of your vitality and soul. Too much can lead to premature aging or illness. However, a blood witch operates in excess, and if they do not occasionally use their gift, the excess will manifest. This could be through never falling ill, or ill family members making miraculous recoveries.

Miraculous recoveries. Excess. Roz’s head spun, a surge of memories flooding her at once. Great Aunt Franny, so ill they thought she’d die, back to almost normal the day after they visited her in the hospital. Delia never getting sick, even as she struggled with her rot magic. Roz never getting sick, despite being a small premature twin. Had it been her magic this whole time?

This is why a necromancer who does not immediately show proficiency for communing with the dead should be put through trials.

“Trials,” Roz groaned. “I did enough of those as a child.”

“The same ones?” Alaric asked. She liked the way his voice vibrated against her back. How could he feel so real, yet be only a ghost?

Roz flipped the page and read through the nonsensical list of trials. “No,” she said. “Definitely not these.”

“Why not try them?” Alaric suggested.

“We already know I can do blood magic,” she said.

“Then only do the fun ones,” he said.

Roz snorted, but her gaze lingered on the page. The ink shifted slightly where it had bled into the paper, the words older than anything she’d ever read.

Blood is the conduit. Intent is the command.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the page.