Page 88 of Hallowed Bones

“That doesn’t mean you should just—” she begins, only for her words to halt when the blood stops flowing downward as it should in response to gravity. Instead, it rises, lifting off my skin as it floats in little bubbles around us. The red droplets collide until they form a long, cylindrical shape in the air.

“The first thing you should know about magic is that it’s the very thing through which we breathe,” I say as I reach for the shape. “It’s often unexplainable and abides by few rules.” The second my hand brushes the blood, it hardens and spreads out, shaping into the image I pour into it. “Magic is connected to life. It is all around you—in the stone you walk on, in the air you breathe, in the shadows and the light.”

Long and flat, the blood stretches until it conforms to the image of a blade, complete with a textured hilt. When I next glance at Haven’s face, her already pale cheeks appear to sink even deeper into the bones of her skull. Her eyes wide as she stares at the weapon.

“It’s not to be taken lightly,” I tell her, letting the solemnness of my tone spear into the air between us, “and never for granted.” She raises her head and transfers that stare to me. “A witch’s magic is rooted in their emotions. Repressed feelings, such as rage, sorrow, resentment, guilt—”

Her face shifts at that final word, her mouth tightening ever so slightly. Securing my grip on the hilt of the blood blade, I shift on my feet and throw it. Her attention leaves me to follow its path.

“They can quickly become a catalyst to a magic breach—when magic rages out of control, it can affect things such as electricity, weather, and, at worst, the Veil.”

The dagger made of my blood slams into the stone wall across from us. Cracks form around where it strikes, swimming out in hairline fractures as the hilt trembles with the force of the blow.

“The Veil?” Haven swallows as she stares at the quivering dagger.

“The Veil is the barrier between the world of the living and the afterlife,” I say with a frown. I was sure Lyall must have mentioned that to her. Maybe she knows even less than I anticipated. It would explain her inability to connect the Veil to the monsters that have been stalking her.

I watch her, taking in the stubborn jut of her chin from her profile and the delicate curve of her throat. Absently, she reaches up and shoves the lone lock of pale white against the darkness of the rest at the front of her face behind one ear. My fingers itch to release it and let it fall back against her cheek, to take it between my fingers and let the silvery strands sift over my flesh.

I step closer, and her head whips toward me. Her hair grazes my chest, and her scent burrows into my skin as if it means to lay claim to me. A low growl vibrates silently in my throat. Her green-and-brown gaze lands on mine. Lips firm, a mask of even and unbreakable strength falls over her features little by little until the fear that I know lies behind the façade is covered up.

“Before you leave here today, you may take a few books from the coven’s personal library.” I nod toward the room that can be seen through the open archway to the side of the circle and the shelves and shelves of dust-coated and leather-bound tomes. “I will select the ones most important for you to read. It will give you a basic understanding of our origins as well as the Veil.”

“I already read the ones that were sent to my dorm,” she says.

My expression remains even, with effort. “And?” I prompt. “What did you think?”

She lifts her shoulders and lets them fall once again. “It’s a lot of information to process. A lot of history to take in.”

“You’ll need to read more than a few short histories to understand magic,” I say. “Most witches spend their entire lives studying magic and all the ways it affects the world. Some prefer the history of our people; some prefer the potential of the future. Regardless, every aspect needs to be studied at some point.”

“Which do you prefer?” she asks, then before I can answer, she chuckles. “Or should I guess? History, right?”

I settle my gaze on her. “Remembering history keeps us from repeating the mistakes of the past.” Her smile fades, and I continue. “Not every witch has been respectful of their power. Covens have risen and fallen. Bloodlines are created and perish at the whims of the Gods. Everything we give you is to help you discover your magic potential, but also to force you to learn your limitations.”

“Why don’t you tell me what those are?” Coming from her sharp mouth, the question sounds more like a demand. It makes me smile, amusement irresistible as I meet her impervious gaze.

“No matter how good the teacher, not everything can be covered in a single session,” I tell her. “If I were to tell you every minute detail of the way that magic works, we’d both turn to dust before I could finish.”

I hold up a hand and call the blood back to me. Dripping down the stone and pooling onto the floor for a moment, the crimson liquid crawls over the markings etched into the foundation of our coven’s lair until it reaches my boots. Then, with quicker incentive, it slips up my pant legs, over my abdomen, and toward my forearm. The blood wraps around my arm for a brief second, waiting.

“What are you doing?” She’s centered on the blood trembling against my flesh, brows creased and lips forming a frown.

“Magic cannot create something from nothing,” I say in lieu of an answer. “It merely warps how what already exists is used. To use magic, you must be willing to give it something in return.”

“To make that dagger, you gave it your blood,” she states.

“Yes.” As I look at her, I wonder what my father would have thought of her. Would he have cared for her as a person? Idolized her as a female witch born to our coven? Or would he have seen her as another tool for our coven’s survival? Would she have been little more than a puppet for the power he thought was his to play with?

From all his lessons, one thing was impossibly clear. A witch with an obsession was a dangerous witch, indeed.

If I’m not careful, Haven promises to become the object of my downfall. Because it’s not just attraction that draws me to her like a moth to flame. It’s compulsion. Madness, maybe.

And as much as I hate it, I am my father’s son. His penchant for obsession is the same as my own. She could quickly become the source of that obsession.

With my other hand, I snap my fingers and conjure a flame. The glow bursts to life, and Haven flinches from the sudden eruption of light. I don’t stop my display, keeping my gaze trained on her as she follows my movements. I bring my burning hands over to my bloodied forearm and lay it flat. Fire sizzles and scalds my flesh, but the magic is for any impurities that my blood picked up outside of my body.

Once completed, my blood returns to my flesh, sinking back inside. The fire seeps around the edges of the blood and the wound, eating away at the blood as it goes. When I’m done and the fire has gone out, a raised welt remains behind on my forearm.