Page 93 of My Faire Lady

My eyes fall shut, and I shove my palm against the ground, spearing my magic into it. It fans out, searching, reaching like fingers just below the surface. The blood in my body recoils, lungs tightening the farther my magic reaches. It skims the compound, the outskirts of the jousting ring, then, before it reaches the sirens or the hydra’s cave, it freezes.

I furrow my brows, gritting my teeth against the oxygen slowly receding from my lungs. A searing heat flares at the back of my head—a warning—but I press harder against the ground, curling my fingernails into the packed dirt.

A desperate, frantic gallop takes the place of my heart, and my magic slingshots back toward me, racing as if I’ve spun time back on itself. But it shoots past me and circles the fountain in an incandescent silver ring.

My eyes burst open, and I suck in mouthfuls of air, pressing a hand against my chest as my vision clears. I stand on weak knees, but a glow snaps my attention to my feet.

It’s the fountain.

As my magic crests over it, runes flare to life, pressed into the marble stonework like hieroglyphs. I shoot forward, following the path of the runes as they climb up the column of the fountain and spear into the blackbird. My heart races, thrashing in my throat, and I dig my nails into the stone.

This is it, where the Murrell witches consecrated the land.

The beginning.

A single teardrop of magic pools at the beak of the blackbird, and as it falls, it doesn’t plummet to the ground. It floats, suspended through the air, and lands in the center of my forehead.

It sinks under my skin.

“No one can know,” a voice says.

I stiffen and twist my attention to a woman dressed in robes blacker than night. Beside her, six other witches stand, their hands tucked into their billowing sleeves.

Murrell witches. A chasm opens in my stomach.

This is a memory.

I wave my hand in front of the witch’s face, but she doesn’t register my presence.

“It must be done, sister,” a witch behind her says, pulling her hood down. “If we don’t, the coven won’t survive another generation. The magic is too weak.”

Another steps up, eyes glowing with a faint shimmer. “We shouldn’t play with fate like this. It’s not right. If we’re to lose our magic, so be it. We can’t drain the magic from creatures.”

My lips part, and a chill snakes over my skin.

The witch closest to me levels her with a glare I know all too well, and my chest squeezes tight. Red, crimson hair. Like mine. The coven leader, the woman I descended from.

“Enough, Sab,” she says. “We will consecrate this land and round up every creature we can find, offering them refuge. And it will be refuge, away from the war. They’ll be safe, and in return, we’ll feed off their magic.”

I stumble back. It’s as if someone has reached a claw into my core and cleaved my body in two.

It’s all been a lie.

For generations, the Murrell witches have been taking the creatures’ magic.

I’ve been taking their magic.

My stomach roils, and I clench my hand against my stomach as the witches circle the empty space, the fountain not yet in existence. They join hands, and tears blur my vision as I trip back, stumbling away.

We didn’t do it to keep the creatures safe. We did it to use them.

I slam into something solid, and my knees buckle, but a pair of arms catch me, steadying me.

“Scarlet, honey,” a voice whispers.

Ice sweeps over my body, and fresh tears pool in my eyes as I straighten and turn. I nearly collapse at her hazel eyes, the waves of coppery hair hanging over her shoulders. The slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that never had a chance to deepen.

“Mom?”