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Any of them could be hurt by being so close to me while my witch powers are zooming around the room. I suddenly wish none of them had decided to come with us today. It would be less risky with just me and Archer in the large room—fewer people to potentially injure.
But I know none of them will leave now. They’re committed to this. Committed to me.
So I remain silent and slide into my chair, hoping for the best.
While Archer grabs another dust-covered folding chair from the shadows in the corner, I take a few steadying breaths, listening to his voice coach me in my mind. My heart is a frightened hummingbird, and my skin is staticky with the need to run away, far and fast. But Archer seems totally calm as he brings his chair over to join me.
It squeaks as he unfolds it and then sits across from me, the two of us nearly knee to knee. Something about his presence soothes me, and I take a moment to breathe deeply like he’s taught me. I focus on the warmth drifting off his legs, on the way his lips quirk up carefully as if he’s making sure I know it’s a smile and not a threat. I appreciate that. I especially appreciate just how much he knows me.
“Witch magic is sigil-based,” Archer begins, his voice low and even. “To do magic, they must etch sigils. Whether it’s on the air, on a tree’s bark, in the ground, whatever. The act of performing magic begins with a sigil.”
“Okay. But what’s a sigil?” I ask. I recognize the word; I’ve read it in books before. But I want to be sure I understand exactly what Archer is getting at. After everything that’s happened, it feels foolish to assume I know anything.
He smiles, all white teeth on golden skin like a god incarnate, and some of the tension in my shoulders melts away. “A sigil is a magical symbol. It’s a symbol that holds power. We use sigils to reinforce our borders and keep the witches at bay, because even though wolves don’t possess the same kind of magic witches do, the symbols themselves have magic. Anyone can access that sort of magic.”
I nod, trying very hard to act like what he’s saying makes sense.
Archer grimaces. “Well, as far as my understanding goes, anyway. Everything I can teach you about magic will be from the outside looking in. I can only tell you what I’ve observed. I can’t tell you how it feels from the inside; only another witch could do that.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’d rather learn from you.”
Even if we could find a witch who would be willing to teach me, I’d be too terrified of them to learn much. Besides, it would be dangerously stupid to let any of the witches out there know that one of their own is living among wolves.
“When I was being held by the coven who abducted me, I saw them use sigils often. The more powerful among them didn’t have to do anything more than trace the sigil in the air, while the weaker ones often drew a physical symbol.”
“What kinds of things can sigils do?” I ask, curious in spite of my fear.
“Many things. They can be used to conjure things, to fortify locks or barriers, and to manipulate the elements. The witches used sigils to torture me,” he adds quietly.
My heart forgets to beat for a second as my stomach sours. “They did?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, and I can tell he’s trying to keep his voice light and even. But I can see shadows in his eyes as he meets my gaze. “There are sigils that can be used to inflict pain without causing any bodily injury. It might seem more humane, even kind of them not to draw blood. But the only reason they used those sigils was so they could hurt me endlessly without risk of killing me.”
It’s easy to forget what he went through, so the stark reminder makes me feel like a terrible friend. I lean over and place my hand on his knee. “Archer, I-I’m so sorry about what happened to you.”
He covers my hand with his own, a sad smile playing across his face. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago, and I learned how to deal.” He shakes his head, as if banishing the painful memories. His eyes clear a little as he draws in a breath. “Now, my only goal is to help you learn how to deal too. Are you with me?”
“Till the end,” I promise.
“Beyond sigil magic,” Archer says, his tone becoming businesslike again, “as a witch, you’re capable of raw power that will manifest from your body as black smoke.”
“As it already has,” I mutter, tracing my finger over the scars on the back of one hand as I remember the way they turn black under violent emotions. On the heels of that thought, I remember the heavy, burdensome cloud of viscous black, hovering over me, urging me to kill the shifters...
“It has,” Archer agrees quietly. “But it’s not the end of the world, okay? This magic is a part of you, and we’re going to figure out how to make it obey you. To be ruled by you instead of the other way around. You just have to trust me.”
“I trust you.” And I do. There’s no question that I’d lay my life in his hands and have faith that he could lead me out to the other side of a terrible situation.
But it’s hard being in possession of such great power without really understanding why.
Along the wall, Trystan, Ridge, and Dare are no longer pretending to be lost in their own little conversation. All three gazes are firmly rooted on me and Archer where we sit, and I can tell they’ve heard every word. Trystan seems intrigued, though not really bothered by the situation. Ridge is his usual stoic self, well aware of the moment my gaze shifts to him and giving me an encouraging nod.
But Dare…
It doesn’t take a genius to read his darkly handsome face. He’s not happy with watching me learn witch magic.
He’s probably wishing he was anywhere else but here.
16
