Chapter Fifteen

Four Seventh Years & A Ghost

“I love secret meetings in the dead of night.” A small smile plays poetically across Tuesday’s face.

“You didn’t say anything about him being here.” Tomorrow Jones is pissed. Sinking into the couch, she folds one arm over the other as she props her feet up on the massive, asymmetrical slab that makes up the coffee table, glaring up at Soren.

Soren glares right back.

It’s a blossoming mutual distaste.

He looks so out of place at the Comet, with all its soft candlelight and feminine energy. He’s all sharp angles and masculine angst as he fleetingly takes in the coffeehouse. “Quaint,” Soren remarks in a tone that communicates just how much he hates quaint things. He peers insultingly over our four heads. “Where is everyone?”

“Wow, could you be more of a toadhole?” Tomorrow retorts.

I shrug at Soren. “You want people who won’t talk, well, here you are. We’re all various levels of social piranhas. You guys don’t mind me saying that, right?”

“Piranhas have sharp teeth.” Tomorrow’s eyes are fixed on Soren. I take this as a no.

Coughing awkwardly to break the tension, I explain, “Soren has some sort of spell he needs our help with. Soren, as per our deal, I present you with us decidedly average witches to help you with your possibly life-threatening task.”

“There are only two people here,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Funny,” I reply. “I count five. You, runes. The necromancy badass.” I gesture to Sabbath and then myself with a flourish. “The humble alchemist. These two are Tuesday Jones, Spellwriting Brood, and Tomorrow Jones, Transfiguration Brood.”

“You’re trying to do plenam potestatem!” Tuesday says excitedly. “You can call me Tu, by the way. My friends always do,” she corrects me brightly.

I try momentarily to think of which friends she’s talking about; I only ever see Tuesday Jones talking to her sister, her professors, or herself.

Soren stares at the four of us, waiting for the punchline. Clearly, he doesn’t understand that the joke’s on him. “One, two, three, four, five.” I go ahead and count for him since he seems to be having a hard time with numbers tonight.

“Don’t forget about Zach,” Tuesday pipes up. “He’s also happy to help.”

We all look around in the dim lighting for any source of a sixth person. There’s no one.

“Excuse me, who?” Soren growls.

“Tu’s dead boyfriend,” Tomorrow offers dryly.

Soren sighs. “We’ve got a ghost, then.”

“He’s here?” Sabbath peers nervously over her shoulder.

“He was, a little bit ago.” A soft, regretful breath escapes Tuesday. “Zach died before he was assigned a Brood, but he’s good moral support. When I see him. I can only see him for one minute every day.”

“Interesting,” Soren says, sounding very disinterested. His eyes narrow in on me, pinning me in place. “These are the people you thought were capable of a soul spell... Tomorrow Jones, who failed to become Runes Brood and landed herself in Transfiguration instead, and Tuesday Jones, who was a Necromancy hopeful and has since become a... spellwriter? And yourself?”

“I see Amandine has been whispering in your lonely little ear,” Tomorrow snarls.

Folding one arm over the other, I give Soren a pointed look. “You said nothing about how qualified we have to be.”

“It was definitely implied. So, let me get this straight, you’ve brought me four seventh-years and a ghost?”

“I don’t know anything about this ghost,” I bark defensively.

No “Thanks for coming, despite my blackmailing.” No “Thanks for gathering this lovely and interesting horde of people to help me with my deadly spell, Mick.” It’s insulting, frankly.

“This might shock you, Soren Cain, but my family history doesn’t make me real popular around here, and you told me to, I quote, ‘hurry.’” I make sure to say this with a lot of spite, and Soren’s eyes linger on me longer than I expect. My cheeks burn as I hold his steely gaze.

Finally, he looks away and I feel a snap in my body, like two magnets coming unlinked.

“Spit it out, Burnbrighter,” Tomorrow hisses. “I have far better things to do than wait on another Cain to make up his mind about something he shouldn’t be doing. What do you want?”

“I have the pieces of a soul spell that I need to finish. I came to Paris for the Grimoire du Mage.”

Tuesday narrowly escapes spitting out a mouthful of coffee and, instead, gulps it down loudly. “Well, that—”

“That’s impossible,” Tomorrow cuts in.

“You can see why I need higher level witches and warlocks.” Soren gives us a scathing look. “No offense.”

“Offense taken,” I assure him. “What’s up?” My gaze maneuvers between the twins and Soren. “What’s wrong with this book?”

“I remember,” Sabbath adds quietly. “In second year, Thorncaster went through the basic histories of the Broods. She told us about the most powerful public grimoire still in known existence. The Grimoire du Mage is that book.”

“And he—” Tomorrow Jones thrusts a finger toward Soren, “thinks a bunch of witchlings can break in and steal it.”

“I didn’t say anything about stealing,” Soren replies, raising a brow.

“Alright,” Tomorrow huffs. “Say we could get access to the grimoire. What nasty soul magic are we doing?”

Soren’s gaze flickers. “I can’t tell you that.”

Tilting her head back, mouth falling open, Tomorrow releases a mirthful laugh. When she finishes, she fixes him with her spiteful gaze, no mercy on her face. “Our mother was up for the Council, you know. She knew your father and said he was a real swainsack. Said everything that happened with Pandora was his fault. Mother had heard whispers...whispers that the Claiming isn’t what we’re told it is. That when witchlings are dedicated as infants, their powers are tithed. Before she could be awarded her seat, Pandora went and slaughtered the whole council, and Lathan Cain abolished the election. No one’s talked about it since. Curious, no?”

My head whips instinctively to Soren. His eyes are unblinking, his jaw tight.

“So,” Tomorrow leans back, having caught him in her snare, “you’re going to have to give us a really good reason why we should trust another Cain warlock with lots of power and undisclosed plans.”

Soren rolls his eyes so far back that they become locked in a stare-off with the ceiling. At night, the Comet’s ceiling glows with constellations skimming almost imperceptibly above, but obviously, this is another thing Soren Cain doesn’t appreciate about my favorite place. The scowl rupturing his face reads like a book: presently, he has the badass necromancer. Better to have Sabbath and us, than offend her and have no one.

I kind of hope that if Soren dies for some reason during this very dangerous undertaking of his, Sabbath will take that moment to reinforce her stance on no resurrections.

When his eyes finally return back to earth, deep admission fills his expression. “The spell is... personal in nature.”

“Personal, as in having to do with Uncle Lathan?”

Soren seems to weigh his answer carefully. “Yes.”

I don’t know that I fully believe him, but I’ll bite.

Leaning forward, Tomorrow’s eyes are alight with a dangerous energy. “Please do elaborate.”

“I believe you’re right about the Claiming. But there are things my uncle won’t answer for, even to me.”

Fear surfaces in my voice as I’m suddenly reminded of Peter-Paul’s last gasp of a warning to me. He’d said something about the Claiming. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“I have my suspicions that the High Council siphons power from witchlings at birth and returns it when we perform the rites to become Witches of the Covenant.”

“After we swear our loyalty,” Sabbath whispers.

Soren offers a curt nod. “There is no mystical collective power we inherit. We’re all just given back our birthright. In the meantime, the Council uses witchling power to fuel their rule. How, I don’t know. It’s just my theory.”

“So, you want to go against the High Council?” Tuesday gives us a frightened glance, one which Tomorrow doesn’t return.

Sucking on a tooth, a calculating look crosses her eye. “Why should we trust you? You could be making all this up. You could be a spy for him.”

“Spying on what? I’m not trying to launch a coup, Jones. But if the spell works, it could be the basis for changing the entire witching world.”

“Oh, I would love to get my hands on that grimoire,” Tuesday grins maniacally.

“If you’re anti-Council, I could be down for a little bitchcraft,” Tomorrow admits. “But what’s in it for us?”

Soren glances at the small scars on her arm that try to mimic his. “I’m willing to make deals. I’ll teach you runes.”

It’s obvious she’s trying not to look intrigued, but her eyebrows raise infinitesimally. Realizing Tomorrow’s made a sweet deal, Tuesday sits up straight in her seat. “I want Zach back,” she says, hopeful. “In the world of the living. I want to see him again, all the time. Forever.”

Soren blinks slowly, like he’s already feeling the pain of having to fulfill these deals. His attention turns to Sabbath, who’s been watching tonight’s proceedings with a cautious calm over her face. “Sabbath?”

“You know what I want. Mika. Fix her.”

“I was recently dead.” I shrug to the Jones twins. Tuesday nods understandingly.

Soren’s eyes circle to me. “And you, Mika? What do you want from me?”

His gaze is like a spear to my gut, and the longer I stare at it, the deeper it twists into me. “I don’t want anything from you,” I snap. “I just want to get this over with, so I don’t need anything from you ever again.”

Can Soren Cain see the desperation hiding behind my determined words? His gaze seems to find something in my eyes, but before I can make sense of it, the coffee mug in my hands slips through my ghostly grasp, hitting the floor with a sharp crash.

Blinking a few times, Soren seems to come out of his trance, his eyes hardening with a sort of feral look.

A chill shoots through me.

Soren’s frown deepens. “Forget the deals. You all aren’t capable of what I need. I can find better.”

He turns to leave the Comet, but, launching her arm up, Tomorrow fists the air. Soren doubles over instantly. “That’s a very rude thing to say, Cain.”

Thank the seers for Tomorrow Jones; she’ll knock Soren down a notch or six in no time.

“Is that the balls rune again?” I whisper.

“No, this one starts to boil his—”

“Got it.”

Taking a step toward him, Tomorrow twists her wrist in the air. “I can guarantee that you will not find anyone else willing to help your sorry ass. You might have Amandine LeFevre wrapped around your finger, but not everyone can be bought with a pretty face and five minutes of attention.”

She dares another step closer.

“Lucky for you, the Grimoire du Mage requires a spellwriter to access. Also, lucky for you, Tuesday happens to be a phenomenal one, and you just dangled the hope of getting her boyfriend back in front of her. So, think carefully before you walk out that door. Besides, I was rather looking forward to those rune lessons.”

Snapping up quickly, Soren draws a sign in the air and Tomorrow’s wrists slam together as if bound by an invisible rope. “First lesson, Jones: never provoke someone more trained in spilling blood than you. Like I said, deals are off.”

A loud gasp escapes Tomorrow when he releases her, and he turns to leave. I can’t let him.

“Not mine,” I call after him. “You never said anything about you having to approve of our recruits, only that we had to make them show up.”

Casting a glance over his shoulder at me, Soren speaks slowly. “Well played.” There’s something rolling off of him in waves, cold and withdrawn. My stomach twists up in a knot.

Soren storms out and I flash a look at Sabbath, running out after him. He’s stalking down the hallway quickly enough that I have to jog to catch up to him. “Soren. Soren!”

My hand lifts instinctively to stop him and he flips on me, livid. “Do you think that was funny, Michlynn? Do you think those people—you—are capable of doing upper-level magic, when you’ve barely entered high-level classes in school? You can’t even hold solid objects!”

I glare at him. “Of course I can’t, Soren, because there’s something wrong with me, that you’re supposed to be fixing.”

“And why is it wrong, Mika? Because you did magic that was too advanced for you?”

“You have no idea why we did that magic.”

“And you have no idea how badly I need for not a single aspect of this spell to go awry.”

“Then tell me. You want us to do the spell with you? Tell us why we’re doing it.”

“I don’t want you to do it,” he snarls, stepping so close that his breath sweeps across my face. I refuse to flinch. “Telling you is not part of the deal.”

“Neither is helping you. You said gather five, and we did. So now you have no choice.” I fold one arm over the other slowly, staring him down. “We’re all you’ve got, even if we’re not who you want. And we’ll still help you despite the danger and the vagueness, despite the fact that Sabbath and I have already technically fulfilled our end of the bargain. Do you know why? Because this is Spellfall, not Burnbright. We’re noble witches.”

At this, Soren frees an ugly laugh. Clearly, he doesn’t find us as noble as I do, currently. If he could read behind the lines of my thoughts, he’d hear me thinking, “Because we’re good witches.”

“Botching this spell is not an option. I only have one shot.”

“Test us, then.”

I feel suddenly like I have to prove myself to him. I’ve never felt like I’d enjoy even a taste of power until I’d met Soren Cain. He stirs up something in me, some potent concoction of magic and rage. Some visceral reaction that makes the hair shoot up on my arms, and every part of me near enough to him crackle with spite.

I hate that I almost want to live in this feeling forever. I hate the whisper in my mind that this is the sort of power that would make me thrive.

Average, Mika. It’s what you’re good at, and it’s what you want.

“Test us,” I repeat. “See how well we work together. See if we’re capable of your spell. And if we aren’t, you go recruit the upperclassmen. Sell your soul to Amandine, get her brother Matthias on your side, you’re in. Easy.” I left the whole “assuming you have a soul” part out, but I think it’s implied.

Soren’s fixed expression is indecipherable, as he looks at me long and hard.

I blink slowly, posturing. “Regardless, I’m going to need you to fix my problem now, please.”

After one, endless second of his piercing scowl, he reaches for my arm, tugging it away from my body and swiping up my sleeve. He holds it in place with a rigid grasp as his other hand scours his pocket for something. When Soren withdraws the knife, I instinctively jerk my arm away, but this reaction only serves to make him tighten his grip.

“What are you doing?” I ask, voice streaked with panic.

“I’m Runes Brood, Mika. Your solution is a rune,” he answers, looking at me like I’m stupid.

“No.” I wrangle my arm away and he frowns at me, not seeming angry so much as confused. “I don’t want you to do that.”

“You’re afraid?”

I can’t tell if he’s asking whether I am afraid of the pain, or afraid of him being the cause of it. The truth is, I am afraid—but not of either of those things. I shake my head. “No. I just want to do it another way.”

“There isn’t another way.”

“Of course there is,” I retort. “You just happen to think in blood runes. Maybe that’s the most efficient way, but it’s not the way I want to do it. Can’t you, like, draw an invisible rune on me?”

“It would only last about a day.” Soren pockets the knife with a sigh, wondering, no doubt, how he can now fulfill his end of the bargain if he has to touch me every day.

At least, that’s what I’m wondering.

Soren motions for my arm, and I reluctantly raise it back up to him. “You’re an anomaly, Carrow,” he grunts, eyes falling to my open palm, where the pink lines sketched across my skin tell a different story about my relationship to runes.

“That was not a choice,” I remind him.

“Obviously. Who would bind themselves?”

I swallow, because that does actually sound like something I might do.

Holding his finger above my wrist, Soren hesitates. He seems reluctant to make an invisible power mark across my skin instead of doling out pain. Then his fingertip falls against my skin and he begins to sketch an elaborate design with his finger, a subtle trail of light lagging behind his touch. My magic fizzles and pops with the contact, little blue streaks of electricity emerging between our skin, twining around his fingers. Hopefully, that means the rune is already working.

He pauses at first, but then continues. I breathe a sigh of relief.

All I can think about as I watch, mesmerized, is how many lines he’d been about to carve into my skin. I want to scowl up at him with the thought, but it’s hard to scowl at a person who’s cradling your arm.

“Your mom was a legend at Burnbright. For her Runes skills.” He gives me a cursory glance through his lashes, long enough to see my face harden at my mother’s mentioning.

I wonder then if he understands why I refuse to be sliced up. I don’t want any part of my magic—average as it is—to taste the mingling pain and power of carving a rune into skin.

Once he finishes, he inspects his handiwork. I inspect him. I don’t know what he’s seeing, invisible as the rune is, but the small furrow of his brow, the roaming blue gaze of his eyes, seem to indicate that he can see something.

“Okay,” Soren says slowly, clearly lost deep in thought, “this isn’t going to be a long term solution.”

“You don’t want to touch me every day for the rest of my life?” I ask dryly.

Soren, being Soren, doesn’t indulge me with a reaction. “There’s one other option,” he says reluctantly, finally drawing his eyes up to me. “A potion.”

“A potion?!” I throw up my hands. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

Tightlipped and lost in his own mind, he shakes his head. “It’ll work. Just—just give me a few days to get the ingredients.”

“Sure, fine.” I shrug, sweet relief washing over me. “Wow, they teach all kinds of things at Burnbright.”

“I didn’t learn this at Burnbright.”

Soren grabs something from his pocket and hands it to me. A vial. “Here. Have Sabbath cry into this. We’ll need three of her tears.”

I frown at it and the inconsequential way Soren talks about Sabbath’s tears, but by the time I have the thing in my possession, Soren’s already stalked halfway down the hall.

“Soren...” I call, and he flashes a look back at me. “Thank you,” I say. It sounds hollow, more like a question than gratitude.

“It’s the deal,” he replies. Then he disappears without another look back.

I examine my arm. Soren’s mark is undetectable to the naked eye—and even to my own senses. I’d never know it was there if I hadn’t watched him draw it on me. My arm still tingles when I march back to Sabbath, who’s waiting for me outside the door of the Comet.

“Omens, I hate him so much.” I pass her the vial. “I need you to cry into this.”

Sab & Mika's friendship is def my favorite part of this story. I mean... I love me a good slowburn romance, but female friendship rocks. What's your fave part of the story so far?

xx Jessa

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