“Then look it up. You’ll see a picture of me.”
Their by-play continued as we headed down the stairs and walked across to the truck. To my relief, both government cars had gone. For some reason, I’d half expected Clayton to do something crazy—like try to run us over or even shoot us. But perhaps he wanted to check the spell had indeed been fully removed before he got down to the business of revenge.
I had to find a way to protect Belle. Had to.
I didn’t say much on the way home, and I didn’t stay at Aiden’s, as much as I wanted to. Belle’s exhaustion pulsed through me, its force so sharp and strong my own bones were aching.
I made us both a strength potion, but shoved such a big dose of sleeping herbs into hers that she barely even made it to bed. I tugged the blankets over her, then walked across to the bookcase and studied the old books secured behind glass doors. While the twenty or so leather-bound volumes we had stored here were only a tiny portion of the books Belle had inherited from her grandmother, I had a vague memory of seeing a spell that could protect the recipient from physical assault. I had no idea if it had been in one of these volumes or those stored offsite, but if I could find it, then maybe I could prevent Clayton doing to her what he’d tried to do to me.
I opened the door and ran a finger across the spines, hoping instinct or even that distant memory would kick in. Neither did, so I pulled the most logical three out and headed into the living area. After making myself a large hot chocolate and liberally dosing it with Bailey’s Irish Cream, I settled down for a long night of reading.
It was close to dawn before I found it, though it wasn’t in any of the books, but rather amongst a number of handwritten notes tucked in the back of the rather oddly titled—and also unfinished—Spells from Uncertain Times. Nell had obviously died before she’d been able to finish the book.
I carefully unfolded the brittle piece of paper and studied the spell. It required the recipient’s hair or skin, as well as something he or she held dear, and would only work if there were a deep connection between witch and recipient—which was rather odd.
It wasn’t until I reached the end of the spell that I realized why—it required the blood of the practitioner to fuel it.
Blood magic.
Dark magic.
Which explained the title. Blood magic had been in heavy use during the Dark Ages, but had thankfully petered out since then. Few these days used it—and those who did were hunted down and killed.
While many of Nell’s other books mentioned counters for dark spells, none—as far as I was aware—detailed an actual blood spell. So why this one? Did that mean it was safer? That it didn’t stain the soul as deeply or as darkly as the others did?
I scrubbed a hand across my eyes, uncertain what to do. There’d been no other workable spell that would protect her from physical assault, but dare I risk blood magic?
My gaze swept the note again. At the very bottom of the page, in writing so small I had to hold it closer to the lamp to read it, was a note; I foresee a need for this in the distant future, but be wary of its use, dear witchling. The spell lies in the gray zone; it will not draw the ire of the council but it will make you more susceptible to the darker forces of this world.
I swallowed heavily. Being more susceptible to darkness was not something I needed or wanted in a reservation that still had several years of being invaded by those same forces ahead of it.
But if it could protect Belle from what was coming…
I grabbed a pen and quickly jotted down the instructions, then carefully refolded the note and tucked it safely back in the book. I returned all three to the bookcase, then collected the candles and other magic paraphernalia I needed from the reading room. I collected some hair from her brush, then walked over to her dressing table. There were many beautiful necklaces and rings that she no doubt loved, but the spell had called for an item the recipient held dear, and to me that meant something they didn’t want to lose.
Nothing here fit that bill.
But I knew something that did.
I opened the top drawer and reached past her underpants to the small stack of ribbon-wrapped letters sitting there. They’d all come from Belle’s first lover—a much older French chef with a poet’s heart who not
only taught us both to cook, but who’d fallen madly, passionately, in lust with the then-eighteen-year-old Belle. Their affair had burned bright for seventeen months and had ended equably, but during that time Miguel had sent her numerous poems and letters detailing his admiration and desire for her. She’d kept every single one of them.
They were all yellowed with age and smelled faintly of the rose petals that had once accompanied each one. I carefully undid the red ribbon, then opened the top note. It was obviously the letter he’d written after they’d made love for the first time, and detailed exactly what he intended to do the next time. The intimacy of it had my cheeks burning and my pulse racing.
I grabbed my phone and took a photo so that Belle would always have his words if not the actual note, then quickly did the ribbon back up and tucked the letters back into their hiding spot.
One would have to be enough.
After placing the candles around the bed and ensuring there was nothing close by to catch alight, I carefully lit each one and then sat within their semicircle. I lit the final candle, placed it in front of me, then tugged her hair from her brush and put it and the letter beside the candle and my copied instructions. I took a deep breath to center my energy and still my nerves, and then began the incantation. It was long and intricate, and the forming threads were clouded and heavy. By the time I neared the end, my pulse raced and I was shaking with fatigue.
I blinked the sweat out of my eyes, then slid the tip of my athame into the folded letter and held it over the candle, watching it burn as I whispered the spell’s penultimate line. As the paper blackened and burned, and tiny sparks of red spun into the air, the spell’s threads began to pulse with power.
It was working. Just one more thing to do… and it was possibly the hardest.
My hand shook as I pressed the tip of my athame to my finger. I briefly closed my eyes, gathering courage, and then pierced my skin and let the blood drip onto the candle. Something fractured deep within, and uneasiness stirred. I ignored it and spoke the final few words. The pulsing threads settled like a blanket over Belle’s sleeping form and slipped under her skin. She stirred, murmuring a soft protest, but didn’t wake.
I closed my eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was done. All I could do now was pray that it lasted long enough to counter Clayton’s arrival.