Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“Yes, I have wondered, but the conclusion to my wondering isn’t that somehow someone is stealing the magic of witches!” I snapped, shaking my head. “It is not possible. Again, even if it were, it would most likely not only kill the witch who receives the magic but also the witch the magic was taken from.”
“Unless you figure out just how much you can take out of witch and put to into another,” Taelon stated, nodding to himself. “If you look at magic like an unstable chemical, the key would be measuring how much and when. You’d need to experiment and with experiments…”
“Comes a high mortality rate of witches who would need to be explained. Unless there is a scapegoat, a vampire or vampires to blame and use as cover,” Theseus finished for him as they both looked to me as if I was to jump in next.
“You both sound like mad scientist right now. Are you not hearing me? What you are talking about is not possible! That type of magic does not exist.”
“Don’t you have a book on magic and of all the magic that does exist?” Theseus questioned, watching me.
“She has a what?” Taelon asked.
But I never looked away from Theseus’s gaze. “Where is it?”
“It disappeared once you fell asleep,” he answered.
I still felt it somewhere even though I could not see it.
“Wraith?” I called, and the book appeared in front of me.
“A grimoire?” Taelon came close to inspect it, but I moved away from him and back toward the desk.
“Wraith? Show me. Is there a way to take another witch’s magic for your own?”
The book opened, the pages turning with speed before arriving at an image of a young, dark woman with 1920-30s short, sleek hair, a smooth bob with curled tips under a feathered hat. Under it, the words read:
“There is no magic greater than love. For even the sun, the moon and stars, the sea, the valleys and mountains, all the creeping things must bow to it. I know no love greater or purer than the love I have for my daughter, Annika. Let my body be torn to shreds as I give up all my assets, the magic blessed upon me I give to thee, and I do not regret my solemn plea. For it is not for me, I call upon the magics deep under the sea, I pray on the magics high above me. Punish if you must. Scatter me onto the earth as dust. But all that I am, I betrust, blood for blood, from dusk to dusk.” These are the last words of Isidore Omeron, whose love was so great and pure that her magic obeyed, rekindling once more for her daughter’s aid.
The image was of Isidore in her own home with a dagger in her heart, magic crystals around her with markings I didn’t comprehend that she’d written in her own blood. It was haunting.
“Wraith, is this the only way?”
Yes, and the way is very dark. I heard her voice before the page flipped, and when I saw my uncle’s and my father’s face, I wanted to close the book. I didn’t want to see it, but I was already reading.
Twins born, one of day and the other night. Strong was the one of day, and weaker was the one born of night. Bitterness set and festered within the heart of the night born that the day did not see. For the day born was blinded by his heart. His love did the night born likewise loved. But she did not choose night but the day, adding to the night born’s bitterness and rage. In his heart, nothing remained, losing himself more to the pursuit of old forgotten magics, to the knowledge lost, to the dark and tainted arts, turning his back on the day. The day sought after him. But time and time again was rejected.
Until once, when the day born’s heart was heavy, for again, he and his love had lost a child. The day returned to the night, seeking the wisdom he had learned. And the night told him of an ancient secret within their family’s line, to give of one’s self for another. The day agreed, seeking this power for his next child.
Together, they worked perfecting this magic, crafting the new spells, and when it was done and the day prepared to give of himself, the night betrayed him, directing the magic not to the coming child but to himself.
My stomach turned. I hung my head, trying not to read, trying not to watch the images, to watch as my uncle ripped the magic out of my father’s soul from inside the nine-point star. But I couldn’t look away. I cleaned my tears as I watched my father die and my uncle lose control of my father’s magic. It was too much magic for him. Magic exploded off him, tearing the house apart, shaking the very foundation of the earth, and when he tried to reach for his son before he was blown away, he froze him solid before his son shattered into dust and ice.