The words hit harder than they should. Because they’re true. The bond knows it. I know it. And now Rhea knows it. “I won’t let anything take her,” I say.
Rhea exhales. “Good. Because the next part is worse.”
“Rhea.”
“Your ancestor’s journals had an entry,” she continues. “A prophecy fragment. It said the Bellamy witch who reawakens the line will be the one who—”
Static crackles across the line. Interference? Something magical, maybe? “Rhea,” I say sharply. “Repeat that.”
The noise grows—“…the witch who—” …. “…balance or break—” …. “…Veda’s choice—” …. “…Slade, someone’s trying to—”
The call cuts. I stare at the phone, fury sharpening through my chest. Something—or someone—doesn’t want that prophecy spoken aloud.
The apartment door creaks open behind me. Piper stands there, sleepy, curls tousled, pendant glowing faintly against her throat. “What happened?” she whispers.
The curse hums. The bond pulls. And for the first time since she summoned me—I’m truly afraid of the thing waking inside her blood.
She feels it. The shift in the house, tension in the air, and the curse stirring like a creature rolling over in its sleep.
I don’t soften my voice. I can’t. “Rhea called,” I say. “From Prague.”
Her brow furrows. “Is she okay?”
“Yes.” No. Not really.
“She found answers,” I continue. “And we need to talk.”
Piper crosses her arms, chin tilting in that stubborn angle I’m already half in love with. “Talk about what?”
“The curse.”
Her breath catches, and I gesture toward the living room, toward the couch she likes to bury herself in when she’s overwhelmed. She doesn’t move. She’s bracing herself. “I’m fine right here,” she says.
Of course she is.
She wants walls. Distance. Time to prepare. But… There's no time for any of that.
“Piper,” I begin carefully, “the curse… it didn’t start with Veda alone. There were five sisters—”
She cuts me off with a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Five? As in…morethan one crazy ancestor making bad decisions?”
“They weren’t decisions,” I correct. “They were rites, the old ones. Pagan, the ones bound to the wheel of the year.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” I say. “For an ancient curse. For a bloodline that keeps producing witches powerful enough to attract attention—human andotherwise.”
Her jaw tightens. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying this isn’tjusta Christmas curse, Piper. It never was.”
She stares at me like I’ve kicked her chair out from under her.
“Rhea said the curse is tied to every major rite, every holiday our covens celebrate,” I continue. “Lupercalia. Ostara. Solstice. Samhain. Yule. All of them.”
She pales. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning yourentirebloodline—every branch descended from those sisters—is bound. Not just you.”
