Each swipe erased a line of the nightmare text, the smoke vanishing with a hiss. By the time I erased the last drop of my blood, the page was blank again, though it still felt alive, hungry.
Oscar had gone utterly still, like a hunting hawk. “Are you alright, Miss?”
I nodded, even though my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. “What the hell was that?”
He licked his lips, or tried to. “Some spells are too powerful and not meant to be used. They’re meant for witches who wish to do harm to other witches. There is a spell that can drain powerfrom other witches. I suspect your mother was trying to keep you—and anyone else—safe from the knowledge.”
I stared at the page. “So if the Wyrdmother got her hands on this—if she knew it was my blood that could make that spell appear—she could…” I trailed off, stomach turning.
Oscar finished for me. “She could drain you of every last drop. Or worse.”
I looked at my thumb, blood drying, and wondered how much it would take to open all the secrets in that book. Every drop of my magic? Of my blood?
I slammed the grimoire shut, the clasp locking with a hard, final click.
“Promise me something, Oscar,” I said, voice low.
“Anything, Miss.”
“If anything happens to me, if I get taken, or if I…if I’m lost, you burn this book. Burn it and scatter the ashes in the canyon.”
He nodded, solemn as a priest. “It will be done.”
I exhaled, a little shaky, but clear-headed. I couldn’t figure out why my mother would have such a spell in her possession. Until I learned what else was in the book, I would continue to protect it.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of orders and frosting and customers, but every time my eyes glanced toward the grimoire, I felt its energy hum, hungry and patient and biding its time.
At closing, Papa called to let me know he’d be a little late. They were running extra security shifts; Arsenal needed backup. I told him it was fine, and not to worry, but the moment I locked the bakery door and drew the shades, the night closed in like a fist.
Oscar climbed into the window, visible only to me, gave me a curt nod, and said, “I shall keep watch from here.”
I smiled. “Good. I need to finish the crumb coat on the cake.”
He nodded, curling up on a folded napkin like a general preparing for battle.
In the kitchen, I piped frosting with hands that had finally stopped shaking, and let the comfort of sugar and memory do its work. My mother had known what she was doing when she hid the dangerous spells, and now it was my turn to keep the world safe from what lurked in those pages.
I finished the cakes, cleaned the kitchen, and climbed the stairs to my little apartment above the bakery. The window looked out over the street, and for a long time I sat on the sill, watching the empty darkness, wondering if the Wyrdmother was out there, searching for a way in.
If she came, I wouldn’t cower.
I was the last Waters witch, and I had work to do.
Chapter 21
Big Papa
Itold her I’d be a little late, but would try to be there at 6:00. I usually made a habit of being early, but tonight I forced myself to arrive exactly on time. Aspen had that effect on me—made me want to get it right, even if it meant white-knuckling the steering wheel for a full sixty seconds outside her bakery so I didn’t come across as someone who expected her to rush for me. The clock on the dash rolled over, and I killed the ignition, took a breath, and stepped out into the dry evening.
The sun was setting behind Dairyville’s one functional stoplight, laying long shadows across the sidewalks. The bakery glowed like a lantern in the middle of the block, every pane ofglass scrubbed clean, the interior so spotless it looked staged for a magazine. Aspen was already waiting, posted up behind the counter with Oscar perched on her shoulder like a familiar out of a storybook. She wore the red polka dot dress I loved, white collar crisp and hair up in a high ponytail that made her look a little younger than she was and twice as fierce.
I took an extra moment to look at her through the glass. She’d set all the chairs upside-down on the tables, swept the black-and-white tile floors to a shine, and even left a single candle burning by the register—a homey little touch for a girl who’d lived in a small cottage with her mother. But she wasn’t calm. Her posture was tight, hands clasped on the counter, her eyes darting not to me, but to the battered leather bag at her feet. Even Oscar seemed on edge, his tail twitching with the kind of nervous energy I associated with incoming mortars.
I knocked twice; a habit from nights on patrol, and let myself in.
“Evening, Sunshine,” I said, voice gentle.
She gave me a smile, but it was thinner than usual. “Hey, Papa. You’re right on time.”
