“The second way is far cruder: if one of the bonded pair stabs the other, fatally, with the stitching bone, then that small bit of soul should escape back to the original person. But the two would have to stay together in close proximity for this to work, throughout the entire death, and I meanclose, skin-to-skin."
Gentry's entire heart dropped in her chest as she processed what the professor was saying. She would not be able to find a soul seamstress for a complex procedure that would require both her and Drayer Netherton together. And she also highly doubted she'd be able to sneak up close enough to Drayer to stab him with an old, ancient bone. Not to mention she didn't have the fucking thing.
"Is there any other way to break the curse?" she asked.
The professor shrugged. "Sure, a necromancer would be able to perform either of the two methods. But there is only one necromancer alive today, and she is a Weaver. Her identity is highly guarded from the public. I can’t speak to her skill, but…” He trailed off and gave her a look. “That is all I know.”
Getting the not-so-subtle hint that it was time for her to leave, Gentry stood up and left the office, slipping through the crowd of students who were milling towards their classes. For once, her mind was quiet. The internet had no leads for soul magic. The coven her father said was responsible had been disbanded by the Weavers over thirty years ago. The magic binding her and Drayer Netherton together was dependent on her finding the very necromancer bones used to bind them together.
She was fucked. Well and truly fucked. In ten days, her mother and Beckett would be snatched off the docks from their cruiseinto the Nethertons’ tender care if she didn’t turn herself in. A future she’d never allow to happen while she still breathed.
Maybe you should just turn yourself in now. You don’t know if their cruise is truly untraceable from witches.It was a very reasonable line of thought. A responsible one.
But then Gentry’s body went cold at the thought of seeing the delight in Drayer Netherton’s aristocratic eyes once she turned herself in. A man like that would never give her a chance to escape again. He’d likely drug her, keep her sedated for the rest of her days while he used her flesh and bones to take all his pain. Gentry personally knew how drugs played with time. It’d feel like eternity until death finally took her.
The implications of turning herself in utterly terrified her. Could she really turn herself in? Could she really be so selfless? The fact that Gentry didn’t know for certain disgusted her. She was a terrible older sister and daughter. But then again, she always had been. She’d chosen a life of scams with her father over them before she’d been cursed. Yet they’d never abandoned her in the hospital, always making sure to visit and send care packages. Her mother had never given up on her.
You won’t have to give yourself up,she reassured herself,now think of a plan with the information given. Wallowing never helped anyone.Refocusing herself, Gentry worked on getting out of the building. One step at a time.
Finding a gargoyle to take her down to the ground level proved to be a bigger challenge than coming up. There were none by the ledge where the witch students kept leaping off with their brooms. Not wanting to get knocked off, Gentry settled against the far wall as she waited for someone to bring one of the stoned creatures back up.
A hush falling over the students warned her that something was coming. The ledge became cluttered as students peered downwards, whispering amongst themselves.
Hints of words floated over such as ‘Weaver’, ‘princess’, and ‘death’. They sounded excited, like they were about to be visited by a celebrity.
Gentry froze in place out of fear. A Weaver was in the building. Likely on the ground floor if their positioning was anything to be believed. Surely they weren’t here for her. The university was technically Weaver grounds.
The students scattered away from the ledge as a tall female witch floated above on a broom, her dark eyes scanning intently before magnetically landing on Gentry. She looked feral and proud, her greasy black hair hanging down her shoulders and her pale neck marked with the black spider tattoo that all Weavers wore. It had a crimson hourglass in the center, and although it was the signal of the Weavers, this one looked more jagged than those hanging on flags around the university. One of its legs crept up the woman’s chin.
Although she’d only studied the Weavers at a glance while planning her escape, Gentry recognized this woman by that tattoo. Clea. The Weaver leader’s adopted, disgraced daughter — though the word ‘disgraced’ was only ever whispered in online forums, not real life. In real life, everyone feared the woman.
Clea landed on the ledge, her eyes never once leaving Gentry’s. “Scram,” she told the students, and they obeyed.
Then it was just them on the second floor’s foyer, close to the edge but surrounded by cozy study chairs and left-open books. Gentry didn’t feel particularly cozy.
“Huh,” Clea said as she stalked forward, her long legs eating up the distance, “finding you was easier than I thought it’d be. Time to die.”
Instantly Gentry was levitated against the wall. Hard. The breath left her lungs on impact, and soon she found herself gasping, covering her face with her arms in a futile attempt to block the next spell.
Only the next spell didn’t come as far as she could tell. She hung uselessly against the wall, the pressure on her back and shoulders immense. She kept blocking her face.
“You’re bleeding,” the Weaver stated and then she poked Gentry’s left arm directly where Drayer Netherton had cut her. The touch was by no means gentle. A yelp escaped Gentry’s mouth as her cuts opened further.
“Oh, shut up,” Clea snapped as she ripped the bandages off and pried Gentry’s arm off her face. Then she said, “I see. So this is how prissy Drayer talks to you then? And I thought I was sick. Although I must say that a threat carved into someone’s skin in person tends to be a bit more satisfying. But then again, he can’t catch you. You are a clever girl.” She sounded impressed.
Gentry dared to look at the Weaver then. The other woman was holding her arm, her long nails digging into the skin as the blood flowed in driblets.Why hasn’t she killed me yet?
Her silence must’ve been frustrating, because Clea snarled, a bit of spit landing on Gentry’s forehead, “Don’t you recognize your client, girl? I paid you a handsome sum for you to give up your own location. Had me fooled good when I hired that Jumper kid to take you out. Imagine my surprise when you turn him into your pet and escape.”
Shock went through Gentry at the revelation. “That was you? I scammed aWeaver?” Her words came out in a pathetic squeak of surprise.
Clea tossed her head back and laughed. “Perfect. The little magic-less scam artist doesn’t know everything. But I suppose that’s why I should kill you. After all”—she squeezed Gentry’s arm and she gasped—“if I kill you fast enough, then Drayer Netherton should drop dead. Emphasis onshould. That bastard is a far better witch than he should be, considering his witch-hating family. He might be able to put up a shield in time to not let your death hit him.”
This news that her death didn’t 100% guarantee his death surprised Gentry. She’d always understood that her being locked up was for her other half’s safety. The fact that she didn’t even have that small piece of control over him pissed her off. But it also gave her an angle to try with Clea.
Gentry licked her lips, nerves tingling down her spine as she looked at the woman about to kill her, when she said, “So you’ll kill me for achancefor him to die?”
“Yes,” the other woman said without hesitation.
