She squeezed my hand. “Yeah. It was.”
Killian was already falling asleep between us, his body finally relaxing. The crisis had brought us back together physically, but I knew the real work was still ahead.
8
— • —
Wen
Three days after the assassination attempt, I was sitting in a private meeting room with a witch who looked like she could turn me into a toad if I annoyed her, and honestly, at this point, I might welcome it.
Casimya was ancient. Not just old, but ancient in the way that mountains were ancient. Powerful. Unshakeable. She’d swept into the castle that morning like she owned the place, her dark robes trailing behind her and her silver hair braided in intricate patterns that probably had magical significance I didn’t understand. According to Mal’s very formal introduction, she was one of the most knowledgeable witches alive when it came to bloodlines and magical ancestry.
She was also, I discovered within five minutes, delightfully sarcastic.
“The power this boy has,” she said, looking at Killian who was sleeping on my lap, exhausted from another nightmare-filled night. His body was curled against me, one hand fisted in my shirt like even in sleep he was afraid I might disappear. “I have only heard of it once before.”
“When?” Mal asked, leaning forward in his chair with that intensity that meant he was cataloging every word.
“A family. Long ago. The best portal casters who ever lived. Hybrids, most of them. Legends, really. Basically the Shakira of portal magic.”
I blinked. “Did you just compare ancient magical bloodlines to Shakira? How do you evenknowabout Shakira?”
“I pride myself on investigating other worlds, so I’m very familiar with Earth and Shakira. Her hips don’t lie and neither did this family’s portals. The comparison stands.” Casimya’s expression was completely serious, which somehow made it funnier.
I liked her immediately. Anyone who could reference pop culture while discussing centuries-old magical lineages was my kind of person.
“What happened to them?” I asked, trying to focus on the important parts instead of the absurdity.
Casimya waved her hand dismissively, her rings catching the light. “They vanished. Poof. Gone. Very dramatic exit, from what I understand. No goodbye notes, no forwarding address, just gone.”
“When was this?”
“Over two hundred years ago, give or take a decade. I lose track after the first century.”
“Two hundred? Then they’re dead. They’d have to be.”
“Bold of you to assume. Witches are stubborn about dying.”
I shifted in my seat, my hand gripping the armrest. “You mean...”
“Witches live very long lives, Your Majesty, just like wolves. Centuries, if we’re powerful enough. Or too spiteful to die. I’m personally aiming for spiteful. It seems more reliable than power.”
“Wait,” I said. “How old areyou?”
Casimya smiled, sharp and amused. “Rude question. I like you.”
I couldn’t help but smile back. There was something refreshing about her complete lack of formality. She treated Mal like he was just another person instead of a powerful king, and she talked to me like we were friends grabbing coffee instead of complete strangers discussing magical ancestry.
“What were their names?” Mal asked, and I could hear the control in his voice. “The portal casters?”
“The last known were Lohuis and Marya. Basically royalty in the magical community. Everyone wanted their power. That’s the only reason they were liked, really. Witches pointedly ignored their wolf ancestry because we’re snobs like that. Can’t have the perfect bloodline sullied by animal shifters.”
I froze.
Everything went very still.
“What?” My voice came out strangled. “What were their names?”
