This doesn’t feel like a party trick. It feels ancient.
I blow the thought off almost immediately. No one really knows what a Daughter’s magic is supposed to feel like.
Maybe this is normal.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel … significant.
She finally blinks, shuts her eyes tight, and slowly snaps out of it.
“What just happened? Did that fucker refuse to help us? What an asshole.”
She sounds like herself again, and I’m left speechless, a rare occurrence for a snarky, ancient creature who has a comeback for everything.
“Aurora, you … Christ, you don’t even know, do you? You just pulled something out of the ether and lashed it between you and that old fucker. It was beautiful. Terrifying but … beautiful.”
I pause, watching her.
“I wonder if persuasion is a power a Daughter might possess.”
Music drifts through the house again while I consider the implications. Persuasion feels a little too powerful for what we’ve always assumed Daughters could do.
Then again, maybe these things get stronger over generations.
Maybe the magic’s just evolving.
Still … persuasion’s a hell of a thing for the universe to hand out at random.
“Ah, Christ, Ezra. Still swallowing fairytales, are ya? That Daughter shite’s just that—shite. Never met one, have you?” Iain asks as he flies by on the way to the kitchen.
“Come on, ya old fucker. You know I do all my work in the kitchen. I’ll give ya ten minutes,” Iain grumbles while he clears a spot at his table for us.
I pull out one of the dingy, mismatched kitchen chairs for Aurora and give her what I hope is an encouraging smile.
Iain’s kitchen is a claustrophobic nightmare. It’s crammed full of herbs, exotic spices, and every mystical tool required for spell-casting. The old wrakh sits down across from us and stares.
“Well, go on then! I don’t have all fucking day,” Iain snaps, sipping his hot tea from a pink mug that definitely wasn’t there a second ago.
In glittery script, it reads: “I stared at Hettie’s tits, and all I got were free muffins and blue balls.”
I don’t need to see the back of it to know it says, “Butter & Salt.”
In Lorewood, Hettie starts the conversation, and whatever’s listening makes sure she gets the last word. She’s not magical, not technically, but the town listens to her like a favorite child. The air around her smells like sugar and lavender and something I can’t quite name—something buried and rooted, something I recognize in my bones.
It’s notherpower. It’s older than power. And the town listens when she bakes. Because whatever she’s calling on remembers. And it’s not something you fuck with.
And her mugs? They appear when you’re trying to look serious and say something important.
Every goddamn time.
He glares at the mug like it personally betrayed him. “Fuckin’ Hettie,” he mutters.
I don’t disagree.
Knowing Iain, it’s best to start with the spells, then address the Daughters and Disciples. Either way, the volatile prick will most likely kick us out in the next few minutes, anyway.
“Iain, we’re here because we need your help—”
