No.
Seriously?Only I can do this job?Why?
Because you’re the last of your line.
The last? More like the first, no?
Your father is a block of obsidian.
Oh right.He’s out for the count.But couldn’t humans equipped with heavy-duty gloves free you?
For our protection, neither Fae nor humans can separate the obsidian from our bodies.
His voice is as somber as the sky hanging over the grove that’s starting to feel more like the dome of an arena in which I’ll have to fight for my life and his crow’s.
So only half-Crows?Before he can answer, another question hurtles into my brain.How come I’m not a block of obsidian?
Because your powers were bound in your mother’s womb, Fallon.
The bridge feels as though it swings beneath my feet. I grip the rope, my worry about toxic plants superseded by something way bigger. “Bound?” I exclaim.
Before you were born, a Shabbin witch penetrated the weakened wards and bound your magic.He pauses, waiting for his revelation to settle, but how in Luce could such a truth settle?
Twenty-two years, I’ve wondered why I had no magic.All right.Not twenty-two, but definitely a full decade.
I’m not faulty . . . I’m suppressed.
Because of a Shabbin witch.
I’m not defective.
Great Cauldron, I’mnotdefective.
I’m sorry to press you, Fallon, but we must hurry.
“Why?Why stifle my magic? And did my mother—” A lump is forming in my throat. “Did she accept, or was I spelled against her will?”
Your mother was aware it had to be done. It was for your safety, Fallon. What do you think the Fae would’ve done had they realized your heritage?
I would’ve been a block of obsidian, so I’m pretty certain they’d have tossed me into a canal.
I’m not defective.My lids burn. My chest hurts from how chaotically my heart beats.
I’m not defective.I want to cry I’m so relieved, but I also want to rage for having been tampered with.
If my powers are repressed, how come I can talk to you?
Movement in the grove was just reported to your aunt. I promise to explain everything to you after—
He stops speaking so suddenly that my eyebrows bend.
“What?” I scrutinize his feathers, fearing they’re about to morph back into iron, but they remain black and downy. His eyes shut, and the absence of gold dropkicks my heart.What’s wrong?
Something tall and dark appears at the end of the bridge. A man.Sewell.He’s wrapped strips of his turban around his face, leaving only his eyes apparent. His stare is round, glassy, haunted.
He takes a step.
Falters.
