“Daya, abi…” Meriam sighs. “Shemade you mortal.”
My jaw slackens around a breathy, “What?”
“She bound your magic.”
That flicks me out of my daze. It also flicks my mandible shut. But only for an instant. “You’re mistaken, Meriam. I’ve access to my magic.”
She frowns. “I heard otherwise.”
“Well, you heard wrong. I can change into scalesandheal wounds with my tongue. I can even make new Serpents.”
Her forehead smooths. “Ah.”
“What’sahsupposed to mean?”
She walks over to my sink, then riffles through my toiletries until she’s unearthed a gold comb with a handle that tapers to a point. “Prick your finger.”
“Why?”
“Because you seem to be under the delusion that the Mahananda returned you without your blood-magic.”
My heart holds still. My lungs too. “I’m a shifter, not a sorceress.”
“One nature does not preclude the other. Look at Fallon.” When I’ve yet to seize the comb, she grasps my motionless fingers and raises them. “You’re my daughter, Daya. Shabbin magic runs in your veins.”
“You’re wrong. I cannot bloodcast.”
“You can.”
“I’ve tried. I cannot!” I tear my hand out of hers, but not before she manages to split open the pad of my index finger on the gold comb.
“Copy my sigil on the door.” She draws twin, interlocked peaks on my mirror with her blood. A heartbeat later, the reflective glass transforms into an oil painting of Shabbe. “It’ll transform into whatever you picture inside your mind.”
Gritting my teeth and muttering how this is a waste of our time, I turn toward the door, imagine it transforming into glass, then slash my index finger up and down, up and down, a perfect emulation of her design.
The wood becomes translucent.
I gape at it, then at Cathal who stands on the other side of the door with his arms raised along the glass and his forehead pressed to it.
His head rears back, and he blinks. I, too, blink, but then I whirl to look at Meriam. She’s gone.
Her voice suddenly rings out in the thick air of my bathing chamber, and I realize she must’ve made herself invisible. “When a Shabbin witch dies, so do her spells, batee.”
Chills scamper along my spine. Along my bones.Insideof them.
I twist back toward Cathal and paint an arrow pointing downward on the pane of wood I made glass. The transparent partition shrinks and shrinks until nothing but air separates us.
Chapter 47
Zendaya
Athousand words throb on my tongue as Cathal and I stare at one another.
What were you doing behind my door?
Why are your eyes rimmed crimson?
Were you trying to get to me?
