I approached slowly, something like reverence filling the hollow space inside me. The grimoire seemed to hum with energy, vibrating at a frequency just below hearing but above feeling. My hands trembled as I reached for it, fingers hovering just above the worn leather cover.
"Witch magic is intentional," I whispered, remembering words from one of Rhiot's impromptu lessons. "Not chaotic like demon magic. It requires will. Purpose."
The moment my fingertips touched the cover, the grimoire opened on its own, pages flipping rapidly as if caught in a strong wind. They settled suddenly, revealing text written in a language I didn't recognize but somehow understood. And there, nestled in the center of the pages, lay a dagger.
I lifted it carefully, the weight familiar in my palm. The blade gleamed in the soft light, runes etched along its length catching the glow. As I turned it, something else caught my eye: a bulge in the spine of the grimoire, right where the pages split.
The soul ring. Safely tucked away, waiting. I brushed my fingers over the spot, feeling its power agitate something inside me. Not with my demon half, which lay silent and exhausted. With something else, something older, more fundamental.
My witch's blood recognized what it didn't want.
As I held the dagger, a small, pressed flower fluttered from between the pages, landing softly on the table. Time seemed to stop as I stared at it, recognition hitting me like a physical blow. Blue petals, delicate and perfectly preserved. Lobelia… the exact variety my mother grew every spring in a blue clay pot on our back porch. She ordered the seeds special and told me they were magic.
I always thought she was speaking metaphorically.
She spoke that way about a lot of things.
My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, the dagger still clutched in my hand, the flower pinched carefully between my fingers. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks before I even registered that I was crying. So many years. My mother had spent so many years preparing this grimoire. Collecting these artifacts. Creating safeguards and pathways I was only now beginning to understand.
All to protect me. All to prepare me for what she must have known was coming.
And yet, she also spent all those years berating and punishing me.
I didn't understand it… Didn't understand her.
The loneliness crashed over me like a wave, the grief I thought I'd processed years ago returning fresh and raw. I sat on the cold floor of the archive room and cried for the mother I'd lost. For the questions I could never ask her. And for the guidance I desperately needed now.
I don't know how long I sat there, tears falling silently, before I sensed his presence. Kearan didn't announce himself. He didn't clear his throat or shuffle his feet to warn me. He simply appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the hall.
He didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't try to fix it. Didn't offer empty platitudes about how everything would be okay. He just crossed the room with that quiet grace of his and lowered himself to the floor beside me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth, far enough that I didn't feel crowded.
And he sat. Silent. Present. Waiting.
His shoulder brushed mine gently… more of an invitation, not a demand. I leaned into him slowly, and his arm came up around me, solid and sure. His heartbeat thumped steadily against my ear when I rested my head against his chest.
We stayed like that until my tears dried up, until my breathing steadied, until the hollow ache in my chest eased enough to bear.
"Ready?" he finally asked, the single word gentle in the quiet room.
I nodded against his chest. With careful movements, I tucked the pressed flower back into the grimoire and closed it gently. But the dagger... the dagger I kept, slipping it into the pocket of my sweats… Well, Grayson's sweats.
Kearan helped me to my feet, his touch steadying. He didn't comment on the dagger, just offered his arm for support as we walked together toward the door.
The emptiness inside me where my demon power had lived still ached. But the dagger hummed against my palm with something that wasn't demon magic at all. Something older. More rooted. Power that felt like home.
Maybe I didn't need the power I lost. Maybe I needed the power I didn't know I had.
I was going to test that theory soon.
CHAPTER 20
PLAY NICE WITH THE MEAN LADY, OR I'LL STEAL YOUR SPLEEN AND MAKE EARRINGS FROM IT!
I approached the containment chamber with the dagger clutched in my fist while still in my pocket, its weight both foreign and familiar against my palm. Eighteen hours of sleep hadn't filled the hollow space where my demon power should have been. If this didn't work, if I couldn't force the witch magic to respond, we'd have to face that demon again with nothing but Cerbie's teeth between us and whatever containment protocols there were.
The corridor leading to deep containment stretched before me, dimly lit and eerily silent. Kearan walked slightly ahead, his shoulders tense beneath his grey t-shirt. Behind me, Grayson's mind brushed mine with feather-light touches… not probing, just present. Checking I was still there, still functional after yesterday's power drain.
"You're sure about this?" Kearan asked without looking back, his voice deliberately casual.
