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One of the age-old tenets of Wiccan magic is do no harm. Spending so much time with the vampires has ignited a proclivity for violence in me that I have never experienced before.
I don’t like it, this new side of me.
I rise from the too-soft mattress and walk to the window, as if I can put distance between myself and my morbid, revenge-centered thoughts.
Resting my forehead against the cool glass, I stare out the blackened window and watch the city come to life until my eyes lose focus, and my breath fogs the view.
I huff a sigh and my face scrunches up in disgust at the stale morning breath.
“Okay, that is seriously foul.”
When was the last time I brushed my teeth? Or washed my face?
I can’t remember, but a scalding hot shower to wash away the last forty-eight hours is so enticing I leave a trail of my borrowed clothes behind me in my rush to get the water going.
I lose track of time standing under the spray of hot water. The jet setting pummels the knots out of sore muscles, and I allow my mind to wander until the entire bathroom is thick with steam.
When I start to overheat, I shut my thoughts off and then the water. Cracking the glass door of the shower open does nothing to dissipate the cloying heat. The room is so thick with steam that as I wrap a thick towel around myself, I’m a blurry blob in the fogged-up mirror.
That’s likely for the best. I don’t think I could look myself in the eye right now. Not even a long, hot shower can wash away the horror of what my magic became at the mausoleum.
My stomach revolts against the atrocity of it all. The way spirits shambled from their graves, slowly coming to life after years of peace, all to answer my call.
In that moment, I felt invincible. All powerful.
The acidic burn of bile overrides the minty freshness of my toothpaste.
What kind of witch abuses her magic to raise the dead to do her bidding for her? The immoral, dishonorable kind that has no respect for the souls of the departed.
Technically, they’re necromancers, but that isn’t a title I want. Not in the slightest.
Being Grand-Mère’s apprentice, both as a blossoming witch and a mortician, she taught me the sanctity of the cycle of life.
In the blink, I’m transported back to when I was eight and found a dead starling in our yard. It had fallen prey to one of the local cats and I tried to bring it back.
I can still hear the horror in her voice as she scolded me for what I’d tried to do.
With tears flowing down my cheeks, I had called to access my magic, but couldn’t. I begged my grandmother to help it—to heal its wound and bring it back.
She had yanked me away from its broken body and left its little corpse sprawled in the grass of our front yard. “Magic is a great and powerful gift from Mother Gaia, but it has limitations—limits that no being, witch or otherwise, can or should bend. Death is one of those things, cher.”
Later, when we laid the poor bird to rest, Grand-Mère smoothed gentle fingers through my hair. “We never interfere with the balance of life and death. Never.”
If there was a physical witch’s rulebook, that would be written in bold.
And I’ve broken that rule.
I sigh as my face comes into view. After standing in front of the bathroom mirror so long, the overhead fan has sucked all the steam away. My body has practically air-dried, dripping onto the plush purple bathmat.
My brain is broken. I’m overtired. I’ve hit that point of exhaustion that brings a second wind of energy and makes you feel invincible…and a little loopy.
Maybe I’m in shock.
“Pull yourself together, Josie,” I grumble to my reflection. My voice sounds completely strange.
It’s been one hell of a day. We may have found the moonstone amulet, but now we must find the sunstone dagger. Each time we solve a problem, another immediately takes its place.
It’s too much.
