Page 60 of Woods of the Raven

“How do you know that?” Lorne asked him.

“He removed my glamour…that’s not possible for a mage. It’s not doable for a bruane or a rodin either,” he answered Lorne but then turned to me, “so…what are you?”

I smiled at him.

“Was there ever a mage?”

“Yes. My grandfather.”

“And was he powerful?”

“He was,” I assured him.

“Well, when Sola didn’t return, we were certain that you, the mage Rulaine thinks you are, had dispatched him.”

“And so then this Rulaine, she decided to get to me another way.”

“Yes.”

“And what happens to you when she finds out you failed?”

“I’m certain she’ll kill me,” he said sadly, looking down at his lovely polished loafers.

“Does she know what you look like?”

His head snapped up. “No. I was supposed to report tonight and show her my newly chosen form. She left me here a fortnight ago.”

“Do you know who killed the girl?”

“Yes. Rulaine did. She meant to kill four, to place a dead girl, with her heart torn out, in all the corners so that when you called to them, there would be only death to answer.”

I nodded.

He leaned forward. “Even a rodin couldn’t have defeated Sola. A hereditary witch is not that much stronger than a made witch. All you have is your bloodline aiding your magic.”

“You’re right,” I concurred. “You’re very knowledgeable. What’s your true name?”

He shook his head. “It’s the name of the barn I was born in; it was never mine alone. I prefer Declan.”

“All right. Then Declan it is,” I said and stood up. “Come stand here by me.”

He moved immediately, bouncing up off the floor and to my side.

“From now on, you’ll be Declan Grant, and your glamour will be permanent.”

He gasped. “You can do that?”

I grunted.

His mouth dropped open as he stared at me, and his words came out in the barest whisper. “You’re a branded witch.”

“I am.”

I stepped back and knelt, starting at his feet, tracing around him, then standing on my toes so I could reach up—I was only five eight, after all—and outline him in light that flowed around him like I was drawing with glow-in-the-dark paint. “I say unto you, what was false is now truth. So mote it be.”

He jolted, and then his body went rigid and he cried out sharply. The light glowed and got bright before falling away like fireflies landing in the grass. He touched his face, his chest, everywhere at once, then looked at me before closing his eyes and furrowing his brows.

“Yep,” I told him.