Page 100 of Reckless Witch

“Ms. Crowe.”

My head spins for an instant, then Raith’s face snaps into focus.

He’s staring, brow lifted. “The ingredients for the spell?”

My cheeks heat and his gaze sharpens. I manage an even voice as I run down the list of ingredients used for the spell to cleanse a home of negative energy. He rattles off three other spells that I’m supposed to list ingredients for, then returns his attention to his paperwork.

I comply and, when I’ve finished, frustration has replaced embarrassment. I pin Raith with a stare. “Why are you wasting both our time with this drivel? You have to know I learned these spells by the time I was eight.”

“Patience,” he says without looking up.

“You’re not paying attention.” I wince at my wheedling tone.

He looks up and recites the ingredients I just told him, in the order I gave them.

I roll my eyes. “Everyone knows those are the ingredients for that spell.”

“How about the spell to contact the dead?” he asks.

I hesitate. “That’s one helluva jump from grade school spells.”

“You do know how to call someone from the dead?”

“Every witch worth her salt knows—” I break off, understanding dawning. “You have got to be kidding. You actually think I’ve tried calling my grandmother from the dead?” The thought had occurred to me—numerous times.

“Have you?” he asks.

“Hell, no.”

“Why not? That would give you your answers.”

“You clearly didn’t know my grandmother well. She won’t answer my questions any quicker in death than she did in life.”

“Was she in the habit of lying to you?” he asks.

That’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times, but that’s family business, and Raith isn’t family. “No,” I say. “If you want answers, why don’t you call her from the dead yourself?” Then I realize, “You did try, with no luck.”

Not just anyone can call spirits from the dead. That magic is generally the purview of witches and wizards—mostly witches—but not just any witch, witches who are recognized by the dead. I happen to be one of those witches.

I give a slow nod. “Like I said, if Grams doesn’t want to talk, she won’t.”

“Maybe we didn’t use the right spell,” he says.

We both know that’s bullshit. A witch who can call the dead practically only has to command them forth by name.

I glance at the clock. Ten more minutes and I can tell Raith to fuck himself, at least until next Friday night. Guilt niggles. Truth is, once we got past the initial bullshit, the lesson hasn’t been terrible. Well, aside from being forced back into third grade. I almost laugh at his paltry attempt to get me to help him call Grams from the dead.

I shouldn’t be angry. I’ve wasted my time in worse ways. Raith is exercising his authority. Why should that bother me so much? Because I’m powerless? Because the blood pact forces me to uphold my side of the bargain for the next six months?

Guilt digs deeper. The Illumina takes seriously the training of High Potentials. High Potentials are the ones taken in the Reaping, the ones most successful at fighting The Shadows. They are Margidda’s first and last defense against annihilation. Was that what Blade meant when he said High Potentials aren’t free to choose?

Shit.

I refocus on Raith. “How did you stop The Shadows? Don’t give me that same bullshit about stopping all magic.”

“You learned in Reaping Preparedness that we fought The Shadows within dreams,” he says.

I frown. “That’s it?”