Page 44 of Poison Sun

“Sure,” I say, although I’m too distracted by thoughts of the quill to debate this with him.

Instead, I pull out my phone and type a message to Amber.

We have a lead. More information to come later. Hang tight.

I press send.

Blaze walks to the other side of the table and starts putting the food and drinks back into the picnic basket.

“Do you really think this will work?” he asks.

“I do,” I say, with more conviction than I’ve felt in a long time. “The Crimson Quill isn’t just a tool. It’s a symbol of the power of blood magic—a reminder that our magic has roots that run deep into the history of the supernatural world. With it, we can do incredible things. I feel it stronger than the fire burning inside me.”

Blaze says nothing for a few seconds. He’s just watching me… studying me.

“What?” I ask.

“Our magic?” he finally says, and I instantly realize my slip-up.

I said “our” magic. As if both of us have blood magic.

Which, obviously, we do.

A stupid, potentially costly slip up.

I need to fix this. Before he figures out the truth.

“In case you forgot, I’m a witch, too,” I say, hiding my mistake with the pretense of being offended.

Then, as if to dig it in even more, I rise and call on my fire, letting it surge out of the tips of my fingers and dance around me like ribbons in the wind.

I keep my gaze locked on his, daring him to challenge me.

“As if I could ever forget.” He gives me a knowing smile, then releases his own stream of fire across the top of the table, allowing it to intertwine with mine.

There’s something so intimate about it, and we stand there for a few moments, watching the fire dance wildly between us.

Then, just as quickly as it began, we let the flames die down, the air shifting around us. It’s like a shared understanding—an acknowledgment of the power running through our veins. And, even though the fire is gone, the space between us continues to crackle and pop, refusing to simmer down.

The intense way he’s staring at me makes me feel like I want to burst into flames, too.

He takes one step closer, then another… and then he stops at the table and reaches for the book, closing it and bringing it to his chest.

“We need a plan,” he says, and any tension between us is replaced by sheer determination. “Retrieving the Crimson Quill won’t be as simple as walking into that witch’s cottage and taking it for ourselves. The book mentioned guardians, and traps designed to test the worthiness of those who seek its power. We have to be ready for anything.”

“Your family’s lived in this area for generations,” I say. “Do you have any idea what those guardians and traps might be?”

“Don’t you remember?” he asks. “I stay away from magic at all costs.”

“But magic is more than spells and trinkets,” I say. “It’s also myth and legend—stories that have been passed down from generation to generation. Stories enjoyed by humans and supernaturals alike about our struggles, our triumphs, and the eternal dance between light and dark.”

I sit back, letting my words hang in the air. Hopefully they’ll bring Blaze closer to seeing magic the way I do—not as a divide, but as a shared language spoken by every creature touched by its existence.

“You really want me to tell you stories from Swiss folklore?” he finally asks. “The type of stories my parents told me when I was a kid?”

“I’d love that.” I smile, motioning to the path ahead. “We have a bit of a walk back. So, entertain me.”

“Challenge accepted,” he says, and as he launches into the first tale, I listen attentively, trying to commit every detail to memory. It’s so different from the stories I heard growing up, and I’m fascinated by every word.

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