Page 63 of Poison Sun

Or, in this case, those who get past kobolds and cross collapsing bridges.

But I can’t tell him. Not yet. Even though I’ve grown to trust him, sharing the truth feels too much like betraying my sisters.

Maybe I’ll get there eventually.

However, today is not that day.

And, given that he doesn’t seem to be laying off, I’ve got to tell him something to get him to stop pushing me. Something that will shock him.

I know exactly what that something is.

“My parents were killed when I was young,” I say quickly, not looking at him when I speak. “I saw it. My sisters were there, too. Their murderers—other witches who were afraid of how powerful we are—tried to kill us, too. But my sisters… took care of them. We’ve protected each other ever since.”

I tell the story robotically, purposefully not reliving it as I share. It’s too hard. Too painful.

“Wow.” He stops walking—my story literally stopped him in his tracks. “Morgan… I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” I continue walking, since this is usually the time when people don’t know what to say, which makes it easier to divert the conversation away from me and back to them.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either,” Blaze admits, catching me by surprise.

“Oh?”

“About why I keep my distance from magic,” he continues. “I mean, I have been honest. I just haven’t told you the whole truth.”

“Okay…” I say, waiting for him to keep going.

“You know how I said my dad’s always trying to push the limits with magic?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“It’s because my mom was human,” he continues. “My dad wanted to give her what we have. Magic. He believed he could. He thought he could use blood magic to turn her into one of us.”

Wow.

That was… not what I expected.

I keep myself from asking if it worked. Firstly, because witches are born, not made. Secondly, because if it worked, he wouldn’t have the pained look in his eyes that he does right now. Thirdly, because he told me when we met that his mother knew I’d come looking for the book, thanks to a vision she had.

Clearly, she wasn’t totally human. Or else, something his dad did to her worked.

“What happened?” I ask instead.

“He was unsuccessful.” He keeps looking ahead as we walk—not at me. “Eventually, when I was older—but not old enough to understand the potential consequences of what he was asking—he convinced me to help.”

“And she was okay with this?” I ask.

“She wanted to be like us,” he says. “She asked me to do it. She promised she would be okay.”

“But she wasn’t.”

“No. She wasn’t,” he says. “Instead of granting her magic, the spell cursed her. She began hearing voices, phantom whispers that never stopped. It drove her mad.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, since what else is there to say?

Sure, a part of me wonders what spell he used to result in such a horrible thing. But now is clearly the wrong time to ask.

“Thanks.” He nods, swallowing hard. “Like I told you when we met, she’s the one who told me about a girl with a comet tattoo. Over and over again. At first, I thought it was a delusion, a figment of her cursed state. Then, well… then I found you.”

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