Page 97 of Poison Sun

I can’t see what he’s doing now, since his back is toward us, but his quickening breath clues me in that he just used the knife to draw blood. And then, when he leans forward, hunching over the chest, it’s clear he’s inking his blood onto the lock.

“Recludam,” he murmurs.

He usually doesn’t speak the word out loud while he uses his magic.

Maybe it’s for Langwerda’s benefit. Or maybe he’s nervous. It’s tough to imagine Blaze being nervous, but there’s something about the anticipation buzzing through the room that makes the pressure on him feel like a living thing hanging in the air.

Finally, the lock clicks.

I hold my breath.

Langwerda does, too.

Then, Blaze sits back, pockets the penknife, pops off the padlock, and opens the chest.

Morgan

Anticipation rushes through my veins, and I lean forward, unable to speak. My heart’s beating so loudly that I wouldn’t be surprised if they could both hear it.

Blaze reaches into the chest.

When he turns around, he’s holding the Crimson Quill.

It looks the same as it did in the drawing in the book. But here in person, its deep red feather shimmers with a vibrancy that’s almost alive, with a quality that no drawing or photograph could ever capture. It reflects off his eyes, and even from where I sit, I can feel the power emanating from it. A silent testament to its ancient magic. And, as he continues to hold it, it’s almost like it’s filling him up with power as well.

A satisfied smile curves over Langwerda’s lips. “Congratulations, Blaze,” she says. “You have reclaimed what is rightfully yours.”

“Thank you.” His focus remains on the quill, as if he’s physically absorbing its magic. It’s almost like it’s becoming a part of him, and I watch him in wonder, amazed again about how far he’s come since our first meeting.

The man kneeling before us is one who’s born to use magic.

I can’t believe he ever felt anything less.

“What do you know about the quill?” Langwerda finally asks, breaking the silence.

“It can amplify his blood magic,” I jump in, eager to help. “Make it stronger and more precise.”

“And of its history?” she asks.

“Not much,” I admit. “There wasn’t a lot of information about it in our source.”

I purposefully don’t tell her about the book. Best to stay vague. The last thing I want is for her to demand to see it, and to read its secrets. I’m already wary enough of her as it is.

“Come sit back down, and I’ll tell you more about it,” she says to Blaze.

He does, although he holds onto the quill, not placing it onto the table.

“It was forged by your ancestors, during a rare celestial alignment when the veil between your world and my world—the mystical world—was at its thinnest,” the witch begins. “It was passed down through the Bloodscript line. Each of them added their own power and essence to it, making it stronger and stronger for generations. It’s capable of altering the course of the future, and of changing even the most fated destinies.”

Just like it’s going to alter the course of the upcoming war against Ambrogio and the shadow souls, I think.

Instead of voicing my thought, I ask, “What happened to it? How did it get into your hands?”

Langwerda leans back, her eyes taking on a distant look, as if she’s recalling a tale from long ago.

“Its last wielder feared its potential for misuse,” she continues speaking to Blaze, and not to me. “He hid it where only a true blood witch could find it, guarded by enchantments and trials that only the worthy could overcome.”

Blaze listens intently, his grip on the quill tightening.

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