Page 48 of Demon's Bride

Time for some more exploring, I guess.

Crossing the room and opening up the armoire, I find it stocked with clothing, and a note left on top of one of the stacks in an unfamiliar script. Eren’s writing, it seems.

For my queen, keep what you’d like and let me know anything you still need.

There are soft pants and warm, chunky sweaters, lovely silk gowns and slinky negligees in a variety of jewel tones. I pull one out and rub it over my cheek, the silk impossibly soft against my skin. I lay that one out on the bed for after my bath, and sit down beside it on the mattress, glancing toward the door and wondering how much longer it will be until Eren returns.

Laying back, I close my eyes for a few moments, and an unexpected, insistent pulse of magick moves through me.

I don’t have any idea what to do with it.

Ever since I was pulled into the book’s magick, and ever since my little tryst with Eren this afternoon, the power has been there, hovering just at the edge of my consciousness no matter how many times I try to push it aside. That’s what I try to do now, and find it more persistent than ever. It’s an itch, an ache, a tremble in my blood and bones that won’t let itself be ignored.

Is it the demon realm doing this to me? It’s hard to think otherwise, with the way my power has spiked today. The list of questions only grows.

Sitting up and letting out a harsh, frustrated breath, I run a hand through my hair.

If this is what other witches feel all the time, I don’t know how they stand it. Maybe I’ll get used to it after a while, but right now it just makes me feel unsettled and desperate for a little relief. Standing, I pace the room a few times and take some steadying, deep breaths in and out. I close my eyes, try to find some sort of inner peace, but the power humming beneath my skin won’t let me.

I’m not too proud to admit that I’m a little afraid of it, afraid of what it might do if it doesn’t have some outlet, which is my only excuse for what I do next.

Walking into the bathroom, I find a bath already drawn in the enormous tub. There are little tendrils of steam rising off the surface, drifting lazily toward the high ceiling above. Peaceful and warm, the space is a slight balm to my racing, restless thoughts and the nervous energy threatening to erupt from my fingertips.

Focus. I have to focus. I have to find some way to expel this power.

Raising my hands, I bring my fingertips together in front of me and feel the magick crest. Memories, too, flood in with the soft touch. I close my eyes and lose myself in them for a few long moments.

“Like this.”

Steady, competent hands guiding my own. My mother’s reassuring voice walking me through my first attempt at manifestation.

“Is this right?”

“Yes, darling. Now focus on your intent.”

So much will in my little body, a deep desire to make her proud of me. If I could have conjured the small, white daisy I held in my mind’s eye by determination alone, I would have brought a meadow to life in my mother’s workshop.

And then…nothing. A hollow, a void, no magick at all to rush up and meet my intent. Wide, searching eyes locked to hers, pleading for some explanation.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Twenty years later, the disappointment still tastes like acid on my tongue. I will it away, all too aware that bringing that type of energy to my spellwork could have very, very bad consequences.

Instead, I focus again on the power coursing just beneath the barrier of my skin.

Hot, ready, eager to be unleashed, it rises to the surface the moment I call for it. It takes every bit of my self-control to rein it in and match it to the vision I have floating behind my closed eyelids. Like I did when I was a little girl trying to win my mother’s approval, I focus my power on that one spot and put all my intent behind forming the magick to the shape I will it.

And oh, how easy it is.

One moment I’m trying and the next moment I’m doing. The power comes naturally, channeled along paths that have always been there. Instinctual, free, and heady, it draws tears of both joy and sorrow to my eyes.

How much different would my life have been if I’d always had access to this kind of magick?

I don’t want to let the intrusive thoughts in, not when I’m finally, finally, feeling what it’s like to be a witch with power. I don’t want to ruin it, to color it with anything but the pure joy of finally being able to tap into the wide web of power that should have always been open for me.

That resolve doesn’t hold.

The joy of this magick and the pain of the past collide, and I make myself stop. I’m breathing a little heavy, and even though I haven’t yet opened my eyes, I can already sense that the surrounding space is filled with the scent of roses and the sparkle of witchlight. I don’t want to risk ruining it by losing my cool and summoning a fireball or a tempest by mistake.

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