Page 51 of Torn Ivy
“Yeah, they probably think it belongs to them, and therefore, you belong to them. Draxon was here to take you.”
“So, what do we do about it?”
I sigh, staring out over the library without the first idea what to tell her. “We make sure that doesn’t happen.”
23
TORIN
“The bloodlines are morecomplicated than anyone realises,” Mum says, her hair pulled back severely. She looks more like a university professor than one of Britain’s most powerful vampires, but there’s something in her eyes that betrays the facade. Something ancient. “Especially when it comes to Death’s lineage.”
She spreads out what appears to be a family tree, but unlike any I’ve seen before. The lines between names shine with faint light, and some branches seem to exist in multiple dimensions at once, overlapping in ways that hurt my eyes to look at directly.
I glare at her in annoyance. She showed up here moments ago, unannounced and is forcing me to listen to her because she says it’s about Ivy. One word that is even a slight insult, and I will stake this woman myself and get her out of my life, once and for all.
“These connections,” she traces one glowing line, “aren’t just genealogy. They’re magical bindings, carefully orchestrated over centuries. Look here - the Smith line merging with the Thornes in 1742. Not a natural union. They were drawn together by forces they never understood.”
I lean closer, trying to focus on the intricate patterns, giving her exactly five minutes to make her point before I start throwing stakes around.
“The Hammond line appears here,” she continues, pointing to a section where multiple lines converge like a spiderweb. “And here. And here. Always at critical junctions. Always when Death’s power needs to be adjusted.”
“Adjusted how?”
She pulls out another document, this one bound in what looks suspiciously like human skin. “Death chooses vessels from specific bloodlines - ones with a natural affinity for chaos magick. But it’s more than simple compatibility. The Hammond line isn’t just attuned to Death’s power. It’s engineered. Has been for centuries.”
“Engineered?” I study the complex web of marriages and magical bindings. Certain names keep appearing - old families, powerful witches, mysterious figures marked with symbols I’ve never seen before.
“Watch,” she says, laying out three more documents in a triangle formation. They glow, creating a projection in the air between them. A three-dimensional map of magical bloodlines stretching back through time. “In 1503, the first deliberate binding. The Hammonds were nothing then but a minor family of hedge witches. But they had potential.”
The projection shows two lines merging, accompanied by a surge of power that makes the air taste like lightning.
“Then here - 1648. The Midnight Convergence. Seven families, seven ritual bindings, all designed to concentrate certain abilities in the bloodline.”
I watch as the magical lines twist and merge, creating patterns that seem to follow some grand design. “Who orchestrated this? Death?”
Mum’s laugh holds no humour. “This goes back further. Much further.”
She reveals another document, this one written in a language that seems to change every time I try to read it. “There are patterns, if you know where to look. Certain families orchestrating specific unions, guiding the bloodlines toward a singular purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“Evolution,” she says softly. “Controlled, directed evolution of magickal ability. The ability to not just channel Death’s power but to change it. To make it more.”
The projection shifts, showing more recent convergences. I recognise some names now - families still active in supernatural politics.
“Every marriage arranged, every child born, every death carefully timed, are all part of a greater design. The Hammond line wasn’t chosen by Death. It was created for Death.”
That’s new and interesting. She gets five more minutes.“Created by who?”
“That’s the interesting part.” She pulls out another document, this one bearing symbols that make my eyes water. “There are older powers than Death. Older magicks than chaos, and they’ve been waiting. Planning. Preparing.”
There is a knock at the door, and Bram pushes it open with Ivy by his side. “Hey. We need to talk?—”
He cuts off as he takes in my mother and her documents.
Ivy’s reaction is interesting, though. She stops dead as she stares at my mother. The floating projection of bloodlines warps, responding to her presence like iron to a magnet.
“You,” Ivy states. “You were there. At the cabin.”
