Page 32 of Wicked Bonds
The fury in her eyes is magnificent; she is a feral, wild thing barely contained. If looks could kill, I’d be eviscerated. Even after centuries, I find myself oddly entertained by human indignation. They rage against their helplessness with such passion, as if their anger alone could rewrite the laws of power, the rules of the food chain. Humans thought they were at the top, the apex predators, and they’re always shocked to learn that’s not true.
“Let. Me. Go.”
“If you won’t behave,” I say mildly, “I’ll have to make you behave.”
“Go to hell.”
I fold my hands on the table, giving her a moment to process what’s happening as I listen to her heart accelerate. “Now, shall we have a conversation like the two adults we are, or would you prefer to continue this childish display of insolence?”
She glares at me, then slumps slightly in the chair. Not surrender, no, never that with this one, but instead a calculated retreat. I briefly wonder if Rose Smith has read Sun Tzu’sThe Art of War.
“Fine. Talk,” she says.
“Good girl.” It gives me a small amount of pleasure to see how this makes her mouth set in a thin line.
I take a moment to consider where to begin. The complete history of the Accord would take ages to explain properly, and I don’t have that luxury. “Your bloodline—the matriarchal line through which you, your mother, your grandmother descended—was once one of the most powerful magical families in Europe. Not witches, precisely. Something else. Something older.”
“What does that mean, ‘something older’?” she interrupts. “Either you’re a witch or you’re not.”
I arch an eyebrow at her impatience. “The world isn’t as neatly categorized as the fairy tales would have you believe. Your ancestors were conduits, or channels, for natural magic that existed before humans began formalizing it into spells and rituals.”
“So what happened? How did we end up as the Coven’s bitches?”
Her bluntness startles a laugh out of me. “Crude, but accurate. In the 1600s, during the height of the witch trials, your family was targeted. Not by humans, they were merely pawns, but by rival magical clans who wanted power.” It’s always about power.
Rose’s eyes bore into mine. “Wait. Are you saying the witch trials were actually orchestrated by… witches?”
“Among others. The Crescent Moon Coven was relatively new then, hungry for power, expansion. They offered your family protection in exchange for service.”
“Service,” she repeats flatly. “You mean enslavement.”
I shrug. “A matter of semantics. Your ancestors agreed to bind their bloodline to the Coven. Their magic, their service, theirloyalty, all in perpetuity. In return, the Coven shielded them from their enemies, and allowed them to maintain a certain level of autonomy.”
“That’s insane. No one would agree to that.”
“They were desperate,” I say simply. “And the alternative was extinction. The contract was signed in blood—literally—and sealed with magic far beyond anything taught at this academy. Each generation of your family has been bound by it since, whether they knew it or not.”
Rose’s fingers unconsciously move to touch the bloodmark on her arm. “So this is what? A magical tracking device?”
“It’s more complex than that. The mark is a conduit, allowing the Coven to access your family’s inherent power while simultaneously ensuring your compliance. It’s why your mother went to such lengths to hide you.”
Her eyes narrow. “You still haven’t explained why the Coven wants us so badly. What makes my bloodline so special?”
This is the dangerous part, the truth I’m not supposed to share. Wickersly would have my head. But the girl deserves a fighting chance.
“Your family’s magic is old. Perhaps the oldest. That makes it strong. Unfiltered. Most witches access magic through spells, rituals, tools. Your lineage can access it directly from the source from which all magic comes from, without that necessity. You can draw from the elements, from primal instincts and from emotion. It makes you incredibly valuable, and incredibly dangerous.”
“Is that why I can’t control it? Why it keeps going off?”
“Partly. Your mother used binding spells to suppress your abilities so the Coven couldn’t find you, and now that those bindings are breaking down, the magic is flowing erratically. Like a river that’s been dammed suddenly breaking free.”
She absorbs this, her face a picture of conflicting emotions. She’s wondering if she should believe a word I say. “And the Coven wants to use me as, what, a magical battery?”
“In essence. The Accord allows them to draw on your power for their rituals, their spells. The stronger you become, the more they can take.”
And take they will. More than just her power.
“That’s fucked up,” she whispers.
