Page 23 of These Witches Don't Burn
Stay strong. You can do this.I cut the ignition and climb out of my car. “I want to make one thing clear before we go inside.”
Veronica raises one eyebrow. “And what’s that?”
“This isn’t a social call. We’re not getting back together.”
“Then why am I here?” Veronica starts toward me, but I put up one hand and she stops.
“I need your help.” I step away from my car, ignoring how incredibly exposed I feel. “Did you bring the book?”
Veronica raises her purse in response. It swings like a pendulum as I walk up the driveway and unlock my front door. My ex follows me inside and up the stairs. When we’re shut in my room, I turn to explain, but Veronica isn’t looking at me. Her attention is trained on the newest additions to my walls.
“When did you do this?” She’s stopped in front of my latest piece. I started it a few days after we broke up, a self-portrait of a girl betrayed. Yet with each layer it morphed into something almost resembling strength. Freedom. “You look so...” she starts and trails off.
“So what?”
“Broken.”
I stiffen. “I didn’t bring you here to criticize my work. I can’t stop worrying that there’s a Blood Witch here. Even if it’s not the girl from New York, there are others.”
No one—except perhaps the Council—knows exactly how many witches are in the US. Lady Ariana says that for every ten Elementals, there are probably seven Casters and only two Blood Witches. They’re uncommon, even for witches, but they’re still very much alive.
And some of the most powerful among us.
Veronica finally turns away from the drawing. “Hannah, there’s no Blood Witch. Lady Ariana said so.”
“Then explain this.” I pull up the pictures of the bloody runes and hand the phone to Veronica. Her eyebrows inch up her forehead as she examines the photos.
“This looks like the apartment in Manhattan.” A tremor shakes her voice. “Where did you find this?”
“The Witch Museum.”
She glances up from the images. “Here? We have to tell someone.”
“I already showed my parents.” I take my phone from her and slide it into my back pocket. “I even got a sample of the blood. They say it’s nothing.”
Veronica’s whole body seems to melt with her exhale. “Why didn’t you lead with that? If your parents tested it, then it’s nothing. Why am I here?”
“Because you owe me.”
Her sharp burst of laughter fills the room. But when I don’t relent, Veronica studies me. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“I stood up for you in the woods and had to skip this week’s lesson for my trouble, so yes. I’m serious. At least humor me. Help me make sure our coven is safe.” I motion for her to wait and slip downstairs. I return with a large bowl and bottle of water from the kitchen.
Veronica’s sitting on my bed now, her legs crossed underneath her. She gives me an unamused look. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You and I are going to scry for the Blood Witch.” I pour the water into the bowl and set it on my desk. “That’s why I had you bring your grimoire.”
“This is ridiculous.” Veronica reaches into her bag and pulls out her personal Book of Shadows. “Why can’t you be a normal ex and post angry poetry online?”
I ignore her question and reach for the grimoire. I wish I had all day to pore over these pages. They’re full of magic Lady Ariana keeps hidden until we’re at least eighteen. After our final initiation ceremony, our weekly classes end. Instead, we haveone-on-one lessons with our high priestess whenever she deems us ready for more power. Newer skills. That’s when we’re permitted to copy spells from the coven grimoire. Under supervision of course.
When we were still dating, Veronica told me she felt something as she copied over the words and diagrams exactly. This pressure in her head that would build and build until understanding finally clicked into place as she finished the final strokes of her pen.
About a third of the way through Veronica’s grimoire, after all our history and the intricate family trees for each of the twenty-three extended families with ties to our coven, I find the section on scrying and skim the pages. “It looks like we need something for contrast in the water.”
Veronica breathes out an exaggerated sigh, like she’s resigning herself to this process. “Lady Ariana taught me to use black ink, but Mom sometimes uses food coloring in a pinch.”
“Would paint work?” I head for my art supplies on the other side of the room.
