Alpha Queen (Claimed by Wolves #4) - Callie Rose Page 0,34
witch Clint tied me to when he did his fucked up little experiments and carved sigils into my skin.
But they’re not the same thing. My magic is mine. It’s me. I was born with it because one of my parents was a witch, and that makes the power mine by birthright, not because Clint bound me to Cleo.
Whatever the dark cloud is, whatever the bond with Cleo means, those things are something else entirely. They don’t make my witch inherently bad.
My witch is her own goddamn woman.
I hold on to that thought with all I have, and with an inkling of hope that I can handle giving her the reins, I finally fall asleep.
The next morning, I trudge back out to my practice table to start again. I left it as-is last night, too tired and strung out to even pick up all the broken glass. It isn’t like anybody’s here to step on it. But I’ve barely hit the street before I realize someone’s cleaned my area for me. The packed earth is clear, no glittering shards of soda bottles forming a carpet around the space where I practiced yesterday, and the last bottle I worked with sits front and center, ready to go.
My men also set up new targets at intervals along the street like some kind of train-the-witch obstacle course. I rake my gaze over chairs, traffic cones, bottles, and cans, and at first glance, gratitude swells in me. They did all of this for me. As their way of showing how much they support me.
Following closely on the heels of the warmth in my chest, anxiety settles deep in my gut. I haven’t even started, and I’m already wondering how badly I’ll fail.
But as I step up to the rickety card table and stare down at the one bottle I didn’t break yesterday, something settles in my chest. A sort of… certainty. Acceptance, maybe. Or just a general fuck it mentality, which is a very new feeling for me.
Dare’s right. I have to let the witch out. I have to let her take over, to give myself permission to be powerful. Otherwise, I’ll never get any of this right. Most importantly, I have to trust that she isn’t the evil I felt during my change. That dark cloud isn’t my witch.
I lift my hand toward the bottle, drop my barriers, and let go.
A new sensation flows through me. It reminds me of how I feel when I let go and become a wolf. Although, when I shift to wolf, it feels like leaping into a cold pool on a too-hot day, whereas this… this warms me. Heat floods through me as if I have pure, raw energy simmering through my veins. It feels good. Feels… right.
Holding on to the sensation, I trace the necessary sigil in the air, directing my attention toward the bottle. A small part of me still expects that overburdened feeling, as if the bottle weighs more than a car.
Instead, the bottle flies up in the air as light as if it were a feather.
Giddy elation fills me, reinforced when my mates begin to whoop and holler their own excitement from the side of the road.
The way they cheer my name bolsters me. I let the warmth flow through me and allow the witch to step up again. I trace another sigil, aiming for a ceramic plate sitting on top of a traffic cone. Black smoke curls at my fingertips, and then magic shoots out of me, slamming into the plate with as much force as a bullet. The plate shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces, but the cone doesn’t even quiver.
My hands move quickly, tracing spell after spell in the air. I twist a water bottle into a pretzel; I burn another in flames, turning it to a blackened, melted blob in a matter of seconds. These are spells I’ve studied in Gwen’s book, and most of the time, I can’t even cling to the meanings or remember the exact sigils without consulting the book. With every spell I cast at the obstacles my men have set up for me, I grow more confident in what I’m doing.
Soon, I’m having no trouble recalling the sigils. The more the witch comes out of hiding, the more it seems like she knows what to do innately. Like the knowledge is partially contained inside her. An instinct, ancient and powerful. She is the magic. Not separate from it.