my entire life about what to do if the bones were to ever choose me. First, immediately seal them to you or risk them falling into the wrong hands and damaging our line of magic to infinity and beyond. Second, bind a familiar to help protect and stabilize any and all abilities that will show up over time. Third...shit, what was the third thing?
I tick off the numbers on my hand over and over as I will my mind to deliver the information I know it has stored somewhere inside of its tangled recesses. Third...add a bone to the pouch that represents me and my reign.
Relief fills me as I remember that step, and then I cringe as understanding sinks in. Yikes, where am I supposed to find a bone to do that? Does it have to be a human bone, or can I hit up my local fried chicken joint, eat a drumstick and call it a day? My stomach rumbles hungrily at the thought, but I dismiss it and focus on the last major task I need to tackle.
Fourth, take over the shop and guide anyone the magic chooses. Sounds simple enough, but I have a sinking feeling it will be anything but. There’s more to it all: inheritances, abilities that will just show up like unwelcome relatives, dealing with the Order, but these first four tasks are the big ones.
I groan like a five-year-old on the verge of an epic whinefest. It takes all the maturity I’ve mustered in my thirty years of life to not stomp my foot and start making claims about how life isn’t fair. I grudgingly pull the velvet pouch toward me from the center of the table and take a deep empowering breath. I untie the black thread at the top of the bag that keeps it cinched shut. Amber, black currant and balsam rise up to greet me as I pull it open, and it feels like a balmy blanket of power was just thrown over my shoulders.
Small bones and bone chips from larger sources sit ominously at the base of the pouch, each one with a symbol or set of symbols carved into them. I don’t know what any of it means yet, but I will the moment I spill my blood on them and seal their magic, their history, to me. I reach out and trace a bone chip that has a diamond shape carved into it. There’s a slash through the rhombus and what looks to be bolts of lightning at each of the points.
I run my finger over every marking, hypnotized by the hum of power I feel in them already without any kind of forged connection. Goose bumps sprinkle up my arms, and a shiver crawls through my body. Shaking my head to clear my ominous thoughts, I bring the pouch of bones with me to the kitchen. I root through my utensil drawer until I wrap my palm around a steak knife.
I don’t waste any time pressing the blade to my hand and slicing a cut right along the heart line of my palm. I may not love that the bones chose me, but I’ve done enough fucking around. Tad and Aunt Hillen are right, it’s time to get down to business. Blood flows from the wound and pools in my palm. I position it over the opening of the deep purple velvet bag and slowly tilt my hand, my fairy pool of hemoglobin spilling over. I hold my breath as my essence drips down to coat the top of the bones, stamping them with all that I am and claiming them as mine—however reluctant that claim may be.
I watch, surprise striking through me, as the red spatters of my blood slowly disappear as though the bones are soaking it all up and claiming me right back. A thunderous crack rends the air. I’m yanked from where I’m standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, dripping ichor all over a bag of bones, and I’m slammed up against the ceiling by a powerful, unseen force.
It knocks the air out of me, and I gasp and struggle to fill my lungs as a soul-freezing cold crashes through my body. My skin pebbles and simultaneously burns from the frigid assault. Frostbite feels like it kisses my every cell, and my lungs are entirely too empty to support the scream that I feel in my soul from the pain.
Voices explode all around, thousands of whispers swirling and