Be jealous of my vintage ride—unless it was stinking hot in the summer. I remembered my grandma always putting a towel down on the seat so I wouldn’t burn myself on hot plastic. Vinyl proved to be easy to clean but horrible for comfort. Maybe I’d get some car seat covers. A present to myself to celebrate my magical victory. I’d flouted The Chill without anyone’s help, not Jace or my house, nor did Kane ride to my rescue.
I could defend myself. The knowledge made me eager to learn more. What did the marks in my house mean? They were etched all over: windowsills, doors, the beams that formed the roof in the attic. My grandma’s old recipe book used to have them too, but the darned thing had disappeared on me again. I had it in my car, and now it was gone. Book snatched!
Good thing I had a few pictures stored on my phone. Zooming brought forth some examples. I did a reverse image search on the squiggly sigil I used this very night, the one for light, and I found a forum dedicated to witches and sorceresses. Warlocks, too, but they, for the most part, appeared to be rather pompous asses.
I devoured the thread on my light sigil. People actually discussing how the magic of it worked. They were frank about their successes. Chalk was good, as it wrote on most surfaces. Liquid could run and distort lines, making the sigil a dud. They even discussed how the curvature on it would strengthen or diminish the amount of brightness. Like a switch. Good to know for next time.
Because there would be another attack either by The Chill or more winged minions of darkness. Since my arrival, the feints against me had been constant. They’d also failed, and now I found myself suddenly pumped by the idea of not waiting for them to come after me. I should hunt the evil down.
How dare it keep attacking. What had I done to it? My faceless enemy owed me an explanation, maybe an apology, and then I’d hex their ass. There was a mark to do it. Supposedly it gave the hexed a hairy, boil-covered butt.
But taking down my enemies in cruel ways wasn’t the only thing I studied. I avidly followed a discussion started by the KingofKnaves69, which itemized the various fluids that could be used to access magic, blood being the most powerful of what they called the necro magic. That was followed by spit then urine. Even cum, both male ejaculate and female fluid, could pack a punch, making orgies especially potent.
I preferred to cut myself rather than become the filling in a sex sandwich. I was more of a one-person-at-a-time kind of gal. So sex magic was out. Nor did I ever see myself using menstrual blood. Used tampons belonged in the garbage, not to mention there was an argument that the unfertilized lining had adverse effects on spells, while others said the raw potential in it added a richness.
All the witches agreed that amniotic fluid trumped all, with men unable to tap it. The fluid could only be used by the mother.
But that wasn’t the case with blood. A witch could sacrifice someone else for the more powerful stuff. Apparently, a witch gang—known as the Baker’s Coven—bragged about how they only used the blood of their enemies for their spells.
Fucking witch gangs. I wondered if they got to wear cute jackets and went on cruises.
As I drove, I thought about the other things I’d learned, such as that the gene for magic was hereditary, more often passed on via the female branches. Knowing my grandma had powers, I now was curious. Did my mother have magic, too? As for my dad, he must have known, and yet he never told me. He moved me far away from my grandma when I was a young girl. By the time I returned after his death, my eyes and ears were closed to the truth.
Not anymore. I am special. And I wanted to know what it meant. Such as, did my kids carry the witchy blood, too? After all they were both mine. Mine, but one of them wasn’t Martin’s, according to my grandma’s book. I’d inherited the genealogy book from her. The leather on it was smooth, the tree etched on the cover a prelude to what was inside.
I’d finally figured out how to read it. It contained the names of my