25. Morgan

I’m notsure what I expected from the Valley of the Vanished, but after a few hours of hiking, it doesn’t feel that different from what I imagined a trek through the Alps might entail. Sure, there are the occasional cries of creatures hidden in the distance, but they could just be regular animals, right?

If they’re not, I hope they’re ready to burn.

And, given that night is quickly approaching, I hope they’re not simply waiting to show themselves until it’s dark.

“We need to get as far as possible while we can,” I say, walking faster. “We’ll set up camp after the sun sets.”

Blaze matches my pace, and he keeps watching me, studying me.

“What?” I finally ask.

“Speaking of the sun, we’ve talked about everything under the sun today except for you,” he says. “So, who is Morgan Hawthorne, really?”

I turn all my focus to the compass in my hand, as if it’s suddenly going to change its mind about which way is southeast.

I need to redirect the conversation away from myself, like I’ve been doing all afternoon.

“I guess I’m just not all that interesting,” I say with a shrug. “I like reading. Not just about history, but fiction, too. I like practicing using my magic. I play piano, but not nearly as well as my sister, Willow. I’m decent at cooking, but still have a lot to learn when it comes to baking.”

“And for work?” he asks.

“My sisters and I run an online business,” I say. “Selling homemade jewelry and stuff.”

“And stuff?” he repeats, laughing a bit.

“Candles. Soaps. Etcetera.”

His laughter fades into a more contemplative look, his eyes still fixed on me as we walk, as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

“What?” I finally ask, unable to hide my annoyance.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says. “Everyone has a story—a past that shapes them. What’s yours?”

I’m a blood witch. Just like you.

The words are on the tip of my tongue. Maybe I should just tell him. After all, he saved me back on that bridge. Near-death experiences change people. They bond you with the ones who were by your side when it happened. I’ve watched enough episodes of Walking Dead to know that.

Those who fight zombies together stay together.

Or, in this case, those who get past kobolds and cross collapsing bridges.

But I can’t tell him. Not yet. Even though I’ve grown to trust him, sharing the truth feels too much like betraying my sisters.

Maybe I’ll get there eventually.

However, today is not that day.

And, given that he doesn’t seem to be laying off, I’ve got to tell him something to get him to stop pushing me. Something that will shock him.

I know exactly what that something is.

“My parents were killed when I was young,” I say quickly, not looking at him when I speak. “I saw it. My sisters were there, too. Their murderers—other witches who were afraid of how powerful we are—tried to kill us, too. But my sisters… took care of them. We’ve protected each other ever since.”

I tell the story robotically, purposefully not reliving it as I share. It’s too hard. Too painful.

“Wow.” He stops walking—my story literally stopped him in his tracks. “Morgan… I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” I continue walking, since this is usually the time when people don’t know what to say, which makes it easier to divert the conversation away from me and back to them.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either,” Blaze admits, catching me by surprise.

“Oh?”

“About why I keep my distance from magic,” he continues. “I mean, I have been honest. I just haven’t told you the whole truth.”

“Okay…” I say, waiting for him to keep going.

“You know how I said my dad’s always trying to push the limits with magic?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“It’s because my mom was human,” he continues. “My dad wanted to give her what we have. Magic. He believed he could. He thought he could use blood magic to turn her into one of us.”

Wow.

That was… not what I expected.

I keep myself from asking if it worked. Firstly, because witches are born, not made. Secondly, because if it worked, he wouldn’t have the pained look in his eyes that he does right now. Thirdly, because he told me when we met that his mother knew I’d come looking for the book, thanks to a vision she had.

Clearly, she wasn’t totally human. Or else, something his dad did to her worked.

“What happened?” I ask instead.

“He was unsuccessful.” He keeps looking ahead as we walk—not at me. “Eventually, when I was older—but not old enough to understand the potential consequences of what he was asking—he convinced me to help.”

“And she was okay with this?” I ask.

“She wanted to be like us,” he says. “She asked me to do it. She promised she would be okay.”

“But she wasn’t.”

“No. She wasn’t,” he says. “Instead of granting her magic, the spell cursed her. She began hearing voices, phantom whispers that never stopped. It drove her mad.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, since what else is there to say?

Sure, a part of me wonders what spell he used to result in such a horrible thing. But now is clearly the wrong time to ask.

“Thanks.” He nods, swallowing hard. “Like I told you when we met, she’s the one who told me about a girl with a comet tattoo. Over and over again. At first, I thought it was a delusion, a figment of her cursed state. Then, well… then I found you.”

His usually fiery eyes are so soft and vulnerable that I wish I could give him a huge hug.

“Where’s she now?” I ask, fearing the worst.

“She became violent. Not just with herself, but toward me and my dad, too.” He looks away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he battles with his emotions. “It was terrifying. We tried to fix her with a healing spell, but it made her worse. We ended up having to put her in an institution. She’s there now, sedated most of the time. It’s the only way to keep her—and us—safe.”

My heart aches for him—for the boy who witnessed his mother transform into someone unrecognizable. “That’s horrible,” I finally say, and then I repeat, “I’m sorry.”

Without thinking about it, I touch his arm in a small gesture of comfort.

He leans into it, in a silent plea for acceptance and connection. “What happened to her was my fault,” he continues. “It’s why I distanced myself from magic.”

I nod, understanding his fear all too well. The power we wield comes with risks—with consequences that can sometimes be too much to bear. I try to use my magic to make things better, but over the years, I’ve learned it doesn’t always work the way I want.

“Magic is a part of us.” I pause before continuing, wanting to truly get through to him. “But it doesn’t define us. We decide how we use it. We decide how we let it shape our lives. The only way we can do that is with practice—so we can control it without letting it control us.”

He looks at me then, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Magic is anything but simple,” I say with a small smile. “And I’m sorry you witnessed and experienced so many bad parts of it, and practically none of the good.”

“I’m sorry about that, too.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes, although it’s a comfortable silence—not the tense one from before.

After a few moments, he speaks again.

“You know, back at the bridge with the Kobold, the story about my mother was the secret I almost shared,” he says.

“I thought you were going to give him the book?” I ask.

“It crossed my mind,” he admits. “That book contains the spell I used to curse my mother. I hate that book. Yes, I started reaching for it, but I don’t think I could have done it. Not when I know how important it is to you. I was about to share my secret, but you gave him the flask before I had a chance.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t need the flask.”

It’s a lie. I don’t know if we’ll need the flask or not, but it’s pointless to sit around wishing things were different. We have to focus on the future, and what we can change—not on the past, which is already written in stone.

“You seemed pretty deep in thought before handing it over,” he says. “Were you going to tell the Kobold about you and your sisters?”

I stop walking mid-step, my heart jumping into my throat.

He knows about me and my sisters.

He knows we’re blood witches.

How? Why didn’t he say anything before? And why’s he acting so calm about it?

“I’m sure it would have been hard,” he continues before I can formulate a response. “Having to relive that night in front of that monster. But I appreciate you sharing it with me. It means a lot.”

Suddenly, I can breathe again.

Blaze wasn’t referring to me and my sisters being blood witches.

He was referring to the story I just told him. The one about the night my parents were killed.

Crisis averted.

For now.

“I was thinking about it,” I lie, scrambling to think of something that might make sense about why I offered the flask instead. “But there has to be a reason why the Kobold wants to know secrets, other than the fact that he enjoys hearing them. And who knows if he might be able to use our secrets against us someday? So, I gave him the flask. It felt safer. I can’t explain it, but it just did.”

Seeing possible futures and not wanting to tell people their possible futures has made me a pretty decent liar over the years.

I just hate the sick feeling I’m getting in my stomach when I lie to Blaze.

He nods, a thoughtful look crossing his face, the moonlight somehow making his eyes burn brighter and more intense. “I understand,” he says, and suddenly, I feel something I haven’t felt in a while.

Safe.

“I know what it’s like to carry a burden alone,” he continues. “And if you ever decide to share more about yourself, then I want you to know I’m here to listen.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, I mean it.”

The air between us crackles, charged with something stronger than magic. It’s pulling us together, and I find myself leaning closer to him, the words I’ve been holding back teetering on the edge of my lips.

I’m like you. I’m a blood witch. You’re not alone. You have me now.

But before I can confess, the ground beneath us trembles, a growl echoes through the air, and a giant monster with the head of a dragon and the body of a snake bursts from the earth with its mouth wide open, ready to strike.