40. Morgan

Anticipation rushes through my veins,and I lean forward, unable to speak. My heart’s beating so loudly that I wouldn’t be surprised if they could both hear it.

Blaze reaches into the chest.

When he turns around, he’s holding the Crimson Quill.

It looks the same as it did in the drawing in the book. But here in person, its deep red feather shimmers with a vibrancy that’s almost alive, with a quality that no drawing or photograph could ever capture. It reflects off his eyes, and even from where I sit, I can feel the power emanating from it. A silent testament to its ancient magic. And, as he continues to hold it, it’s almost like it’s filling him up with power as well.

A satisfied smile curves over Langwerda’s lips. “Congratulations, Blaze,” she says. “You have reclaimed what is rightfully yours.”

“Thank you.” His focus remains on the quill, as if he’s physically absorbing its magic. It’s almost like it’s becoming a part of him, and I watch him in wonder, amazed again about how far he’s come since our first meeting.

The man kneeling before us is one who’s born to use magic.

I can’t believe he ever felt anything less.

“What do you know about the quill?” Langwerda finally asks, breaking the silence.

“It can amplify his blood magic,” I jump in, eager to help. “Make it stronger and more precise.”

“And of its history?” she asks.

“Not much,” I admit. “There wasn’t a lot of information about it in our source.”

I purposefully don’t tell her about the book. Best to stay vague. The last thing I want is for her to demand to see it, and to read its secrets. I’m already wary enough of her as it is.

“Come sit back down, and I’ll tell you more about it,” she says to Blaze.

He does, although he holds onto the quill, not placing it onto the table.

“It was forged by your ancestors, during a rare celestial alignment when the veil between your world and my world—the mystical world—was at its thinnest,” the witch begins. “It was passed down through the Bloodscript line. Each of them added their own power and essence to it, making it stronger and stronger for generations. It’s capable of altering the course of the future, and of changing even the most fated destinies.”

Just like it’s going to alter the course of the upcoming war against Ambrogio and the shadow souls, I think.

Instead of voicing my thought, I ask, “What happened to it? How did it get into your hands?”

Langwerda leans back, her eyes taking on a distant look, as if she’s recalling a tale from long ago.

“Its last wielder feared its potential for misuse,” she continues speaking to Blaze, and not to me. “He hid it where only a true blood witch could find it, guarded by enchantments and trials that only the worthy could overcome.”

Blaze listens intently, his grip on the quill tightening.

“I am but its guardian, tasked with protecting it until the rightful heir was ready to claim it,” she continues. “So, I’ve kept it safe, waiting for the day it would be reclaimed. For this moment, right here, right now.”

“Thank you,” he says, looking more serious than ever.

Langwerda gives him a long, hard look.

I prepare myself for her to reach over the table and snatch the quill from Blaze’s hand.

Instead, she stands, moving to a shelf to retrieve a small inkwell filled with a shimmering liquid. “This is a binding oil, infused with herbs and magic from this realm,” she explains, bringing it back to us. “Dip the tip of the quill in the oil and write the Latin word for ‘bind’ on your skin. Religo. The quill will recognize you as its master, tethering its power to you for as long as you live.”

For as long as you live.

It’s a big responsibility. If he does this, there’s no turning back.

He’ll do it. My magic doesn’t always work perfectly, but it brought us here for a reason.

And so, I hold my breath, waiting.

Blaze hesitates, not reaching for the quill. Instead, his eyes meet mine, and the entire world stills around us. He’s looking at me like he did last night and just now in the rose garden—like he’s opening his soul to me.

Maybe all between us isn’t lost.

But my relationship with him isn’t the prime concern right now. Because I care about him, and this is a pivotal moment in his life.

“This is your decision,” I tell him, meaning it. “I support you, no matter what you choose to do.”

Langwerda sits back, seemingly supporting my mentality.

Then, with a nod that feels like a silent pact between us, Blaze reaches for the vial. His fingers are steady as he uncaps it, betraying none of the hesitation that flashed in his eyes a moment ago.

The scent that rises is both ancient and invigorating. Smokey, like a campfire that’s been burning long through the night.

Then, slowly, he rolls up his sleeve, revealing the smooth skin of his forearm.

Seeing it reminds me of the scar I have on mine, from when he saved my life.

Taking a deep breath, he dips the tip of the quill into the pot and brings it to his forearm. And then, with a steady hand, he begins to write religo.

He’s digging deeply enough that the ink merges with his blood, and while I know it hurts, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

When he finishes, the word glows red, pulses, and absorbs into his skin.

The scar left behind is the same crimson shade as the quill.

When he looks back up, his eyes are so fiery that they glow with magic. It’s so hypnotizing that it takes my breath away.

“Do you feel different?” I ask him.

He flexes his arm, studying the scar with a mixture of awe and acceptance. “Yes,” he answers. “It’s like a part of me has awakened. A part I never knew I was missing.”

“The bond is complete,” Langwerda declares. “The Crimson Quill is now an extension of your will. Its magic is yours to command. And remember—it holds the power to create, to change, and to destroy. Use it wisely.”

“I will,” he says, as serious as ever. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, young scripter,” she says. “You should also know that when I was given the quill, I was given a phrase. Extraho et infundo. Extract and infuse.”

“Extract the potion from Amber,” I realize. “Infuse it into the compass.”

“I do not know who Amber is, or what this potion and compass are that you speak of,” she says. “All I know is the phrase I was given.”

“Okay,” I say, although my mind’s already a few steps ahead. “How are we supposed to use the phrase on both her and the compass at once?”

“You’re the fortune teller,” Blaze says, the bitterness from earlier back into his tone. “Shouldn’t you already know this?”

“I’m a scryer. Not a fortune teller.” I glare at him and cross my arms, sick of his attitude. “And yes. That’s a great idea. I can definitely scry to see if we can learn more.”

“Might as well put your magic to good use now that it’s out in the open,” he says.

I’m halfway to my dagger before Langwerda interrupts.

“I may not know the details about what’s going on between the two of you, but you couldn’t have gotten this far if you weren’t stronger together than apart,” she says, and then she focuses on me, more intense than ever. “Never forget that.”

Her final words burn into my soul, as if she’s trying to say something more.

Never forget that.

Does she know about the wind? That it’s trying to get me to turn on Blaze?

Should I say something?

Maybe we can work together to fix it. Maybe there’s a word in the book that can help me. I’m not thrilled about the idea of becoming a test subject again, but now that Blaze has the Crimson Quill, maybe it’ll turn out differently.

I can always scry for answers, but that’s something I’ll have to wait to do in private.

Plus, we’re not supposed to be working on fixing me. Our focus is on helping Amber.

If I tell them about the voices, will it distract us from our true mission?

Maybe. Probably. Because even though things are rough between me and Blaze right now, I do think he cares about me. I don’t think he’d prioritize Amber over me.

At least, I don’t want to think he’d prioritize Amber over me.

We can fix the voices in the future. For now, I’ll do everything I can to fight them off.

I’m strong.

I can do it.

I have to do it.

“Are you okay?” Blaze asks, the concern in his eyes hinting that I’m right—he does still care about me.

“Yes,” I lie, hoping he’ll believe it. “But Amber needs our help. We have to get to the city and get that potion out of her as soon as possible.”

Blaze nods, although he doesn’t look convinced of my lie. “All right,” he says, and he turns back to Langwerda. “Are there any spells I can use to teleport us out of here?”

“I’ve told you all I know,” she says. “The rest is up to you.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t use any more blood spells on ourselves that we don’t know the consequences to,” I say quickly, realizing a second later that I’m rubbing the scar on my arm. “It never hurts to be careful.”

“Careful?” Blaze looks at me like I’m crazy. “In the time we’ve known each other, I’ve yet to see you be particularly careful about anything.”

“That’s not true,” I shoot back. “I can be careful.”

“Sure you can,” he says. “But you’re right. We have a lot to learn about my magic. And if you don’t want me to use it on you again, then I completely understand.”

“Cool.” I breathe out in relief. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He sits back, seemingly pleased. “Now… what’s your grand plan to get us to NYC?”

“No grand plan,” I say. “I was thinking we’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

“And what way is that?”

“Simple.” I give him a small smile, hoping that maybe—just maybe—things have a chance of eventually being okay between us again. “By taking a plane.”