Chapter Seven

Poppy

“Why are we here again?”

Manon grumbles as she ducks under a row of drying herbs. She’s taller than me, especially when she’s hovering off the floor with her power, but it didn’t really hit me until we were standing in the same enclosed space in the apothecary.

“Research.”

I chuckle. “You said my power was bound, but there are only so many spells that can bind power.”

That’s why I’d brought her to Blaketon, a city almost two hours away from the Academy. The Powell sisters were two of the most powerful witches in the western hemisphere, and if they didn’t have something in their shop to help, no one would. The small apothecary store was tucked away from the main street, and it was every bit as quirky and unique as I expected. There was an enormous brick fireplace, with a roaring blue fire warming the hearth and a worn red sofa and a large green armchair surrounding it. The shelves were overflowing with containers, jars, books, and crystals of all shapes and sizes. It was like a treasure trove of witchy goodness.

“If I know which spell it was, I could undo it but also, maybe it would give me an insight into who was powerful enough to cast it.”

I pause, a thought occurring to me as I close the book I’m holding. “Do you think my father knows about the knots?”

“Yes.”

Manon doesn’t even blink, pink smokey eyes locked with mine. She must read something in my expression as she frowns and tilts her head, her sleek black horn catching on a bundle of lavender hanging above her head. “Should I have said no? Should I have not been honest? Human emotion is so confusing sometimes.”

I pick up a chunk of quartz and focus on trying to channel my magic. Like with Cordelia, threads or thin ropes of energy seem to form in my mind's eye, reaching for the crystal. Before I can pour it into the stone, I stop myself. “Whoever cast this binding, would have needed access to you for a while. There are seven knots. They have clearly been there a while.”

Manon picks up a jar of newt eyes and shakes it, letting the preserving liquid swirl around before settling again. “That kind of magic needs to be fed, topped up occasionally.”

My head swirls with what Manon said as I’m flipping through a collection of scrolls. There’s no way my father could know about this. If he knew there was a way to unlock my power, surely, he’d do it—that way he could save himself from the embarrassment of having a witchling daughter without magic.

A small voice to my left whispers, “Why is there a pink demon in our shop?”

Turning, I almost jump out of my skin when I realize a woman with pale purple hair is standing right next to me. Her cute yellow dungarees and oversized blue cardigan make her look like some sort of color explosion as she pushes her round rimmed glasses up her cute button nose with her index finger and looks over at Manon.

The demon seems oblivious as she picks up a green glass bottle and pops the cork, bringing it to her nose to sniff. Her tail swishes around, almost knocking over a collection of pots.

“Child of Lilith, if you drink that I will send you back to your plane.”

A harsher voice warns, and we both turn to stare at another woman with long black curls watching us over the edge of her book as she sits in an armchair near the fireplace. She definitely wasn’t there a moment ago.

She closes the book and gives Manon a hard stare, her hazel gaze unwavering. Where the woman near me was all color, this witch wore only shades of black. “Do you even understand how hard it is to get hold of good quality troll tears?”

Both women are adorned with tattoos and despite their differences, they’re obviously sisters, their beautiful faces too similar for them to be anything else. I’ve never worked with either of the Powell sisters before, but they were legendary. They were powerful healers and skilled magic welders sought by other creatures for their potions, their healthcare and charms.

The witch by the fireplace gets to her feet, her bangles and necklaces making soft jangling noises as she moves. Plucking the green bottle out of Manon’s hand, she pushes the cork back in and returns it to the shelf.

“You…you can see her?”

I ask, glancing between the sisters.

“Of course.”

The dark-haired one scoffs. “More importantly, why is she bound to you?”

Manon and I exchange a look. “Is there…is there something wrong with that? Witches bind with demons all the time.”

“Weak witches make deals with demons. You are not weak.”

The witch waves her hand, like Manon did when she was scanning my magic, her eyes narrowing as they move over my body. “You’re the Alderidge witch, aren’t you?”

“I’m an Alderidge witch, yes.”

The witch with the purple hair sighs, “Anwen, I guess it means the prophecy is about to come to pass.”

If the dark-haired witch who was now walking back to the fireplace was Anwen, that meant the color witch was Bronwyn.

“Prophecy?”

Manon asks, following Anwen and perching on a stool next to the chair.

Bronwyn places a tender hand on my elbow, leading me towards the others. “Don’t you read your family grimoire?”

My cheeks flush, and I can feel how pink they are. “I haven’t–I’m not allowed…”

“Ah, of course Balthazar kept you from it. Foolish man,”

Anwen hisses. “A prophecy only has power, when it’s given power. By avoiding it, all he’s done is feed it.”

Bronwyn settles me on the red sofa and conjures mugs of steaming tea for Manon and me. “Hmmmm, Anwen, didn’t you make a note of it?”

“I knew he would try to avoid his destiny. Power hungry idiot.”

Anwen looks up at the ceiling, her hands bunched into tight fists. As she seems to think about it, I swear I see the snake tattoo on her neck move.

A few moments later, her eyes roll back into her head, and her whole body convulses. When she looks back at us, the whites of her eyes have vanished and it’s like I’m standing on the edge of an abyss staring into the universe. There are galaxies in the blackness of her eyes, swirls of stardust and distant planets stretching beyond this realm.

“Terrifyingly beautiful, isn’t it?”

Bronwyn whispers, placing a warm hand over my shaking one.

Even Manon seems unsettled as she pushes Bronwyn’s hand off me and pulls me onto her lap. Her hands snake around my waist and hold me tightly against her chest.

Anwen’s mouth opens, but it isn’t her voice that fills the small shop. Instead, it’s a timbre that has no gender, no single recognizable tone, and I can feel every word right down to my core.

“Woven within the Alderidge line,

A legacy witch, dark and divine.

Twenty-one years in the making,

The familial ties of old are quaking.

Anchoring stitches shall be undone,

As witch and demon rise as one.

Their fates entwined, spun like gold,

A power unleashed, sevenfold.

Arcane threads ignite a war,

And the Alderidge dynasty will be no more.

For when the seal breaks on Halloween,

The blood witch shall reign supreme.”

When the last word has finished echoing around us, Anwen slumps forward, almost like her soul has been sucked out of her body. A few seconds later, she takes a big gulping breath and runs her hands through her hair, looking exhausted.

“Good job, sister.”

Bronwyn conjures another cup of tea, offering her sister a small smile.

“What did that even mean? A blood witch? Anchoring stitches?”

I chew on my bottom lip, thoughts going a million miles a minute. “But blood witches are dark witches…”

“Yes. Usually.”

“I…this isn’t about me. It can’t be. I’m not a blood witch.”

“There’s no way to stop the wheels of fate once they’ve started turning,”

Anwen grumbles as she sips her tea and eyes us wearily.

I was going to bring about a war? No way. I wasn’t a dark witch. They had it wrong. And my father…there is no way he believes this prophecy. That must be why he hasn’t shown me the grimoire. He’s trying to protect me from this, this…lie. As if Anwen can read my mind, she rolls her eyes at me, muttering under her breath about na?ve witches.

“The seals are breaking, Poppy. Fighting the flow of the river will only mean you both drown.”

Bronwyn rubs my arm, trying to offer me comfort, instead I shrink back into Manon. “Do you understand?”

“No…no I don’t understand.”

Manon

I can feel the panic coursing through my little witch’s body as she tries to decipher the prophecy. I may not know magic the same way the witches do, but even I know the power of a foretold future. And I can feel the magic in this place.

These witchy sisters may look harmless with their kind eyes and soft smiles, but creatures who can conjure the universe inside their fleshy shells are not to be underestimated.

Poppy trembles and mutters to herself until we finally leave, long after the sun has set. The Powell sisters gift her a bag with some tools to guide her on her journey and while Poppy hasn’t noticed, I don’t miss the crescent moon shaped blade they place inside while she’s distracted.

“I need to speak with my father. He’ll know what to do, and he’ll fix this.”

Her determination is admirable, if a little foolish.

As we wait for our bus, I turn her to face me. Under the streetlight, I get a glimpse of the witch she will be. Dark shadows cut in around her beautifully haunted face, and I see the power lurking beneath. Blood witches are extremely powerful. She wants nothing more than to be accepted into the Halewood Coven, but as a blood witch—she’ll become the Coven Leader or High Priestess. She will rule them all.

“Just how much do you want your magic, my little deathtrap?”

I ask, cupping her cheek and rubbing my thumb over her bottom lip.

“It’s not a want, Manon. It’s a need.”

Sad green eyes that remind me of the forest floor look up at me. Blood is not only about death; it is a part of life. It is the fertile essence of everything. “Without my powers, I’m useless. Worthless. I'm no one. Just a disappointment to my family. I need my magic.”

Placing a soft kiss on her lips, the tip of one of my fangs catches her bottom lip so that our embrace is laced with that familiar coppery tang.

The reality of the situation hasn’t dawned on her just yet, the dots still unconnected in her mind, but it’s clear as day to me.

I understand blood magic. If she wants her powers, which she does, then blood must be spilled. That is the price.

There is no avoiding the big bold pink writing on the wall and I know she’s going to hate me when she realizes the path she’s on. The path I’m about to drag her down to reclaim her freedom.

Because daddy dearest needs to die.

And then she’ll need to eat his heart.

To Be Continued…