She rose unsteadily to her feet and replaced the grimoire on the stand, then stumbled back and sank to the earthen floor, exhausted and shocked by what she’d seen. Was this what had happened to her ancestors? Why hadn’t her mother told her any of this? Was this what was in store for her?
For hours, she sat there, the rich, packed earth replenishing her strength as she tried to make sense of it. She opened the book several times, but it showed nothing further beyond the pages covered in strange symbols she couldn’t decipher.
“Now what, Mom?” she whispered into the silence.
The candles were no longer flickering. The air was now still, the heavy press of magic lifted.
Her mother’s spirit was gone.
Utterly spent, she dragged herself to her bed and slept, though not peacefully.
The grimoire—which she’d left locked away underground—called to her, filling her dreams with more visions, many of which were in times and places she didn’t recognize, in languages she didn’t understand. One thing she was able to glean, however—that book was the key to everything, and somehow, she had become its keeper.
But what was she supposed to do with it?
It wasn’t as though she could ask anyone. Her mother was gone. Centuries of persecution had nearly wiped out her kind, sending most of them into hiding. Witches had become solitary creatures, living sheltered lives on the outskirts of society. As far as she knew, she was the only witch for more than a hundred miles.
In fact, Mythic was the only place she knew of where magic users didn’t hide what they were.
An image of Brandon came to her mind, and the climbing roses she was pruning burst into fragrant bloom. He had a magical bookstore loaded with knowledge. Maybe she could find answers there?
It had been weeks since she’d seen Jessie, she rationalized. She could head up to Mythic for a visit and then visit The Glas Tann to see what, if anything, she could discover. Brandon might even be willing to help.
But could she trust him?
Just as she thought that, her wards pinged and a warning rippled through her. Someone was hovering onthe outer perimeter of her land. Instantly on alert, Muriel dusted off her hands, stood, and extended her psychic senses.
The source of the disturbance was about a hundred yards south. There, a tall, lean man with silver-streaked hair approached, drawing ever closer. He was looking around the place with more than casual interest, as if evaluating her wards. His aura shimmered with an essence she didn’t recognize, foreign and yet vaguely familiar.
A shiver ran the length of her spine. She stepped away from the roses, which had started to wither as the sense of dread crept over her.
The movement caught the man’s attention. “Good morning. Muriel Brennan?”
Another shiver came at the sound of her name crossing his lips. Oh, yes. This man had power.
A mage.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I believe we can help each other. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Corvus. Silas Corvus.”
He paused as if expecting acknowledgement, his smile fading somewhat when she said nothing.
“I knew your mother,” he added, “though it was quite a few years ago. I understand she passed recently. My condolences.”
Muriel’s reply was a slight nod. She wished he would get to the point.
He tilted his head, studying her with an unblinking intensity that made her skin crawl. “She was a very gifted earth witch.” He waved his hand over the yard. “It appears you are as well.”
“Never underestimate the power of good fertilizer,” Muriel said evenly. “I can give you the name of the farmer down the road, if you’d like.”
“You are wise to be cautious, but beware,” he warned with a somber nod. “Elemental magic is, by nature, raw and wild and will only increase over time. Those who wield it must learn to control it, lest it become unmanageable. When your power becomes too much to handle—and it will—remember that there are those who can help.”
“Like you?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“Like me,” he confirmed, “and others.”
He reached into his pocket, extracted a business card, and held it out to her. When Muriel made no move to accept it, he tucked it into the mailbox, bowed slightly, and walked back the same way he’d come. It was several minutes before the birds started singing again, but his cryptic words and the sense of bone-deep menace lingered.