Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Down the Rabbit-hole

AN: Hey dolls, I could really use your help. I've entered OFAC into the Watty's this year! So, if you'd like to see this story win, please please please share this story on Twitter with the hashtag #MyWattysChoice! <3

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Chapter 23

Sweat drips down the length of my spine, soaking into the back of my undershirt.

Beck and I had to strip off layer after layer due to the magic-induced heat penetrating our casting circle. Olivian had warned us that this spell would be pulling from a deeper realm than the remembrance or protection spell, and that it wasn't uncommon for elements of both dimensions to mesh while we perform the spell. Since we're pulling from the deepest Veil—the one that fuels Infernum—it makes sense that our hotel room has turned into our own personal sauna.

Beck and I are sitting side to side in a circle of witch-hazel, with chicory candles placed at each cardinal direction. Our perspiring skin is touching from shoulder to elbow.

Part of me loathes touching him. If we didn't have to do a spell, I'd like to burn my fingers against his skin as a reminder of all the trouble he's started. But really, no rational human would do that.

I wouldn't even be in this mess if I were rational, or human. I sigh, looking down at the pamphlet in my lap. Pete grabbed it on his way back after he snuck into the hotel lobby to steal another room key. This way we can use the town map in the back of the pamphlet during the spell.

Olivian sits across the room next to Pete, calling out phrases in Latin that we're supposed to repeat. The way she's gripping onto to her family's Grimoire is as if it's the only thing keeping her composed.

I feel Beck's skin stick harder to mine. I realize he's leaning towards me. "Before we start, I just want to say—"

"Ready when you are, Olivian!"

He lets out an aggravated growl and the noise vibrates through me until his bare arm peels away from mine. He grumbles, "I hate magic."

I exhale, examining the small vile of Olivian's blood in my hand. I wish I could say that pissing him off is satisfactory, but if anything, I only feel worse. I feel used, broken, and in a way I've only ever experienced once—the day I learned my own blood was rotten.

"Shell, you need to pay attention. You can't mispronounce any of the words or it won't work," Olivian calls out. "I'll repeat the verses again, and when you're ready, begin."

Olivian reads a Latin passage from the Grimoire slowly, giving me time to soak up each word in hopes of not screwing this up.

"Now, go," she whispers once the air falls silent again.

I close my eyes, beginning to recite the words carefully, first in Latin, and then repeating in English. I wait to feel some sort of energy fill the room.

Olivian is frowning at us when I open my eyes. Her hands wildly brush back her hair in frustration.

"Wait, did we miss something? Nothing happened." I ask. There is no darkness, no surge of electric energy. Everything just feels...flat.

"I don't..." she trails off, scouring over the ancient pages in search of an answer. "I don't understand. We have all the elements represented, the proper botany, Beck as an anchor...it should have worked! Were you concentrating on the goal? Seriously, if anything else is taking priority in your head, the spell is useless."

"Just let me try again!" I snap. Olivian and her mood swings are beginning to drive me mad. If Cruxley is the same way, then she and Beck are practically made for each other.