Black Magic

Chapter Eighteen

Victon has started to look at me a different way, his eyes tracing painful lines across my body—skin seared by the heat in his gaze. Today, when I was taken to his dining room for him to feed from—a piece of meat, less than a person, nothing nothing nothing—he kissed my neck before he sunk his teeth into my skin. Today, he watched me as I was escorted out and called me 'doll' and made a promise with his eyes and his tone and his smile that things are going to get much worse. Today was the cliff's edge, the final step over a shadowy precipice; Victon's final kiss on my cheek, gentle and cold and lifeless, was the breeze pushing me over.

Today is September 27th, my eighteenth birthday, and I've become desperate enough to do something very, very dangerous.

My head is swimming with terror and endorphins, a heady cocktail that has goosebumps rising on my skin. When I was escorted back to my room I was given a tray of food, as usual. Iron cutlery and industrial plastic dishes; nothing more dangerous than a butter knife too dull to slice skin. It sits in front of my crossed legs on the floor. Steam rises from the food but I don't pay any attention to it. I'm not hungry. Not today.

Growing up, witches have it drilled into our heads what happens if we break the rules. I remember, once a year throughout all of elementary school, a Circle representative would come and talk to us about the forbidden. They would never explain the exact procedure—we found out anyway, because the old coven libraries are less strictly mandated than witch school libraries—but they made the consequences very, very clear.

For something so dangerous, so taboo, it's surprisingly simple. All it takes is a little blood, a little magic, a little desperate raw will.

Hands trembling, I pick the blunt iron butter knife off the tray. My fingers are weak and shaky and numb from fear but I manage to twirl the knife, holding it blade-end down, fist wrapped tight around the cool handle to keep the tremors to a minimum. Fear and apprehension and nearly two decades of ingrained legalities claw at me, but I can barely feel them. Everything is—numb. Numb and cold and startlingly, terrifyingly clear. This is the only choice I have left. It's the one trick up my sleeve. I may never get another chance like this again. My birthday is sharp and bright inside me; even with the iron knife I feel magic prickling under my skin.

'Find your strength, child.' It's the woman's voice again. It flows over me like smoke, soothing the frayed edges of my nerves, cooling the impatient, terrified heat in my chest. This isn't—this isn't right. This memory doesn't exist, it's been torn apart and put back haphazardly. 'You will not be made weak.'

My hands have gone strangely still, the trembling and shaking gone. It's a moment of perfect clarity, and I know—I know I have to do this. I take a single, deep breath, letting the eerie calm spread through my system.

Then I stab the butter knife as hard as I can through the palm of my left hand.

Pain—burning blinding sharp—bursts in my hand. It burns like fire, white-hot, desperate and screaming, frying my nerve-endings. I bite back on a scream—shit shit it hurts it hurts ithurts—

With as much strength as I can muster—my fingers are numb—I pull the knife back out.

Blood pools and drips down my hand, flowing down my wrist, staining the sleeve beautiful blue satin gown. It's so—so red, so thick and dark and beautiful. And buzzing with power. The knife clatters back onto the tray.

I drag my right index finger through the blood. It smears across my fingertip, dripping down to my knuckles.

Then I pull down the low, scoop-neck neckline of the dress and begin to draw.