Unbound (Unbound, Book 1) ~Formerly Casting Power~

Chapter 7

What should I do?

As my sobs dwindled and then stopped, the silence was too much, almost all-consuming. My thoughts returned to the fact that I was here. Alone. Unbound. My mother had left before doing as she'd promised, which terrified me. What if I did something bad before she came home? What if...

Should I try?

Lifting my head, I looked around the kitchen and my breath hitched as I saw her Book of Shadows sitting on the dining table. Slowly, I pushed myself up with my hands on the counter and stood. For a moment, I hesitated, remembering what my mother had said about a Book of Shadows being part spellbook, part journal. That meant it was personal, but she left it here. The book was in the open. That had to mean that she hadn't meant for what was inside to remain private.

I walked over to the table and sat down, reaching for the book. Tentatively, I placed my palms on the cover. When nothing happened—I was expecting to be electrocuted or thrown across the room because of some protective barrier—I slid it closer to where I sat, opening it as soon as it was near enough to read. Flipping through the pages, my brow furrowed. Nothing was meant for beginners, and I didn't understand half of the preparation that was detailed in order to try the spells she'd written. I mean, the groundwork was simple, if I wanted to put in the effort, but I didn't comprehend the need for it. I wanted easy, something that could be done in a few minutes, just to see if I could.

Within ten minutes, I realized it was pointless.

I stood up, leaving the book on the table where I'd found it just in case she noticed a difference.

Wandering, I walked around the first floor of our house, trying to see if there were any other books to look over, but found nothing. Giving up, I trekked back through the kitchen and went outside through the back door, hoping that some Vitamin D would help pick me up after the emotional beat-down. It wasn't even lunch, and I felt as though I'd been awake for days.

As soon as I was outside, I went over and leaned against the railing of the first level of our custom-made deck, resting my elbows on the top. My eyes darted to the path leading to my clearing, now overgrown and unmarked, and I sucked in a deep breath before shifting my gaze away. I looked to the right and smiled as I saw the small garden my mother had planted the year before when she'd declared that she wanted something flowery in addition to the herbal garden that she slaved over year after year for the ingredients she used for the supplies made in her shop. The flowers were already blooming, though she obviously hadn't pulled any weeds.

Standing straight, I ran back into the house and grabbed a bag and some gloves from under the sink before returning outside. I headed straight for the flowerbed, settling onto my knees as I methodically began to pull the weeds from the dirt and hummed. It felt good to exert energy, though the sun was getting warm on my back and I felt the sweat start to bead down my spine. Soon, my arms began to ache, not used to the exertion, and I sat back to wipe the perspiration from my brow.

Unsure of how long I'd been outside, I checked my progress, happy to see that I'd cleared half the garden. It would be a nice surprise for my mother. Maybe then she'd find the time to fix my problem or concede that I was worth keeping bound longer. Even if she didn't, gardening was mindless. Perhaps I would make one of my own to keep my thoughts occupied and avoid becoming unbound again, though I doubted that would work. Glancing up, I stared at the path to the clearing again and cursed myself for being so stupid. Sure, I'd been young and eager, but starting a fire? Alone? It was no wonder I'd messed up.

With a sigh, I leaned forward and started working on the garden again, shifting to sit further on the right to tend to the other half. My hand paused as I nearly pulled a flower that hadn't bloomed. The bud was closed, which made it look like a weed, though I could tell it wanted to open. I could feel it as my hand hovered above the stem.

What was it that my mother had said about plants?

They were alive.

To help them grow, we had to give them energy, though we couldn't just create it. We had to pull it from something in order to transfer the fuel to that which we wanted it directed to. That could be me, though I didn't want to chance to give a part of myself away—the whole soul-sucking nightmare was something I never got past as a child. So, what did a plant require? Water? Soil? The sun.

Lowering my hand, I closed my eyes and imagined the flower blooming as I concentrated on the heat of the sun, believing that the flower would absorb the energy I was sending its way. "By the heat of the sun, let it be done," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. Let it be, let it be, let it be.

All the warmth that had been concentrated on my back moved up my arm into my hand until I felt like I couldn't bear it anymore without leaving with burns. Opening my eyes, I smiled as I watched the flower's stem grow straight, its bud opening as if in slow motion. My chest swelled as though filled with the lightest air, and I felt happy. This must be the part of the craft that my mother had said was worth embracing. It was amazing.

My smile faded as the flower continued to unfold, and I pulled my hand back as though retreating from a hot flame. My mouth opened, my eyes growing wide, and I leaned back. The leaves on the stem started to shrivel, the color morphing from bright green to a dark brown. I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat as the petals began to die.

The center of the flower started to smoke, then a flicker of flame alit as though someone had held a magnifying glass under the sun.

Jumping to my feet, I stomped on the flower over and over. My heart raced and I couldn't seem to catch a full breath. Lifting my foot, I double-checked that the fire was out and was satisfied to see the flower smashed into the ground, barely recognizable for what it had been. I tramped on the spot one last time, sliding my foot back and forth until I could feel a groove being dug. Stepping back, I exhaled.

No more fire.

I grabbed the bag that I'd used for the weeds and cast an angry glare at the entrance to the clearing. After a moment of mentally cursing the space for its part within my nightmarish inability to perform magic, I trudged to the side of the house and dumped the bag into the trash before rushing inside. I stopped in the kitchen to wash my hands, then rushed up to my room. Turning on the music, I ignored the open closet and landed face-down on the bed.

Whatever my mother intended me to love about the Craft, I was sure it wasn't that.

Would she insist I try to like it if she knew everything I tried backfired?