Page 36 of A Blade of Blood and Shadow (The Ravaged Kingdom #1)

Chapter

Twenty-Four

J udgmental emerald eyes blinked lazily at me as I sat on the floor of Imogen’s apartment and stared down at the cipher. Anemic morning sunlight poured in through the streaky windows, bathing the rug in golden warmth.

Mankara’s manuscript lay open in front of me, with Goose watching from his usual hiding place beneath the end table.

Every so often, he flicked his tail back and forth, scowling up at me with that squashed gray face. I had the feeling I was occupying his favorite sunning spot and that he resented me for it.

“Any bright ideas?” I asked in a deadpan voice, rubbing my temples in frustration.

I’d been through the entire book with a magnifying glass and a very strong light, but I hadn’t found anything related to a cipher. Admittedly, the runes were easier for me to read than the faded spidery text, but none of them were jumping out at me .

The cipher was even less helpful.

If I concentrated, I could sense the same magic that had drawn me to the book emanating from the cipher, but no matter how I tried to harness that power and channel it into something stronger, I couldn’t make anything happen.

Turning the crank along the side did nothing. The golden wheels seemed permanently fixed in their current positions, though I couldn’t find any obstruction that prevented them from moving.

“I’ll bet Kaden was right,” I muttered, shutting the book and causing Goose to puff up in a defensive posture. “Caladwyn probably never actually figured out how to use this stupid thing.”

I was starting to feel like chucking it out the window. I hadn’t slept apart from my nap at Kaden’s, and I’d been scouring the old book for hours while trying to get the contraption to work.

I hefted the cipher in my palm, fantasizing about breaking it into a thousand little pieces, when an engraving near the bottom caught my eye.

It wasn’t words but rather runes: two nesting triangles with smaller symbols beneath them and a pattern of curved lines that sloped downward.

The first symbol’s meaning rose in my consciousness without any great effort: Blood . But the second . . .

I squinted at the rune, rubbing the pad of my finger over the engraving as if that might somehow make it clearer.

Root . Origin . Source .

None of those words seemed to fit the meaning precisely, but I knew I was on the right track .

I tried putting the two together. Blood of the root . Blood of the source . Blood of the . . .

I let out a huff, going back to Mankara’s book and flipping through the pages.

It took me several minutes to locate anything that even vaguely resembled the engraving. The cipher was old — older than Mankara’s text — and the engravings were more rudimentary than those recorded in the book. Still, I was certain that I’d found the correct rune.

Squinting at the faded line of text beneath the drawing, I could just make out four distinct words.

Blood of the line .

“Blood of the line?” I said out loud, looking up to meet Goose’s indifferent stare. I scrunched up my nose, turning the phrase over in my mind. “Blood of the Coranthe line?”

Then I understood. It was so simple — so basic. So obvious , now that I thought of it. “It needs my blood to activate it.”

Excitement coursed through me at the realization, though Goose looked unmoved by this new development. I immediately wished that I could tell Kaden, but . . .

The impulse fizzled out when I remembered his treachery, and my jaw tightened into a scowl.

“But how do I do that?” I asked, as if the wretched cat had any interest in whether I figured this out.

It didn’t seem right to pour my blood over the delicate brass wheels and mechanisms. Surely the cipher wouldn’t look this pristine after centuries of witches doing that.

Holding it up, I turned the cipher this way and that — even flipped it upside down. When I did, I found a small depression that seemed to have been cast in the metal casing .

It wasn’t a hole, exactly. It looked more like a slit with a peak in the center of the top and bottom.

Instinctively, I glanced over at my weapons belt, which I’d flung over the arm of the couch. The hilt of the witchwood blade glinted in the morning light, as if waiting patiently for me to understand.

Slowly, I unsheathed the dagger and felt the hum of that familiar magic. Holding the cipher in my other hand, I fitted the very tip of the blade into the impression.

To my astonishment, it fit like a key — sinking in no more than half an inch, but enough that it couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Fingers trembling, I set the cipher down and held the dagger before me. I’d never cut myself with it — never even nicked a finger.

Gingerly holding the pad of my thumb against the tip, I rotated the hilt ever so slightly. A bead of blood blossomed from the wound, and I rubbed my thumb along the tip of the dagger.

Goose watched me with predatory alertness as I fitted the blade into the hole.

An otherworldly golden light poured from the cipher, startling me so much I nearly dropped the dagger. I squinted against the blinding glow, which shone brighter than the sun.

Once the spots had cleared from my vision, I looked around. Shimmering runes danced along the walls of Imogen’s apartment — symbols formed from the light shining through the engravings on the wheel.

My chest squeezed at the magnificent display. If I’d had any doubt that I was a Coranthe witch before, it was gone now .

The knowledge gave me an unexpected pang of sadness.

My mother had belonged to the Coranthe line, and I’d lived my whole life thinking she was human.

Had I ever really known her at all?

My throat burned as I stared around at the glittering runes, wishing I could talk to my mother. What would Imogen say when I told her I was half witch?

If I ever got the chance . . .

I shoved this thought aside immediately.

Imogen was alive. She had to be alive. I’d know if Silas had killed her, because part of me would die right along with her.

I couldn’t even consider the alternative.

The mere thought of Imogen tied up in that horrible basement dried up the lump of tears that had formed in my throat. I wouldn’t allow myself a moment of weakness — not until I’d saved my friend.

With or without Kaden, I would rescue Imogen and drive a blade through Silas’s heart. I was still a huntress, after all, and I was going hunting.

I waited until nightfall to leave Imogen’s apartment to be sure the other hunters would be gone for the evening. Killing Silas would be difficult enough. I needed to strike while he was unprotected.

I wasn’t worried about any of the other hunters avenging his death. Silas had always ruled by fear and pain. It might have ensured the hunters’ obedience while he was alive, but it did nothing to foster true loyalty .

I couldn’t imagine the others would stick around long after he was killed. Silas had made too many enemies. Once his reign of terror came to an end, it would be open season on any hunters left in the Quarter.

A familiar alertness crept over me as I navigated the back streets and alleyways. The throb of bass emanating from the bars and clubs on Crimson Row tickled my skin, and every drunken shout and scuff of footsteps made me reach for my weapons.

My hair was braided in a crown that sat low against the back of my head, and I was armed with every piece of steel I owned, as well as a few wooden stakes. The cipher was a comforting weight against my left thigh, carefully wrapped in one of Imogen’s T-shirts and secured in a leather pouch.

I stuck to the shadows where the neon signs didn’t reach until I found the block where I knew Silas’s house was hidden.

Ducking behind a rusted-out brown sedan that sat on cinder blocks, I reached into the pouch and withdrew the cipher. The brass wheels gleamed in the glow of the streetlamp, pristine despite the dust that had gathered in the velvet casing.

Setting it down in the grass, I drew the witchwood dagger and brought the tip to my finger. The moment I wet the blade with my blood and fitted the tip into the hole, the instrument came to life. Golden light flooded the street — so brilliant I worried about the attention it would bring.

Squinting through the brightness, I saw the outline of runes glistening against the dilapidated houses. Then the tiny brass crank began to turn, spinning the wheels along with it.

I became aware of that familiar magic that had first led me to Mankara’s book. It danced over my skin as the wheels spun faster, branding the backs of my eyelids with those ancient symbols.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the hum of magic intensified, the flickering runes fading into a blur of golden light.

The power coursed over me in uneven waves, numbing my skin and causing my teeth to click together. I gripped my witchwood blade so tightly that I felt the engravings digging into my flesh, branding me with the same runes that were unspooling from the cipher.

After a few minutes, the thrum of magic ebbed away, and the light faded along with it.

When I finally peeled my eyelids open, my jaw went completely slack.

An intricate golden web spanned overhead — large enough to encompass the entire city block.

Beneath it, smaller nets of golden thread glowed above houses and thresholds, each with its own unique pattern of magic woven into a protective field.

I gasped.

It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing the magic beneath.

The cipher was showing me every ward in the vicinity — spells and enchantments designed to keep the homes here protected.

I couldn’t believe that I had walked this street nearly every night for the last five years, unaware of the magic that blanketed the houses.

Lifting my gaze to the sprawling golden web, I concentrated on seeing beyond those threads of power to what lay hidden beneath.