Page 24 of The Redd Key (Bone Coven #1)

N othing in my father’s Book of Shadows explained the unrelenting chanting that came from the tiny vial of dark liquid. Once I identified the source of the whispers, I locked the glass bottle inside of the wooden chest in which I found it. Every night that it had been locked away, the whispering climbed in crescendo, like screams loud enough to wake me from sleep. Like a mad woman, I took to yelling at the wooden chest during its midnight wailings.

Because of the gradual torment from the ceaselessly chanting, I lost the motivation to keep time. The morning after our discussion about Witch Genealogy at The Wicker Basket, the texts from Sarah and Bridget were left on read. It had been days since I last granted either of them a substantial response to any of their texts. Sarah, in her true nature, took it upon herself to drop by and check in.

“I really don’t hear anything,” she said, eyeing the vial skeptically. Feeling bad enough for practically ignoring her since our plan to be the island’s watchmen, I didn’t try to convince her that I wasn’t going insane.

A true fault of mine is becoming a hermit when life gets chaotic. I mean, I didn’t neither Sarah, nor Bridget, more than single-worded responses for well over a week or two. It wasn’t really a surprise that Sarah showed up at my door last night, since I basically ghosted the two of them—unintentionally of course. The entire idea of becoming one of the magical protectors of an entire island of witch descendants was overwhelming on its own. Now, add that responsibility to the spiraling sense of doom that plagued me due to severe lack of sleep…I was barely a person anymore. Life just becomes a little too much sometimes.

Although I wasn’t responding to text messages or calls, I used the little energy I had to go to the docks to keep an eye on the harbor and all of the people who came and went—performing my duties as a self-appointed sentry. At least there, I could stay on top of work, coordinating shipments and responding to buyers’ emails.

At the harbor, the whispering voice was forced into silence as I left the vial locked away, hidden in my home. After a couple days of camping out at the Boathouse’s coziest window bench, the server caught onto my routine and now had a pot of coffee and a well-loved mug laid out on my favorite table. From my spot by the window, I had a full view of the docks and horizon, which I studied until I was on the brink of lunacy.

The morning sun’s rays filtered through the restaurant’s salt covered windowpanes, spreading a grayish red glow over my table. Lost in a daze with such a beautiful view of billowing flags and the sparkling bay, my laptop and accounting notebook laid forgotten, their presence a mere pantomime of purpose. I hadn’t shipped a single item since we had all been attacked, as days melded together and a couple weeks had passed. Instead, I found myself entangled by a constant nagging urging me to answer the question, “why?” Why had we been attacked here? And was that person really dead? We saw them fall into the violent water, but there wasn’t any trace of a body. Not a single news story or rumor of a body being found has circulated, either. It wasn’t like we could go to the authorities about it—because witchcraft wasn’t “real”. And those who know it is keep that belief clandestine.

Daily, I searched for any inclination of why the pirate’s urban legends were now becoming reality, and for who was playing out the villain. The curse had been dormant—mere fantasy—for over three hundred years. Why now? I thought to myself as I refocused on the bobbing boats in the distance.

After a handful of mornings, I memorized the morning routine of the harbor’s crew members, down to the footpaths each worker preferred to cut across the gravel lot. An unexpected, and admittedly annoying side-effect of my watchfulness, was becoming all too acquainted with Cole’s routine as well. It surprisingly lacked a walk-of-shame featuring the lovely Tamara Flint. Either she was really talented at sneaking away before dawn, or she hadn’t been back to the docks in a while—as far as I noticed.

Each morning, Cole stood where I was attacked at the end of the dock. He drank his coffee while contemplating the horizon, regardless of the weather, which became more and more volatile as the shadow of summer faded into the bones of autumn. After his coffee, he would disappear back inside of his boat and emerge donning boots and a tan Carhartt coat.

For whatever reason, I would always anticipate the way he would run his hand through his dark waves of hair as they fell forward when he ducked out of the doorway of the boat’s cabin. Each time he did it, I would lock the visual away somewhere deep in my chest. In those silent, stolen moments, I could almost envision him as the Cole from my Cove dream. I felt myself deflate as he hadn’t done it this morning; instead, his hair was pulled back into a knot. The acute pang of disappointment made me hate myself a tiny bit as I reminded myself that real-life-Cole couldn’t give two shits about me.

Although this man was incorrigible, and often outright abrasive, I did find myself growing to admire the beauty he hid so well beneath those hard lines on his face. At that moment, I studied his gait, committing its rhythm to memory, as he strode toward the dock workers at the far end of the gravel lot. Cole walked hard, with purpose. His strides were unhurried yet long, due to his height, and he could close a distance with less than half the steps it would take me to walk the same length.

I sipped my coffee, nearing the bottom of the mug, as he shrugged off his coat, throwing it over the bed of a parked truck. He grabbed the top crate off of a pallet situated a couple yards from the truck. Muscles flexed in his arms and neck as he lifted the cargo off of the stack, carried it, and slid it into the back of the truck bed. Pausing, he looked up to my window.

I inhaled a mouthful of coffee, nearly choking myself. I gasped, pushing back in my chair in panic, and dove out of sight.

“Are you alright, Raina?” The server checked in. I shot him a thumbs up as I sputtered and coughed. Despite another near-death experience, this time self-inflicted, I still felt like such an ass because, even after weeks of my regular patronage, I haven’t learned the waiter’s name. Now, it was awkwardly much too late to ask. He placed a stack of napkins on the table and tilted his head, nonverbally asking, “You good?” before accepting my rapid nods and heading back to the kitchen, shooting me a humorous look as I still awkwardly crouched.

Craning my neck, mindful to stay in my shadowy corner, I searched the harbor for Cole – there was no way he didn’t see me watching him just then. My cheeks flamed from just the thought alone. Not that I actually cared about what he thought or anything. I just…I don’t know. In my delusions, that had become incredibly detailed over the last few days, Cole was tormented by his yearning for me, as if he was constantly searching for me during his every waking moment—fighting his way back to me. I shook the flustering thoughts out of my head and pulled the small leather notebook from my backpack.

“S.B.” I whispered the letters to myself, appreciating who this journal belonged to. In the sunlight, the pirate’s journal was a chestnut brown, its reddish undertones highlighted by the crimson hue of the misty morning. It was funny—only now did I notice the unnatural shade of the Redd Hills sun. At first, when I arrived on the island, this glowing orb had been so jarring, carrying a feeling of macabre. Then, at some point, it shifted into a passive trait—something I seldom thought about and became warm…almost comforting.

Careful not to bend the leather too far, I trailed a finger down the book’s spine before I cracked it open. Although most of the pages were blank, I flitted through the empty leaves as if I expected them to reveal hidden truths. I strained to keep my eyes on the journal, feeling as if Cole’s gaze could see straight to the place where I sat. My empty mug held no diversion as I repeatedly flipped the pages, over and over. Shutting my eyes, I relished in the tiny breeze from the movement as it blew over my flushed skin. The last page stiffened between my fingers, finding its edge awkwardly tucked into the binding of the back cover. There was a seam I hadn’t noticed before, and it was lifted just enough for the page to get stuck.

Gingerly sliding my finger beneath it, I freed the last page. The leather cover was slightly raised and a bit thicker than that of the front. I slid my index finger into the crease where the pages were threaded against the leather. Flush against the material, a second layer of thin, leather hide formed an all but invisible pocket. My heart rate quickened as I carefully opened it. I pulled the swatch of leather to widen the opening to that of a sliver. Tucked away was a folded sheet of parchment. My breath stilled as I freed the sheet from its confinement.

I know that this feeling…

this reaction is not proper.

No man should have such a fire burning

after an incredibly heinous act.

Her blood…there is somuch of it.

I can feel it course inside of me.

I can feel it bend with my soul. It is her.

It is her life that I have consumed.

With her blood on my hands,

Ihave never felt more alive…

The quickened scribbling trailed off into indecipherable scratches. Focused on their words, I could almost hear the writer’s breathless voice while they manically paced a room. The chaotic inscriptions went on and on, barely legible. This scratchy script was different than the bold calligraphy of the rest of the entries, which was indication enough that this loose sheet was probably penned by someone entirely different from the author of the rest of the book. This person’s thoughts originated from someplace dark and forbidden. It chilled me to the core. Blood was shed.

As I held the yellowed note in my hands, I could feel the woman’s blood, her Aecor, infused within the writer’s words. It leaked out of the victim, into the writer, through their ink, from the page, and into my palms, which tingled from the residual power of ghosts from the past.

Only snippets on the page of incoherence made any sense. It read like a fiend had become addicted to the Aecor in their victim’s blood.

Deep crimson flowing across his chestnut mane

was unnervingly beautiful. My favorite stallion.

The Earth speaks through him and

directly to my very being.

Deciphering what I could, pieces of the writing painted a horrific portrait of slaughter. A trail of creatures lay in the writer’s wake. Suddenly, a cloud shifted in the morning sky, and pale light crept through the restaurant windows, illuminating the page I still held in my hands. The nightmare was confirmed.

We have killed another witch.

I searched the horizon, my breath fogging the windowpane as I processed what I had read. There was little movement in the bay and on the docks. Cole had long disappeared, along with most of the crew. Fishing boats dotted the bay, and even father out East. Trucks rolled through the parking lot, carrying a new load from the mainland. I hoped to see Jeff and approach him. We still hadn’t spoken about him using magic, and now after what I had just read, I had so many questions and needed his guidance. Black Sam Bellamy used Blood Magic…didn’t he? The thought didn’t sit right with me. Sam was the one killed by magic—when could he have ever used it? Though, the handwriting and the type of parchment differed greatly from the rest of the journal.

Retracing the events of the attack here at the docks, I remembered that Bridget nearly stepped on the mutilated seagull. Not to mention the dead bird I had found on my doorstep. It wasn’t much to go on, but the heavy feeling of knowing settled in my stomach. Then I thought of the vial and the way the liquid pitch seemed to swirl. I thought the scarlet edges of it were from reflecting sunlight, but what if I was wrong? Death— blood —was showing up a little too often.

Stuffing my belongings into my backpack, I shot a text to Bridget and Sarah and rushed out of the restaurant. I quickly waved a goodbye to my server as I headed out of the door. Martin cawed from high above me in the sky, so I knew Pilot and Ferran were nearby. I turned to scan the brush lining the parking lot to search for them when I slammed into—

“Cole.” My heart plummeted into my stomach as I stared up into his hardened face. For a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion, and his eyes darted down to my mouth as if in disbelief that word tumbled out of it. I jumped back and saw his expression turn cold as stone. I wasn’t sure why, but my survival instincts kicked into full force, and I knew I wasn’t about to stick around to see what would happen. In a breath, I was moving, hurrying towards my car before I felt his hand grasp my upper arm, whirling me back to face him. His grip eased when our eyes locked. A whimper escaped my lips as my heart raced at inhuman speeds.

“Be more careful,” he warned with a hint of a forgotten accent. Each word dripped with venom, and I didn’t know what I did to deserve such a harsh reaction. His dark brow trapped a lock of his midnight hair as he looked down at me. My heart continued to pound violently; I was afraid it was going to burst out of my chest. Cole’s hand remained tight around my arm, heat flaring through my coat sleeve. He stepped closer, and now his face was only inches away from mine. Spiraling thoughts of what-ifs consumed me, and I couldn’t breathe—like a mouse caught in a trap. I didn’t want to blink, afraid of the moment once my lids would shut, cutting off my sight long enough for him to attack like the predator I was suddenly imagining he was.

His fingers flexed, releasing me, and at the same time, a sharp breath escaped my lungs. Once free of his hold, I ran like a doe before a wolf. I didn’t look back as I got into my car and shifted into gear, planning to drive directly home. After some distance, I chanced a look back at Cole in the rearview mirror, watching me as I drove away. My mouth had become so dry that it hurt to swallow. My pulse finally slowed down once I made my way down Peak Drive and saw Bridget and Sarah standing like two sentinels in the driveway. I parked my car and grabbed my backpack before meeting them.

“Come with me.” I hurried past them, noting how rude I probably sounded after distancing myself so much. Without a word, the two of them followed me into my apartment and watched as I pulled the wooden chest from under the bed. “Can you lock the door, please?” I said without looking up at them. Bridget did the favor, and Sarah came to stand by my side. I placed the box on top of the new table that got delivered last week. The chanting was immediately audible, its volume just more than a whisper. It was irritating, setting my teeth on edge. I looked around to the two women, and Sarah shrugged. “You really don’t hear that?” I asked, perplexed and vexed beyond any rational reason.

“No.” Bridget shook her head with an inquisitive brow. Sarah dipped her chin as her eyes left mine and focused on the wooden chest.

The air stilled in the room. I grabbed the bottle and slowly lifted it to eye-level. The chanting stopped. Sarah sucked in a breath as the three of us peered inside. The vial had a dim ruby halo around it, which faded the moment I lifted it from the shadows of the chest and into the overheard light.

“I know what this is.” With one hand, I placed the folded page from the journal onto the table, and with the other, I popped the cork topper off the glass flask. Bridget omitted a hesitant sound but then stopped herself. Cautiously, I tilted the vial until a single drip fell from its mouth and splattered onto the page. Red pooled and then webbed outward as the liquid spread through the parchment’s fibers. Slowly, I turned to face the girls. “Tell me absolutely everything you know about Blood Magic.”