Page 32 of Will It Hurt?

Aisla

Minutes later, I rushed into the covenstead, panting up a storm as the front door slammed against the centuries-old wall in the foyer.

“Maia! Brodie!”

No response.

Great. Just fucking great.

The one time I needed their help and they were out gallivanting with their pals. How dare they.

I reached under my jacket for the ward that hung between my breasts and pulled it up into the air.

Empty.

Of course it was.

How could I be so fucking careless?

Soulglass was a multi-purpose ward commonly worn by witches. It had a transparent finish with a sharp tapered edge and a rounded body. The glass itself was reinforced by magick and could withstand heavy hits from an external force intending to harm us.

Our coven used it for personal wards. But I’d heard talk of others using it for more nefarious purposes like binding or love spells.

As I stared into the vial, turning it around, I realized that not a single drop remained of the last warding spell I’d cast…

Wait, when had I cast it? Six months ago ?

The job had become so routine, so soulless, that I had allowed myself to slip up. Repetition had dulled my instincts and lulled me into a false sense of security.

Walk in.

Do what needed to be done.

Clean.

Cover.

Disappear.

It had become mechanical. Mindless. And that was the problem.

My late mother—and all the elders, really—had warned me time and again how important it was to keep my wards active. I had listened in the short run. But it was hard to take precautions when nothing crazy ever happened.

And now I paid the price.

A trickle of sweat crept down my nape and slithered into my jumper. At least I thought it was sweat. It could have easily been blood.

Ugh.

Stupidstupidstupid!

Anaia stared unblinkingly from her perch on the windowsill as I hurried into the living room and flicked the step-ladder open with a snap .

The brick wall above the hearth had been converted into a storage space that housed any and every ingredient a wytch could need for a spell.

There were hundreds of little drawers here, creeping upwards in little neat rows.

Some were filled with tiny glass jars containing the organic herbs we grew in our garden—lavender, rosemary, foxglove and so on—while others were… Let’s say, a little less organic.

These difficult-to-acquire ingredients were marked with dark iron handles, whereas the more common ones had smaller brass knobs .

The drawer to my personal cubby creaked when I opened it, releasing the scent of mugwort and thyme. It was a small space, barely longer than my forearm, but it was enough to stash away the items I needed to access quickly.

By the time my feet hit the ground again, sweat had gathered along my temples. Adrenaline still roared in my veins as I knelt on the carpet in front of the hearth.

Maybe in a past life, the roll of cloth could have been used to hold make-up brushes, but now, several vials of different sizes stared back at me.

My fingers trembled as I brushed them across each one, making sure the enchanted potions were still active.

As they came into contact with my fingers, the vials hummed, ready and waiting to be used.

Warding was not simple spellwork, but it was within my meager repertoire.

Intention was key when creating a ward. Well, intention and focus, but I’d have to ask the moon for forgiveness for struggling to focus after almost being murdered.

I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs, trying to find my center, but the trickling at the back of my neck made it hard to concentrate.

Salt was the first component. It was renowned for keeping out spirits and blocking negative energy.

But not just any household salt—these were crystals distilled from the waters in the north of Scotland, close to the old covenstead where the Scottish half of my ancestors were from.

These specific crystals were a shade of light grey and they tinkled against the wood as I added them into the bowl.

My trembling fingers meant that I accidentally poured way too much.

I bit back a curse not a moment too soon. The elders had warned us to keep our mouth shut while we worked on spells, in case the magick decided to pick up on the wrong words .

Fine, I thought, replacing the now-empty vial into the cloth strap. Just keep going!

Powdered limestone came next, falling on top of the salt with a quick whoosh. I crushed dried rosemary between my palms and followed it with mugwort and bay leaves, making sure I stirred everything with the tip of my index finger.

The last component was moonwater. Our coven tended to use this as a mixer for potions and spells. It was easy to make—Maia left filtered water in large vats under the full moon to be blessed.

The liquid slipped from the vial and hit the ingredients in the bowl, turning everything into an unpleasant sludge. But it didn’t need to look pleasant, it just needed to work.

I cupped my palms around the bowl and repeated the words five times:

“Let nae scaith come tae me.”

Gently, the mixture began to bubble. Tendrils of steam rose from the bowl, bringing with it a strange scent. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I wasn’t going to be making Eaux de Warding Spell anytime soon.

As I watched the mixture pop and fizz, I reminded myself that a proper ward wasn’t a wall—it was a filter. It wouldn’t stop everything, but it would buy me time. It would confuse, slow, twist anything harmful away from me. And sometimes, that was all that mattered.

It would’ve mattered tonight , I thought with a scoff. If my ward had been active, it could’ve slowed the vamp down enough for me to escape without ever getting hurt.

As the flame burned low, the liquid shifted, morphing from a chunky, salt-laced glob to a thick, viscous, silvery syrup that clung to the bottom of the bowl.

Relief withdrew the claws of anxiety from my chest. As with all other spells, there was always a chance it wouldn’t work the way I wanted it to.

But the thick silver liquid in the bowl was familiar.

Carefully, I tipped it into the soulglass I wore around my neck and popped the stopper to keep it in place.

There, I thought, folding the cloths containing the vials and tying them up. Safe again.

Probably.

***

I was being stalked. There was no doubt about it.

There were eyes on the house, on me.

Was that even possible? The covenstead was warded across its perimeters, and any human would simply walk past it without paying much attention.

A vamp, however…

My throat throbbed fiercely as I stared out the window, trying to get a glimpse of her lean figure in the night.

She was powerful, but she wasn’t strong enough to break an ancient warding. Was she?

Was she?

Anaia had moved from her perch on the window seat, which was an odd change for the creature of habit. Maybe she also felt the insistent pressure of angry energy directed at the house. Cats were perceptive like that.

I had done nothing but pace the length of the hearth after replenishing my warding spell. While going through the familiar motions had brought a measure of comfort, the adrenaline from the altercation refused to fade. With a late-blooming realization, I was beginning to understand why .

A part of me, the part that had fallen so deeply into a pit of ennui with this soul-sucking job for ten years, was suddenly…

Alive.

Finally, it squealed with joy. Something’s actually happening in this miserable fucking existence!

It was a troubling thought. I wondered if the High Coven would expense my therapy appointments so I could attend more than one session a month.

Even as the thought ran through my mind, I knew it was unlikely. Their employment contract was still very much stuck in the 1800s. Benefits would be out of the question. I doubted they’d even provide medical if the NHS wasn’t an option.

But that didn’t negate the fact that I could probably use a few emergency sessions with my psych to figure out why every nerve ending was tingling after coming this close to dying.

Was this some kind of kink? A part of me that hadn’t manifested over the last thirty years?

I ran my fingers over the base of my scalp, seeking the wound from the altercation. Hours later, it had already begun to heal. A slight crust had formed over the raw tear, and I picked at it, relishing the sharp sting of pain.

When I finally found the strength to pull my fingers away from the wound, they came away coated in a film of red. Unsurprising. But I found I didn’t have the strength to leave the gash alone.

The squeak of our front gate turned my attention. The rusty old iron cried bloody murder as Maia stepped through and shut it behind her.

I pushed myself off the window seat and hurried past the foyer to throw the front door open wide .

Deep in her noise-canceled world, Maia almost jumped a foot in the air when I reached out and hauled her into the safety of our home.

“What the fuck—”

She pulled her headphones off and threw them into her tote bag.

“Why did you—” The sentence cut off abruptly. “I smell blood. Are you bleeding? Did you cut yourself?”

“I’m fine,” I insisted, feeling the gash at the back of my head pound in time with my heartbeat. “We have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?” she asked, her eyes going wide behind her shades. It was typical of her to wear shades in the dead of winter. “Aisla, are your fingers covered in blood?”

I hid the reddened digits behind my back.

“That’s not important right now,” I insisted, pulling her into the safety of our living room and latching the door behind me. “Someone attacked me—someone pretending to be an assignment.”

Maia pushed her sunnies to the top of her head. Her crazy curls wound around the frame in a way that couldn’t be comfortable.

“Have you alerted the High Coven?”

I nodded. “I called and left them a message but I doubt we’ll hear back from them for a few days.”

“Damn paper pushers,” she cursed.

“Watch it—that’s your mother you’re talking about.”