Page 51 of Will It Hurt?

Aisla

When she wasn’t annoying me or turning me on, Jinn was surprisingly good company.

She had a droll sense of humor that made my eyes roll more times than not.

And she was a quick reader, which helped me run through the elders’ logs in less than half the time it would usually take.

We figured that reading up about spells that the elders had cast would help us cover all our bases before we bothered someone who’d explicitly stated she didn’t wish to be associated with the coven anymore.

“Nothing important,” Jinn said, setting the final journal on the table. “And the grammar is… questionable.”

“It’s colloquial Scots,” I explained. “They wrote how they spoke.”

But I was just as disappointed as she was.

Not with the grammar, but with our findings, which was a big fat nothing.

I’d hoped for a reference to someone having practiced the Maaya Veli spell before, but everything in the browning pages seemed to indicate that my ancestors had been a pillar of virtue when it came to spellcasting.

None of them ever dabbled in forbidden magick—or at least, they never documented it.

I wasn’t surprised. The High Coven was strict when it came to “antithetical” behavior, and over the centuries, local wytches had learned many ways to hide their true spellcasting abilities to avoid having their wings clipped .

Jinn picked up a log she’d already read and flipped to a page in the middle.

“Elder Ganga speaks of spellcasting and spellwork as two different things,” she said. “I thought they were one and the same.”

I shook my head.

“Spellwork is something every wytch can do,” I explained. “Like this.”

I brushed my thumb and forefinger together several times in succession before a spark of licky flame rose from my fingertips.

“Touch it,” I urged.

Her brows rose. “You’re asking a vampyre to touch something that could destroy her.”

I brought the flame closer to her chest and internally applauded the fact that she held her ground.

“Trust me.” I couldn’t keep the challenge out of my voice. “Touch it.”

Her open palm hovered over the tip of the flame for a quick second. A frown creased her brow.

“Oh.” She returned for another swipe. “It’s not hot.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not. It’s just a parlor trick. A kind of mirage. Only certain wytches can work with real fire.”

The flame flickered and disappeared .

“Spellwork is foundation-level magick. My elders may have used it for simple tasks like drawing water from the well or stirring a pot on the stove. Little things to make life easier. Casting, on the other hand…”

I glanced at my palms. “It takes a lot more work. A lot more energy. When you hear stories of wytches being persecuted, it’s likely a result of spellcasting.

Casting intervenes with divine intention and circumvents events that are supposed to happen.

We’re reversing or interfering with fate, and that can be tricky. ”

Jinn’s lips flattened into a narrow line.

“A simple example is when a woman comes to us for a love spell or a binding spell to make sure her boyfriend’s eyes don’t wander to other women.

But the boyfriend might go from loved-up to obsessive and possessive and violent, which doesn’t align with what the woman initially wanted.

This deviation happens because fate didn’t have a happy ending for the couple but the spell twisted their relationship into a forced love that didn’t grow naturally. ”

“Round hole, square peg,” Jinn said under her breath.

“Yes, sort of. When a spell is cast, it needs to be in-line with what all parties want. If one person fights it, the spell can go wrong very quickly.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I suppose what I’m asking is… Are you sure Belle wants to return to our world?”

“Yes.” Jinn was quick to respond, mirroring my stance. “And are you up to casting a spell like that?”

“A forbidden spell? With a blood sacrifice?” I asked, hefting the spellbook from its resting place. “I once cut my finger and muttered a spell to stop the bleeding. Does that count?”

Jinn did not look amused .

“Fine,” I muttered under my breath. “Just because I have no experience in pulling people back from the dead doesn’t mean I’m not going to give this spell everything I’ve got.”

She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and sighed.

“That’s all I can ask for, I suppose…”

***

An hour later, I found myself on my knees in the solarium with my jeans scraping uncomfortably against the grotty ground.

Beneath me, cracks slithered through the old stone like veins, widening where the earth had shifted over the years.

Faded sigils glowed faintly under candlelight.

They were stubborn little things that refused to die long after their creators had passed.

Thick white wax from countless burnt-out candles had pooled in hardened puddles, their edges dust-caked and brittle.

I made a mental note to come back during the day for a deep cleaning. Some pink stuff and a scrub daddy would work wonders on this floor.

The grit beneath my knees bit through my jeans, but I forced myself to ignore it. It was hard enough to focus on harnessing the core of my magick without the added discomfort.

When I’d suggested a trial spell, Jinn had quickly agreed.

I’d explained that according to the lunar laws, my magick—whatever little I may possess—would not be at its peak until the Cold Moon.

But spellcasting was very much like building muscle.

Sure, it might feel strained and achy and sore the first few times, but the more I practiced, the stronger I became…

Within my Eclectic abilities, of course.

I’d selected two black and white candles for the occasion. White to represent the living, and black to welcome the dead. Each one had been placed an arm’s width away from me on my left and right. A circle of salt connected each candle, forming a perfect circle with me in the center.

I took a deep breath and considered the next steps.

When it came down to spellcasting, I liked to believe I was decent. After all, Elder Marianna had once said I had potential. Me— potential. But using my abilities for forbidden magick still sat in my belly like a pile of rocks.

An imperfect spell is still better than none at all, I reminded myself.

Right?

Right?

Jinn stared at me from outside the circle, her legs crossed beneath her like a pretzel. That eerie stillness had come over her again as she waited, watching me with an expression that would only be credible for the undead.

I balanced on my knees, trying to find the little ball of energy that lived in the center of my belly.

“It would be easier to remain patient if you explained what you’re trying to do,” she said, breaking my concentration.

If I were being honest, my concentration had never been spectacular to begin with. Was it my fault that whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was the softness of Jinn’s lips with those pointed fangs brushing her bottom lip? Absolutely not.

My lack of concentration was entirely her fault.

“I’m trying to access the power in my blood,” I said with a sigh .

As I spoke, I thought of the wytch trials of old and how small, threatened men had claimed all wytches should be eradicated because wytchcraft was a blood-borne disease passed from mother to daughter.

I had first heard this story as a teenager, but to this day, it still surprised me that uneducated men from the seventeenth century who knew nothing about science and genetics could have guessed something so very close to the truth.

“Each wytch feels it differently,” I continued. “But for me, it sits in the center of my belly here.”

I curled my fingers into a fist and placed it beneath the center of my breasts.

“The elders use the analogy of a tank. Some say when the tank is full, they feel their magick everywhere in their body. Tingling fingertips, light toes, sometimes even an out-of-body experience.”

“Have you ever felt that?”

I shook my head. “I’m an Eclectic Wytch—jack of all trades, master of none-type situation. I doubt I can amass enough power to fill the tank, but I can get the engine running.”

“ Great. ”

Did I hear disappointment in her breath?

I speared her with a look. “You’re welcome to seek another wytch for help. I won’t hold it against you.”

Jinn’s cheek twitched. The movement had become familiar now, a telltale sign that I’d hit a nerve.

“Oh wait, the only other wytch you know turned you down, didn’t she?”

The tick grew more insistent, even as the rest of her face remained behind a veil of stillness.

“Just,” she said, her voice little more than an annoyed rumble. “Get on with it. ”

The satisfaction of getting under her skin curled through my veins as I adjusted my position and took a deep breath. The scent of damp and old wasn’t particularly pleasant, but I tried to strike it from my mind as I conjured a mental image of both candles at my sides.

“ Agni paayattum ,” I whispered under my breath.

Let fire strike.

One beat, two.

The first candle ignited with a sudden pop, making me jump.

Flames rose in both directions of the circle, cracking and snapping like dry leaves being mashed under a boot.

The salt burned with a hiss, tracing a path around me until the circle closed.

The black candle came to life with a splutter, its flame thin and reedy, reaching twice as high into the air.

For a moment, the space between us trembled. Jinn’s eyes met mine above the flames.

“This is promising.” To her benefit, she didn’t shy away from the fire.

“Glad you think so.”

With the circle ignited, a soft humming began in my eardrums. I exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of curls back behind my ear.

“Let’s see what else I can do, shall we?”

“It doesn’t bode well that you don’t seem to know your own abilities.”

I shrugged. “My spells work most of the time. It’s enough for me to get by.”