Page 27 of Waltzing With Witches

The Keeper’s head turns slowly, a look of disbelief on his face. “You can sense the wards?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know for sure. I’ve never been very good at sensing my magic, but I feel it now. Like it’s tumbling around pleasantly in my stomach. It doesn’t feel worried, but I don’t know how accurate that would be.”

The Keeper checks his comm watch again, then stalks toward the ward, laying a hand on it. “Come here, Morgan. Place your hand on the ward, please.”

A spike of apprehension hits me. When Thea, Wren, and I arrived in Ever, Thea’s white magic punched a giant hole in the ward, and thralls got through, attacking the town.

“It’s okay,” the Keeper says carefully. “Black magic is healing magic. Every black witch is a little different, but your magic won’t hurt the wards.”

“What can be healed can be unhealed,” I say. “I’m a physician, remember? I know that better than anyone.”

“I’ve never known black magic to work that way.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t surprise me if I was the first to be weird or different.”

The Keeper purses his lips but says nothing. Instead, he reaches his hand out, palm up. I eye it cautiously, but when he makes no further move, I lift my hand, placing it in his. His long fingers slip down the underside of my hand to my wrist, which he grips and raises to the ward.

When my palm touches the surface, warmth explodes inside me, filling me to the tips of my toes and fingers. A sigh leaves my lips.

The magic is so beautiful, so encompassing, so heady and powerful. I let it course through me, the ward pulsing softly against my palm. A smile tips my lips up. I haven’t felt this peaceful in—

“Morgan,” the Keeper’s voice cuts through the bliss, dragging me back to the moment. I’m not ready to stop touching the ward though.

I bring my eyes to his, ready to see disappointment, but instead, his gaze is full of wonder.

“Look at the wards, Morgan,” he says softly.

I blink and turn my head to look. Beneath my palm, the opaque ward glows bright like neon. The brilliant shade radiates out from my palm in a starburst pattern, trailing fifty feet on either side of my hand.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “What did I do to it?”

The Keeper leans one shoulder up against the ward and crosses his arms, his eyes flashing with intensity. “You healed the ward here, Morgan.”

“No,” I say automatically. “I don’t know shit about my magic. I can’t even feel it most of the time. I definitely didn’t heal the ward.”

“You did,” he says with finality. “Believe me when I say that is exactly what you did. Each time something hits the ward, think of it like a rock chipping at a moving car. It’s not a big deal, but over time, those little chips mess with the wards. One result of that is me getting an increasing number of alarms. Another result of that is eventual cracking. Most havens replace their wards every fifty years or so because of this.”

I sputter, “But Thea’s white magic helps the wards, I thought.”

He nods. “True. Her magic strengthens the wards in general, but the cracks still pile up, and the wards would still need to be replaced eventually. These have been in place for about forty years, so it would be time in another ten or so.”

Underneath my palm, the ward shifts, and emotion fills me.

Unhappiness.

“The ward doesn’t want to be replaced,” I whisper. “She’s unhappy that you even said that.”

The Keeper sighs. “Wards are sentient in the same way homes are. But a ward can only be healed by a black witch who lives within it. Otherwise, the few identified black witches would travel around and heal wards all the time as their primary role.”

“This would have been helpful information to know when I started working with Catherine.” I try not to sound too accusatory. “I could have—”

“Felt pressured,” he says. “In the same way Thea and Wren did once they started to have control over their magic. Magic is a gift, Morgan. But with that gift comes a heavy responsibility to use it well. Catherine told you as much about your magic as we usually tell those who are learning to wield it. Typically, as you progress, you’d learn more and more. Black magic, in particular, is very difficult to master.”

An angry huff escapes me. “I’ve noticed.”

His gaze grows thoughtful. “The good news is that black magic is more innately intuitive than green or white, or blue, for that matter. It’s not so much about skill in mastery as it is about understanding yourself. It’s a more emotional magic.”

I don’t love that. I consider myself a highly rational and logical person. I don’t want to be ruled by emotions. The moment I think that, my magic coils deep inside me, retreating from the wards.

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