Page 63 of Last Gift: Supernatural Battle

The grimoire’s ink-black curtain of hair swung forward as he untangled from Huxley to peer closer. “You do?”

“Yes, it’s how my magic likes to organize itself. When I arrived here and started to play Caves, I realized that I could use the quipu to help make decisions on strategy.”

Spyne whipped his head to gape at me. “That’s why you were so good at the game.”

He’d been in Vero too.

“Yes. I plan to use it now to make decisions about the demons too.” I blew out a breath. “It’s going to get much bigger if we ally with the Vissimo and Luthers.” I’d already added multiple strands for the other supernaturals after dinner, downloading the last couple of days into it. This quipu would circle the perimeter of the first level of my quarters in time. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the braids spiraled up to the top level.

“You’re chosen,” Spyne said. “There’s no other explanation for the things you can do, and what you’re going through with Wild.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“She doesn’t like people having expectations of her,” Huxley said lazily.

My mouth opened in outrage. “That’s not true.”

“Is too. I don’t want to be a leader. I don’t want to be mated to Wild. I don’t want to do this, that, and everything that I’m obviously meant to do.”

“I don’t sound like that,” I shot back. Did I?

Spyne said, “You were placed in a ritual that allowed you to gain an affinity right as the coven needed you. Gaining that earned you the relics, which ended Caves. Your magic tends toward a unique outlet that gives you the perfect tool to make decisions with an impossible amount of considerations to weigh. How can you deny that you’re meant to wear Ryzika’s relics?”

Maybe I had a teensy-weensy issue about others’ expectations.

Huxley was smirking.

“I’m glad I wasn’t wrong about you,” Spyne said suddenly. “I didn’t feel I was. I should have trusted the reason my grimoire magic wanted me to pass you Endex’s journals. Thank you for being patient with me, High Esteemed.”

“Thank you for asking questions and reserving judgment,” I countered. “You’re one in a million. That’s why—when Huxley is an asshole, which he will be until he sorts his issues out—I will always take your side.”

Spyne smiled, and the return of openness between us was a gift in itself.

One that boosted my confidence for what may come in the morning.

17

I wasn’t nervous.

I wasn’t a wreck.

Nope.

None of Grandmother’s “fucking fake it” advice was helping. The confidence boost from Spyne was long gone. Frond’s group now occupied two tables. Wild and I were on an unofficial trial. I could feel the coven’s dissent like the minuscule injections of three hundred mosquito bites. The one positive was that the supernaturals’ visit had taken second stage to me being the Mistress of Dark Magic.

The only positive.

Wild was all calmness beside me, and I’d clung to that for the last twenty minutes, unable to touch my food. I hardly ever lost my appetite. My mother would have been frantic.

“It’s time,” Wild told me, taking a sip of water after.

My heartbeat took off triple time, and sensing my panic, he gripped my hand tightly under the table. His earlier words before we’d braved the eating chamber returned to me. We’ve done nothing wrong. This is something for celebration by maguskind.

Except he wasn’t half demon. He wasn’t the newcomer to the coven turned leader turned dark magic user. In the story the coven had carved, Wild was the victim.

He sent me pulse after pulse of courage, and eventually his effort helped to center me. I had to hold it together and not give Frond more ammunition. I wasn’t guilty.

Maybe I’d keep telling myself that and believe it one day.

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