Page 28 of Magic in My Bones

I accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers and chasing away the lingering chill. I took a sip, the sweet, floral flavor blooming on my tongue. It was perfect, just like everything else in this cozy little haven.

“Thank you,” I murmured. It was strange, being on the receiving end of such attentiveness. I wasn't used to people taking care of me, not like this. It left me feeling off-kilter, like I was navigating uncharted territory without a map. “What happened? Where am I?”

Dorian settled back, his expression turning serious. “You're in my cottage, Ren. In my bed, in fact.” He gave me a wry smile, and I felt my cheeks flush with heat. “I apologize for the impropriety, but the sofa's currently buried under a mountain of books, and I couldn't very well leave you on the floor.”

I ducked my head, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern on the quilt. I cleared my throat, desperately trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “So, the spirit attack. What exactly happened?”

Dorian sighed, running a hand through his wavy hair. “It was no ordinary spirit, Ren. What attacked you was an abomination, a twisted fusion of tortured souls forced together by the darkest of necromantic arts.” His voice was heavy with a mix of sadness and anger. “Whoever did this... they have no regard for the sanctity of life or death.”

I shuddered, the memory of those grasping skeletal hands sending a fresh wave of unease through me. “But why me? Why did it target me specifically?”

Dorian hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I have a few theories, but primarily, I believe it’s because of your innate magic. Your necromancy, Ren… It’s different from the sort most of us carry. The empathic nature of it runs deeper in you. You’re like…a beacon to lost souls. And the stronger you get, the brighter that light shines. Your light will draw more and more spirits to you,and I’m afraid they won’t always be the benevolent sort you’re used to.”

I set my tea down, the implications of Dorian's words sinking in like a stone in my gut. “So, what you're saying is... I'm a walking spirit magnet? A supernatural trouble beacon just waiting to go off?”

Dorian reached out, his warm hand covering mine in a gesture of comfort. “It's not your fault, Ren. You didn't ask for this gift, this burden. But it is something we need to address, to help you learn to control and protect yourself.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry despite the tea. “How? How do I protect myself from something like that... that thing that attacked me?”

Dorian's thumb rubbed soothing circles on the back of my hand as he spoke. “There are wards, spells, and techniques we can work on together. But Ren, there's something else you need to know about the attack.”

I looked up at him, my heart hammering in my chest. “What is it?”

Dorian's expression turned grave, his eyes shadowed with concern as he met my gaze. “The spirit that attacked you...it left a mark, Ren. A brand of sorts, etched upon your forehead.”

My hand flew to my forehead, fingers trembling as they brushed against the tender flesh. I couldn't feel anything different, but the way Dorian was looking at me made my stomach twist with dread.

“A mark? What kind of mark?” I asked, my voice sounding small and frightened even to my own ears.

Dorian reached out, his fingertips gently tracing the shape on my forehead. The touch sent a shiver down my spine, though whether from fear or something else entirely, I couldn't say.

“A rune,” he murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration. “One of binding and ownership. Whoever cast that spell,whoever created that abomination... they've laid claim to you, Ren.”

I felt like I'd been doused in ice water, the chill seeping into my bones and stealing the breath from my lungs. “What does that mean? What do they want with me?”

Dorian shook his head, frustration etched into the lines of his face. “I don't know, not yet. But I promise you, Ren, I will do everything in my power to find out and to keep you safe.”

He withdrew his hand, and I immediately missed the warmth of his touch.

I stared at Dorian, trying to process the weight of his words. Owned. Claimed. The concepts felt foreign, wrong, like ill-fitting clothes scratching against my skin. I was a necromancer, not a possession to be passed around like a cursed amulet.

“I don't understand,” I said, hating the way my voice wavered. “Why would someone do this? What could they possibly want with me?”

Dorian sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I'm afraid this may be my fault. The runes that marked you... they're the same ones I had you researching for me.”

My eyes widened, a pang of betrayal lancing through my chest. “What?”

“I thought I could solve the problem before it ever reached you,” Dorian said, his voice heavy with regret. “There have been two other spirit attacks in recent weeks, both targeting individuals with strong necromantic abilities. I believed if I could unravel the mystery of the runes, I could put a stop to it. The spirits seem to be drawn to intense surges of emotion. Up until today, I believed the only emotion that would trigger them was anger, a tendency I never saw you display. I thought that would work in your favor, that your natural calm nature would help protect you. I was wrong and I apologize.”

I frowned, trying to piece together the fragments of my memory from before the attack. I hadn't been angry, that much I knew. If anything, I'd been worried, concerned for Dorian because of how exhausted he’d been. But worry hardly seemed like the kind of intense emotion that would summon a vengeful spirit.

“I don't understand,” I said slowly. “I wasn't angry or upset before the attack. I was just... thinking about you, actually. Wondering if you were okay.”

Dorian's gaze snapped to mine, something unreadable flickering in the depths of those green eyes. He looked almost... nervous? No, that couldn't be right. Dorian Crowe, the unflappable professor of necromancy, nervous? It was like imagining a unicorn with stage fright.

He cleared his throat, his fingers fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “It would seem the spirits are not solely drawn to anger, but rather to any strong swell of emotion. Fear, compassion…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to where his hands were clasped tightly in his lap. “Admiration.”

I blinked, my mind struggling to process Dorian's words. Admiration? Was he saying what I thought he was saying? No, that was impossible. Dorian was my professor, my mentor. He couldn't possibly feel that way about me... could he?

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