Page 32 of Beast of Blood and Roses
Sighing with frustration, I retreated to the stairs, my booted feet silent on the cold stone, the leatherbound book warmagainst my chest; the only evidence that this strange, charged interaction between us had actually happened.
I barely glanced at Marcel and Colette as I passed, though my stomach still clenched at the sight of them frozen mid-embrace. Seeing them like this—trapped between life and stone—still unnerved me deeply. The fact that I wasn’t running away panicking anymore probably meant I was beginning to accept this twisted version of reality, this world where magic and supernatural creatures were as real as my own heartbeat.
The thought should have been comforting, but it terrified me instead. Only a few days ago, I’d been a normal girl who never believed in magic or things that went bump in the night. Now I was living with one and, apparently, I was one too.
My chest tightened with a mixture of fear and something that felt dangerously close to longing. Reality seemed like a distant memory now, something I’d left behind in another life. My world had gone from living on the edge of ordinary to free-falling off the edge of everything I’d ever known.
And the most terrifying part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to climb back up.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about my father. The thought of him free while I was trapped here made my chest burn with anger. He’d thrown me to the wolves to save his own skin, and now he was probably already planning his next big score.
I shut my door and climbed on my bed. I turned on the lamp next to my bed, hoping the beast wouldn’t see the light seeping underneath my door. He’d been clear about getting rest, and he didn’t like his orders being disobeyed. I’d learned that lesson when I’d ventured into his forbidden bedroom and discovered the painting. But sleep was impossible.
I held my breath as I opened the book, my heart hammeringagainst my ribs. Please let me be able to read this. The strange symbols danced across the page like living things, completely foreign and incomprehensible. My eyes strained as I stared at the twisted letters, willing them to make sense. Nothing. Just meaningless marks that could have been ancient hieroglyphs for all I knew. I slumped back in defeat, the hope draining out of me like air from a punctured balloon.
Panic started to rise in my throat. What if I wasn’t really a witch? What if?—
Then, like a puzzle piece sliding into place, the symbols began to shift. Slowly, as if emerging from underwater, the strange markings rearranged themselves into words I could understand. My pulse spiked. The transformation was so gradual I almost missed it, but suddenly I was reading actual sentences about the fundamentals of magic.
How was this happening? My hands trembled as I gripped the book tighter. Was it me, or was there something about this cursed place that was awakening whatever lay dormant inside me? The thought of my father crashed into my mind like a wave. My chest tightened with a mix of anger and hurt. Did he know about this? Had he always known what I was and never bothered to tell me?
I pressed my palms against my temples, feeling a headache building. I had more questions swirling in my head than when I’d started, and I hadn’t even begun reading properly yet.
As I delved deeper into the pages, I learned that witchcraft ran in bloodlines; that there were powerful magical families scattered throughout New Orleans, some practicing healing and protection, others delving into darkness and curses.
My throat constricted as I thought of my mother. Did this power come from her? If so, which path had she chosen? Thebitter part of me whispered that it had probably been the dark one, since she’d abandoned her husband and child without a backward glance. Sadness washed over me like cold water, followed quickly by a surge of anger. I wasn’t sure what hurt more—not knowing or suspecting the worst.
I rubbed my burning eyes and shifted restlessly against my pillows. The wee hours of the morning crept into my bedroom, painting everything in shades of gray before exhaustion finally pulled me under. Even in sleep, my mind churned with more questions than answers.
Chapter Eighteen
Fierro
Warmth fell across my face and I fluttered open my eyes, blinking against the pale morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows. My neck ached from the awkward angle. I rolled my shoulders, wincing as the muscles protested.
The sitting room was empty, but her scent lingered—something like fresh-picked lavender that made my chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache. My gaze fell on the empty space in the bookcase where the magical tome had rested before I’d given it to Rosalie. Only a true witch could decipher its contents; to anyone else, the words would remain scrambled gibberish.
I pushed myself up from the overstuffed chair, my joints stiff and reluctant. When was the last time I’d fallen asleep anywhere but in the ruined remains of my bed? Years. Maybe decades. I dragged a clawed hand through my mane, disturbed by how easily sleep had claimed me in this room, in this chair where her presence still seemed to hover.
What is she doing to me?
My fingers found The Witch’s Heart hanging against my chest, the smooth stone cool beneath my palm. I closed my eyes and reached out with senses honed by centuries of hunting the supernatural. Nothing. No electric tingle across my skin, no warning prickle at the base of my skull. The air around me remained clean of magical interference.
But then why did every instinct I possessed scream that something had changed?
I began to pace, claws clicking against the wooden floor. Rosalie claimed ignorance about magic, and every fiber of my being wanted to believe her. The way her eyes had widened when I’d mentioned witches, the genuine confusion that had flickered across her face, it all felt real. Honest.
I stopped mid-stride and laughed, the sound bitter in the quiet room. Honest. When had I started looking for honesty in anyone? After decades of dealing with the dregs of supernatural society, the liars who’d sell their own mothers for another fix of power, the thieves who’d steal breath from sleeping children, the addicts so desperate for magic they’d drain the life from anything with a pulse, I’d forgotten that innocence could exist.
But Rosalie...I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to banish the image of her face. There was something untouched about her, something that made the beast in me want to both protect and devour. She looked at me without fear, without calculation, without the desperate hunger I was used to seeing.
My hands dropped to my sides, clenching into fists. That innocence terrified me more than any dark magic ever could.
Marcel stepped into the sitting room, his eyebrows raised as he took in my rumpled appearance. “Monsieur, did you get up early? Before the sun rose?”
I stretched my arms over my head, working out the kinks from sleeping in the chair. “No, I slept here all night.” I cracked my neck. “Where is Colette?”
“She’s preparing breakfast as always.” Marcel’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the bookcase, then back to me with a knowing look.
