Page 62 of The Cursed and the Broken
The thought quickly soured, and I grimaced. First, I’d have to raise her from the dead. What came next … I wasn’t sure of the particulars. Fate had said my blood was the key. Once spilled, it would resurrect her. But how could I destroy her in her supernatural state if I was already dead? Or if I’d been sent to the Under World?
A sliver of hope inside me sparked. Perhaps I would have a second chance, too. If the cultists could bring their leader back, why couldn’t I return? How else would I be able to deal the final blow? It seemed logical enough, in a dark magic, what-the-fuck-will-I-return-as kind of why, but it was all I had to go on. I needed answers.
Dante’s warm hand squeezed my own and I jumped at the touch.
“Where’d you go just now?” he said softly.
My throat bobbed. “Just groggy from the pain.”
He saw through my lie, his brows pinching ever so slightly before smoothing out. “I’ll let you rest.”
“Wait,” I squeaked, latching a hand onto his arm. “Is András okay?”
Dante grinned. “Aside from being furious that he missed the entire fight? He’s sporting a rather large lump on his head, but he’s fine. Taking solace in the company of hisfriends, I believe.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good for him, I suppose.”
A faraway look settled in his gaze. “We all deal with grief in different ways. András prefers to drown his in the throes of pleasure.”
“And you?” I whispered.
His eyes snapped to my own. “I train. And when I’m faced with my enemy, I kill what threatens my own.”
A shiver ran through me at those words—the hard set of his jaw. I knew he was thinking of his mother now. I wondered who he might have been had he not witnessed her death. Trauma like that leaves a scar. Would he still have been a blade of justice for his people? Would he be the killer he is today?
“I’ll let you rest,” he repeated quietly. Rising, he padded over towards the door, but halted, shifting towards me again. “When we first met, you were able to heal Laszlo. Can you use that power on yourself?”
Scowling, I shook my head. “Beyond simple tricks and spells, most witches have an affinity for a singular magic, such as earth or fire. Witches dwell in covens of the same power to practice in peace and unity. As a fire witch in an earth village, I’m sure you can appreciate how much flack I copped when a wayward spark would set fire to anything of a flammable nature, such as, oh I don’t know, crops, plants, vegetables ... everything!?”
Amused, he shot me a crooked smile. “You set fire to their work, didn’t you?”
It was more of a statement than a question and, by the twinkle in his eyes, he was enjoying this immensely. Huffing, I turned my nose up. “Not on purpose. What do you expect? I was young and had no one to train me.”
Chuckling, he leaned against the wall. “Go on.”
Grinning despite myself, I tucked my hair behind my ear, conscious of the knotted tangles housing god only knew what. I groaned inwardly. I probably smelt like the dead, too.
Sucking in a breath, I shoved my insecurities down and continued. “Healing magic requires sacrifice and balance. I can only heal others by bloodletting or taking on the pain of their injury.”
Intrigued, he crept closer, becauseof coursethat would be what piques his interest. “Is that why you cut yourself to heal Laszlo?”
“Yes. A sacrifice in exchange for power,” I explained. “For small hurts or broken bones, it usually only takes a slice to the palm, but larger wounds like this? It’s too costly. I can’t heal myself without inflicting more damage or risking death. Healing magic seems to be more costly than my blood magic. I don’t know why. It was a gift from my father—I never got the chance to ask him about it.”
“Before he passed away?” he asked gently.
I nodded. “It was the last thing he did. His way of preserving the line, I suppose.”
“Or preservingyou,” Dante said. “It takes a skilled táltos to summon magic like that—to harness the spiritual energies and weave it like so. Your father was a powerful man, but perhaps the payment of using that magic is steeper than most can afford. If you only have a kernel of that power inside you, that might explain why it’s harder to use. Your blood magic was gifted by birth—it makes you who you are. Healing magic contradicts the destructive nature of your other gifts. It upsets the balance.”
I’d never thought of it like that before, but it made sense. All power came at a price. A flicker of sorrow coursed through me and I wondered if my father had given me this gift knowing I’d need it to protect myself—or my family—when I grew older. A kind of safeguard if evil came knocking. And it had blasted down the doors by now.
Dante chewed over this knowledge, his brown eyes sparkling with a new idea. “If you can’t use your magic on yourself, what if someone else assisted?” When he looked at me with all the curiosity of a cat, I understood where he was going with this immediately.
“No fucking chance,” I replied firmly.
“I have blood to spare,” he said with a disarming grin. “You need to heal. Unless you’d rather stay here while we hunt for the cultists’ base, of course.”
My nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t dare.”
