Page 51 of The Rowan's Stone
His voice aches with his own sadness. Laying my head back, I stare into his icy blue eyes. “Would you tell me about your mother?”
Fallon comes in, and his brow furrows when he sees me in Daire’s lap with red, puffy eyes. When he opens his mouth, Theron pulls him aside and hands him the letter. I swivel back to Daire, who’s staring into the past.
He lights up. “It’s been a long time since someone asked me about her. I loved her very much, and when I talk about her, she comes to life again.” He pauses to gather his thoughts. “She had the most beautiful soul, and she exuded life. People were drawn to her because her happiness made them feel good. It was almost tangible, and it made you want to reach out and touch her to see if a little bit of her could rub off on you. As a healer, she was incredible and always knew the right spell or word to make someone better. When I was learning to heal, she would tell me to be open to my magic, let it tell me what to do. She was this bohemian spirit who only wanted to share herself with the world.” He laughs. “She was the complete opposite of my father, which is why he worshipped her. We all did.”
He goes on to tell me stories about his family growing up. Until Danica died, they lived and loved fiercely, but after she died, they all quietly fell apart. “My mother’s light dimmed, but it didn’t go out. She continued to help others, but her heart was broken and you could see it. When she was dying, she told me not to be sad. She was happy to be mortal because she couldn’t bear the thought of Danica being alone.”
I swipe at the tears rolling down my face. “It’s the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard,” I murmur. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was,” he agrees, shifting me around to grab another tissue. “And I know someone else who’s wonderful too.” He looks at me pointedly. “Why did you redecorate my room?”
“Do you like it?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheek while I wait for him to answer.
“I love it, and I can’t thank you enough. It’s the best surprise I’ve been given in a long, long time,” he answers, his eyes full of emotion. “Why?”
I shrug. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you in that cold, dark room devoid of any of your personality. You needed somewhere to relax and get away from the world, a place that felt like you.” I play with his fingers for a second before deciding to take a chance with the truth. “And honestly, I didn’t want one iota of Solange anywhere in The Abbey and certainly not in your room.”
His eyes lock with mine, and they gleam with satisfaction. “Would you let me take you to dinner?” he asks, his gaze intense.
Butterflies somersault in my stomach. “Yes,” I reply huskily.
He lifts my chin, and his mouth is firm when it captures my lips, sealing the deal.
30
ARDEN
Afew minutes later, I scoot back into the corner of the couch and grab the journal, leaving my legs in Daire’s lap. Occasionally, he runs his hands over them, almost absentmindedly, while he gives Fallon and Theron updates on the changes Lucifer is making in the Underworld.
Astor asked to see the grimoire again, and after he swore it wouldn’t cause any issues between the two of us, I handed it to him. He’s now in a chair in the corner with his head buried in the pages.
Taking a deep breath, I open the journal. The first page states, “Agnes MacAllister, Matriarch of the MacAllister Witches,” with the beginning and end date of her reign. Quick math tells me she led them for almost fifty years.
On the second page, it says, “The Beginning,” and includes a story.
Of dragon’s flame and witches’ blood, the MacAllisters were born. We were the first humans to discover our potential for magic and call ourselves witches. In the beginning, we marveled at our ability to create fire and water and to heal with a whisper of power and a chant. Until one day, when a maiden witch fell in love with a dragon—a human in love with an immortal. Desperate for her own immortality, the witch conducted many experiments, all of which failed to produce the desired outcome. The quest seemed doomed…until the day she created the stone.
Using flame and blood, she’d created a source of power that unexpectedly fueled her magic and made her powers grow exponentially. When her children were born, even stronger than her, she fed their blood to the stone and the rowan tree was born. Separate from the stone, it connected the MacAllister witches to each other, collectively making them stronger, but the original source of their power remained with the stone.
A sacred tree, the rowan sought other humans with the potential for magic, and when those witches mated with supernaturals from other races, they became strong new branches on the tree. Separate from the MacAllisters, these witches brought with them new and different powers based on their mates, and some even bore immortal children with powers stronger than their parents.
The original maiden, in her elderly years, sought to connect all of the branches and witches. Pulling a thorn from the tree, she promised them greater power. They each swore an oath and gave their blood, tying themselves to the other witches and, unbeknownst to all, to the stone that replenished their magic. Collectively, they were now greater and their powers were stronger.
But as more and more witches were born, they too pulled from the source, and the stone began to turn dark, while they became weak. The MacAllisters realized the original magic was dwindling. If we didn’t find a way to renew the spell, witch magic would revert to the most basic of powers.
Several MacAllisters were mated to dragons and, using the original spell, we sacrificed blood and flame to the stone, over and over. With our regular donations, the stone began to glow again and witch magic flourished. Witches became one of the most powerful races, our services sought by both supernaturals and humans.
Then the witches began to shun other supernaturals, including their mates and children. They wanted a pure race, untainted by others. Overnight, the bloodlines pruned their branches of all immortal children, and without their ties to the rowan and its stone, the witch powers in these children died out or became minimal. Horrified, we tried to tell them how the supernaturals and their immortality made us collectively stronger, but greed and envy ruled, and they refused to listen.
Distancing ourselves from the rest of the bloodlines, the MacAllisters continued to mate with dragons, and consequently, our branch remained strong, making us the most powerful witches in the coven. We continued to feed flame and blood to the stone, knowing they were all benefitting from the source, but we didn’t know how to separate the other branches from the rowan tree or the stone itself.
When the other bloodlines mated with humans, the number of witches increased dramatically, as humans weren’t plagued by the infertility challenges faced by many immortals. But while they grew plentiful, their powers remained about the same. Children acquired new powers if they mated with other bloodlines, but their level of power changed minimally over the years.
It has remained this way for hundreds of years—the MacAllisters fueling the stone with flame and blood, the rowan connecting all witches, and the stone replenishing their magic. Never did we reveal the secret of the stone and the rowan tree.
The story ends,and I sit there stunned, my mind barely able to comprehend the magnitude of what I just read. Picking up the journal, I read it again and again. It rings true—the witches are still using the rowan’s thorn to tie themselves together. The exclusivity born centuries ago is ingrained into their very bones, and yet, they know nothing. They only know their power is getting weaker. The truth behind this is partly because of their refusal to mate with other supernaturals and let hybrid children into the coven, and partly because the stone hasn’t received its sacrifice since the massacre twelve hundred years ago.
When I saw the stone in the cave, it definitely wasn’t glowing. I wonder what would happen if I added a drop of blood? It might not power it, but it could give it a boost. I set the thought aside and pick up the journal. Turning the page, I find a letter from Agnes to me.
