Page 24 of Hell Hath No Fury
This envelope had not been here when I’d stopped by to change, taking a swig of vodka and touching up my lipstick before the ceremony.
This had been purposeful.
My first instinct was to set fire to the envelope and the message inside. I had it in my left hand, conjuring a ball of fire with my right. The flames licked against the parchment, but nothing happened. It didn’t catch. Didn’t blacken.
Spelled.
Because my mother knew me. Knew me just as well as I knew myself. Because she was a part of me. Which was why this hurt all the more.
The fire died in my palm, and my eyes burned with tears I refused to shed.
Rain hammered on the roof without warning, angrily trailing down the glass of my window. It had been a cloudless night mere seconds before.
Witch Water.
If I didn’t get control of myself, I could very well flood our entire compound. Though the prospect of that was rather enticing, unfortunately, I had far too many valuable pairs of boots and leather jackets that wouldn’t survive such a flood.
Clutching the parchment in my hand, I closed my eyes and took a long, even breath. I held my inhale, letting all my hurt, pain and anger expand my stomach. Then I let it all out. Mist surrounded me as I exhaled the toxic emotions.
It smelled sour and sweet.
I did this three more times until the windows fogged up and the black obsidian and selenite that was placed strategically around my room glowed brightly.
The rain stopped as quickly as it started.
The momentarily silent void created when the rain quieted was replaced with commotion outside… Ridley had probablypanicked about the Witch Water rain. I clicked the locks on my door shut and activated my wards so no one could enter, making it so that I could no longer hear the goings on in the hall.
The letter was heavy in my hands … as messages from the beyond tended to be.
I could do the dramatic and emotional thing and stare at the letter for a long time, cry, pretend I was too damaged or bereaved to read it, but that wasn’t me. Although I could be considered a lot of things, dramatic and emotional were not at the top of the list.
Well, I guessed that depended on who you spoke to.
I used my long, pointed, black nail to tear the letter open. The thick parchment cut into my finger, drawing blood that immediately disappeared into the paper.
It was spelled to my blood.
I discarded the envelope onto my bed then unfolded the letter. It was a single page that smelled of roses and jasmine. Something in my chest clenched at the scent, and I worked hard to temp down the swell of emotion inside of me. The room shook ever so slightly before I got it under control.
Even though I could be considered a little impulsive, I’d always had an iron clad control over my powers. I had to. My mother had made sure of it. Because of my ability, the destruction and chaos I could wreck, I was coached and trained relentlessly For as long as I could remember.
I’d held a lot of resentment toward my mother for that in my younger years. The way in which she trained me was brutal, almost cruel. It was only when I got older that I understood her teachings weren’t fueled by cruelty but fear.
The Council came on my sixteenth birthday for my Trials. Every witch went through them on that birthday, but the Council did not trouble themselves with attending.
Unless you were a Fourth Elemental witch.
They came to decide whether you had enough control of your power to be allowed to keep it.
One of the many catalysts of the last Witch Wars was a coven whose beloved elemental witch was deemed to be too ‘unpredictable’ by the Council.
So yeah, my mother had good reason for her actions.
She’d done her job beautifully, so the Council found no reason to bind my powers or take me away to be ‘trained.’ Though they tried. Hard. They’d provoked me relentlessly, pushed me to my limits. It was only after they left that I realized their actions were not normal. That they had come expecting me to fail. It was the one and only time I’d seen my mother truly furious.
My powers had not slipped outside of my control. Not once. Until this night. Something about this night felt wild. Pivotal. The air was charged with something. I heard whispers inside of it that I couldn’t decipher. Surely it had to be because of my mother’s death. And as all-encompassing as that was to my world … it felt bigger.
Instead of trying to listen closer to the wind, I read my mother’s words, her sloping scrawl and tightly mixed letters familiar and warm.
