Page 115 of A City of Flames

“My sister’s grimoire,” Leira answers. “I haven’t taken it out in so long, it was in one of our cupboards. She’d given it to me to look after before she—” A deep pause. I understood this was already a hard topic for her “—left.”

Freya doesn’t take her eyes off the grimoire and a certain suspicion within me makes my head tip to the side.

She goes to flip the cover, but Leira says, “do not bother child, only witches are able to open a grimoire and read the magic off it, it’s—”

The words trail from Leira’s lips and shock slams into me. My eyes widen as Freya opens it up with ease and I look at Leira, her lips part and even Tibith murmurs something.

Only witches are able to open a grimoire. And Freya has opened it.

“Brigid,” Freya whispers to herself, running her fingers along cursive writing.

It’s only a second but a second in which it takes me to realize what this means. I slowly make my way toward her, extending my hand out to make sure she’s okay. “Freya?”

Her eyes start skimming wildly across the grimoire and then she looks up at Leira, the warmth of her bronze skin dulling. “Where is your sister now?”

Leira hesitates to answer for a minute before whispering, “She died... 17 years ago.”

Freya was three when her mother died...

I gulp and Freya trips on her feet, her breaths ragged as she looks between us all before dropping the grimoire. The thud echoes the walls as she storms out in a frenzy with me yelling her name. I turn to Tibith telling him to make sure they all make it to the den safely while Aelle holds onto a stunned Leira just as I run out of the room in pursuit of Freya.

* * *

Barging through the doors of the barracks, Rydan, Link and I trail after Freya. She’d fled Leira’s as if it was a mission to get back here and I already knew she was going to confront general Erion.

She pushes the wooden doors wide open, and we enter the room. Velvet curtains brush back as everyone sitting on the long table looks up. Lorcan, a few venators and the general himself.

I linger behind as Freya slams her hands down on the table, not caring for the rest. “Were you ever going to mention my mother was a witch?”

My eyes land on two vials shaking at Freya’s movements atop the map, each containing grey ash. I lift my head towards Lorcan and a deep line forms between my brows. My mind recalls the raided Tavern at Leira’s, venators had demanded whether witches helped shifters.

If Lorcan—

“Niamh, Roman,” The general’s clear voice jerks me out of my thoughts as he addresses the two other venators. “You may leave.”

Everyone else stays put as Niamh and Roman head out and close the double doors behind them. We all lapse into silence and I try to remain still, despite the heat of Lorcan’s gaze on me.

“Freya.” A soft expression drenches Erion’s face, one I’ve never seen on him. It’s almost too hard to believe. He rises from his chair, wood groaning as his boots drag across the marble floor. “What did I tell you about interrupting meetings—”

“Answer my question,” Freya demands, her hands fisting.

Erion freezes in front of her and the fatherly gaze dissipates into a humorous frown. “Where did you hear that?”

“Mother’s name was Brigid and I happened to open a grimoire.” Freya tilts her head. “How does that occur father when only witches can access a grimoire?”

My eyes slide to Link and Rydan, both seeming to read my mind as their eyes widen and I shoot them a subtle nod of my head.

Erion barks out a gruff laugh. An underlying tone of bitterness coats it. “I didn’t expect my daughter to go snooping around.”

“I didn’t expect my father to keep the fact that I’m a half witch from me,” Freya retorts, her anger crackles inside the room like bolts of lightning waiting to strike.

It makes sense, everything if she were to be a half witch. Her admiration for amethysts, how she can’t bear to attend any dragon fight at the arena, let alone kill one.

After silent seconds, Erion scrubs at his face. “I did it for your own good.”

“How?” Freya’s voice rises with a crack. I move to go nearer, as does Rydan. His protective side appears as his eyes narrow on the general; I’m as surprised as Link is by the sudden change. “How could you possibly think it was for my own good? That my mother was a witch—that I—”

“Witches aren’t particularly liked,” Erion says. “I didn’t know your mother was one herself for a while.” He places his hands on top of her shoulders, and she flinches, it’s only a second but it’s enough for me to notice. “She never loved us Freya,” he says it so soft; I believe it for a moment, would have kept on believing it if not for the cruelty dripping from his next words, “She only wanted a way to deceive me and take the venators down all because she’d fallen for a shifter.”

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