Page 36 of Live To Tell

I stalk to his desk and pick up his favorite coin. “That’s not what I think threatens their lives, Dorian. Is it?”

Neither of us speak for a moment. Even a chuckle at my veiled accusation would help, but Dorian does nothing. I pocket the coin and leave him before he says anything else that irritates or worries me.

As I walk away, my head swims with thoughts and fears for Leif and Grayson. And Rowan? Surely Dorian would never touch my bonded witch. I moisten my lips and prepare to meet my mother.

I no longer believe I’m more Dorian than Eloise.

Chapter 12

VIOLET

Despite spring gradually giving way to summer, the breeze moves briskly across the grounds of the Scottish estate and through the pine trees I stared at earlier. I walk with Eloise along a route I’ve taken many times over the years, along a path created by footsteps through the woods over time, and towards the stream that runs along the back of the property.

The guys once queried my solitary childhood, claiming my parents deliberately kept me separate without any opportunity to become part of the world if I’d wanted to. This isn’t the case—I’ve always enjoyed solitude, happy within my own company and headspace. Why did I need anything else? My family cared for and nurtured me, and I had all the space and time I wanted to hone my magic.

We reach the place the stream runs over larger stones creating a small waterfall, somewhere I loved to visit, but not to splash and wade in the cool spring water. I’d practice magic alone for hours, safe and happy. The ground remains scorched from the fires I repeatedly lit—once Ethan taught me to do so far enough from the trees and our home to keep everybody safe.

Eloise would spend time with me, teaching Thornwood spells and explaining how I’d inherited her Trinity Witch magic—the ability to use all three major branches. Elemental, mind, and the darker necromancy. I’d accidentally discovered and utilized all three before growing old enough to understand and control what I’d done. Before I did, I burned rooms, created parents with headaches, and (as Holly pointed out) had a collection of woodland animals worthy of a Disney princess.

But there’s another side to my magic that’s rarely mentioned, never performed by either Eloise or Dorian, and I’d no interest in. The Blackwood shadows. I love the destructive nature of fire as much as the re-creation of a half-life with necromancy, the two far removed from each other. Apart from the mice incident at the human school, I haven’t used a necromancy spell for many years, and Eloise continually avoids aiding me in practicing. She once admitted painful memories of her parents forcing her to practice magic she never understood, a puppet performing for other families.

Eloise told me about the day her parents killed the family dog in order to force her necromancy, a horror my childish brain couldn’t comprehend.

Necromancy landed Eloise in Ravenhold and as I grew older, I gradually understood why she avoids that side of herself. Necromancy brought her nothing but trouble and unhappiness—threatened her own life. The practice doesn’t match Eloise’s innately good nature, and she worried about my obsession.

Unfortunately, as with most teens, the more my parents denied me something, the more I wanted it, and the imperfect necromancy skills frustrated me. My family can prevent me interfering with life and death, but can’t stop my inherent connection and fascination with the magic. Only now that I’ve relationships with mortal people can I understand why the practice is feared and outlawed. How naïve was I to believe Dorian had all necromancers under watch and control?

Eloise stands beside me as I perch on a rock that overlooks a small waterfall bouncing across the pebbles, the spray creating rainbows.

“I bet your guys are happy you left them behind,” she says and smiles.

“Immensely.” I take a smooth pebble and drop it over the edge of the waterfall. “Dorian won’t help me take the tiara back from Whitegrove. Can you persuade him?”

“Violet. Your father’s facing much more pressing matters—events surrounding the murders, and the delicate issue of necromancy and the shifters, hold more importance than a minor incident at a school dance.” She holds a hand up as I open my mouth to protest. “Priorities, Violet. Don’t you want to help Leif? Surely his welfare’s more urgent than a mysterious object that we’ve already examined and found nothing significant.”

“Are these Dorian’s words?” I ask her.

“Merely logic, sweetest.”

“Has Dorian told you what happened to Oz?” I meet her eyes, but there’s no flicker of anything I can read. “If you do know, you’ll understand why I’m worried about my friends’ safety.”

“Dorian would never harm anybody you care about unless they’re a threat to you.”

“Directly or indirectly?” I slant my head. “Because arguably, they all are. Dorian needs to stop his obsessive focus on Grayson.”

“But that distracts him from Rowan, who possesses less skill at coping with your father’s behavior.” She looks down at me. “Dorian knows about the shadows. He saw the result at the warehouse. You can not encourage this in Rowan—your father doesn’t meddle with that magic and neither do I. This is a part of your witch heritage you shouldn’t share.”

I chew my lip. If I told her the shadows come naturally to Rowan with little prompting from me, I’d cause a greater issue and put him under more threat. How can I not allow or encourage the magic that would keep my mortal, bonded witch safe? As long as that magic stays away from the stone.

“Would Rowan be able to practice necromancy too?” I ask.

“No. But shadows must lie within Rowan, however dormant, for you to induce them.” She shakes her head. “Don’t risk his mind. Rowan’s life is more fragile than yours.”

But they keep him safe.

“Fragile, Eloise?” I again try to fathom her look, and she reads mine. “Are you suggesting Rowan will die?”

“You know the answer to that. Please be aware that Dorian took a risk when he gave me his hybrid blood, Violet. It could’ve killed me.”

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