Page 25 of Death Card

I think back to when we healed Marian. After we saved her life, her magic had disappeared, like it had never been there at all.

When witches die, our magic lingers in our bodies, decaying along with our bones.

“Wait,” I ask. “Did anyone here actually see James’s body? Did he still have magic?”

Gramps looks at me sharply while Aunt Roberta nods. “I didn’t feel a thing, cher.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I thought it was strange, but I was too distracted to put much thought into it.”

“Can you share the memory with me?”

My aunt nods and reaches for my hands. Witches are able to share memories the same way that Orion and I speak within each other’s minds. Aunt Roberta opens a door through her mental walls, and I step inside her mind. When I open my eyes, I’m inside her memory, staring down at James’s body. I have to force myself from flinching at the sight of death. James’s face is slack, and his red-gold irises are visible beneath half-open lids. Golden streaks spiderweb along his face and down his neck. And smack-dab in the middle of his forehead, a symbol appears to be burned into his skin. I’ve never seen anything like it—half a circle with a sidewaysTrunning through the center.

The odd coloring to Marian’s skin and eyes disappeared after we healed her, but James’s body still bears the effects.

A theory forms on the tip of my tongue as I process everything I know.

“I don’t think their magic is disappearing into thin air because that isn’t possible. It’s like they taught us in school, matter is neither created nor destroyed.” As the old folks stare at me blankly, something else occurs to me. “If I’m right, someone’s stealing the magic. It’s being transferred.”

“Is it some sort of magical pathogen?” Bernadette asks. “I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years.”

Aunt Lorraine clucks her tongue. “If it is, we know who’s responsible.”

The others exchange glances, but Levi gets to his feet. “Do the how and the why really matter so much right now?” He gestures wildly as he speaks. “If the Hightowers are responsible, then it’s an act of war. We need to answer in kind.”

The other members murmur in assent, but something doesn’t sit right with me. We have no proof that they are responsible. No one’s even heard a peep from them in years.

“Why do y’all think they’re behind it?” I ask.

Gramps’s expression darkens. “This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve killed living creatures for their own gain.”

“What are you—”

Aunt Roberta rests a hand on my arm. “We caught them sacrificing animals, baby.” Her eyes flash. “Once we made a fuss over it, they disappeared.”

“Those wretched people,” Aunt Lorraine spits.

Only the darkest spell books make mention of living sacrifices. It’s an evil task, and it only results in temporary gain. If you spill a living soul’s blood over an altar, you can reap the power of their unused potential, but the increased power wears off after a few days or weeks, depending on the creature.

Bernadette clutches her chest. “Someone’s gotta get to the bottom of this, Ezekiel,” she says. “I’ve got grandchildren. We can’t have the babies of this coven dropping dead and losing magic.”

“Witches can’t lose their magic!” Terrence exclaims,pounding his fist on the table. “It’s impossible! Why are we even entertaining her theory?”

“Quiet!” Gramps snaps. He glances down at his watch. “Now, I’m sure the rest of the coven is getting restless out there. We won’t figure this out in one meeting, but we do have to go out there and inform the others about the evil forces lurking in this city. They need to be warned.”

“And the Hightowers?” Aunt Lorraine asks.

Gramps glowers at her. “We’ll investigate.”

I have a sick feeling that when he sayswe, he really meansme.

11

Despite being scheduledto work, I decide to take one day to myself. I only leave my room for snacks and the bathroom. For the rest of the day, I slap headphones over my ears and lose myself in an audiobook. Listening to the struggles of fictional characters distracts me from the raging inferno that has become my life.

When I wake up on Wednesday morning at the crack of dawn, I allow the events of the past few days to wash over me again. But instead of burrowing deeper into the covers, I decide to face the day head-on.

I have nineteen days left to live, and I can’t afford to waste a single moment.

I open my jewelry box and remove my pocket-size scrying mirror. From the outside, it has the appearance of a pocket watch, with swirls and loops etched into the burnished metal, but a tiny round mirror is hidden within.