I thought of the crows again, falling out of the sky and trailing fire. Helping us bind her. Flying overhead. We hadn’t saved Reese.
“What is it, babe?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I was just thinking about the crows.”
“About Reese.”
Relief closed my eyes. He believed it, too. Thank God. “Yeah. I haven’t seen him. Or them.”
“They were at the hospital. Flew halfway to Cape Girardeau with us.”
“Oh.” Where were they now?
“He’ll be around. Probably as tired as us.”
I opened my hand, the one with the long, healing slashes from the binding spell. Then I took his hand, and laid our wounds side by side. “Tell me it was the right thing to do.”
Nick covered my hand with his, pressing our hot, healing cuts against each other. “It was.”
NICHOLAS
I stayed the rest of the day, and we cooked soup with Gram Judy, talking about Chicago. The plan to move back made her wrinkled old cheeks pink with excitement.
After dark, Silla and I left Judy in the house, though I could tell she’d have rather we stayed. Once in the backyard, we pushed through the forsythia, and the house lights fell away. The cemetery spread out before us. I took Silla’s hand, and we stood there for a moment. Her breathing was calm, and I watched it puff out through her lips and hang in the cold night.
She turned her face toward my house, where I could still see smoke floating up in thin wisps from the decimated forest. “I haven’t heard them all day,” Silla said, staring at the smoke.
“Come on, babe.” I squeezed her hand. The cemetery was ghostly white, and I was struck by the way it opposed the black starkness of the burnt forest.
At random, we picked a headstone surrounded by long, dry grass. Far away from her parents’ graves, from Reese. It was unspoken, but neither of us wanted to go back there.
I leaned back against the cold marble, and she sat between my legs. I held her, cheek against her soft hair. Everything was so silent. There was no wind or traffic noises. No birds, no bugs, even. Closing my eyes, I focused on Silla, on her warmth in front of me, and the gravestone cold behind me. And me in the middle, alive.
“Nick, do you think it’s ever worth it to live forever?”
“Be a rock star?”
“President?” She smiled.
I kissed her hair. “No. It isn’t possible.”
Silla was quiet. “Not without turning into a monster.”
A crow’s call tore a ragged hole through the silence. Silla sat up straight, face lifting to the sky. She was like a statue, a cemetery angel raising her eyes to heaven.
A handful of crows flew toward us, wings synchronized. They settled down onto the surrounding gravestones. Except one. It landed directly in front of Silla, hopped closer, then cawed at her.
She said, “Reese. God, Reese.” Her words hung in the air the way her breath had. “In the name of truth,” she whispered, paraphrasing Macbeth, “are you fantastical?”
The crow cocked its head, and I tightened my hands on her arms. The other crows flapped off their perches and joined the first on the ground.
All five crows paused. Then the first cawed again and bobbed its head.
They surrounded us, five points in a circle. Silla stared at the black eyes of the first one and reached out her hand.
I want to thank the following people, without whom Blood Magic simply would not exist:
Natalie—who sacrificed everything I sacrificed, shared my insanity, watched endless hours of Criminal Minds at two in the morning because I was too stressed to sleep, lived in a dirty house, and kept me standing when my knees were weak, all because she believes in me.
Maggie Stiefvater—for daring me to do it. All of it. And for calling me on the carpet when I didn’t.
Brenna Yovanoff—for teaching me how atmosphere can be a character, too. And for being a little bit demon, a little bit flower girl.
Laura Rennert—who makes me feel like a rock star even when things aren’t going too well, and cheers with me when they are. For charging ahead like a white knight and for calling me to say she can’t call me.
Suzy Capozzi—for “all the blood, none of the vampires” and convincing me that I’d written something pretty good after all. Her insight and enthusiasm know no bounds!
Jocelyn Lange and her team in subsidiary rights—nobody has been better at making my dreams of world domination come true!
Everyone at Random House—their support continues to astound! I feel like every time I turn a corner there are amazing new people pushing me forward.
The Gothic Girls—Carrie, Dawn, Heidi, Jackie, Jackson, Linda—for making me feel like one of them, even before I had a deal.
Early readers online—Star, Amber, Nikki, Laura, and Kate, who always begged for more.
My mom, dad, and brothers—for the gift of reading, nights at Ponaks, and making me strong. The carriage house awaits!
Especially my little brother Travis—for assuming I’d be able to put him in a book someday.
Robin Murphy—she suffered through the first novel I wrote, and even said she liked it.
My godfather, Randy—for always asking how the writing is going, and always doing my taxes.
TESSA GRATTON has wanted to be a paleontologist or a wizard since she was seven. Alas, she turned out to be too impatient to hunt dinosaurs, but is still searching for someone to teach her magic. After traveling the world with her military family, she acquired a BA (and the important parts of an MA) in gender studies, then settled down in Kansas with her partner, her cats, and her mutant dog. She spends her days staring at the sky and telling stories about magic. Visit her online at tessagratton.com.
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