Page 113 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Perhaps we should explore another avenue,” said Ivor, interrupting my thoughts.

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods.”

“Not yet,” he replied.

I stared into his ancient face, tracing the fissures etched into skin that was wrapped so tightly around his skull. I wondered how many students he had tutored like this. I glanced down at my feet, the waves lapping at my toes. Probably not many. “What is it?”

“When you first summoned the Ealdorfyre,” he began. “Your blood was spilled, was it not?”

I hesitated, recalling the way the man with the shaved head had grabbed me. He’d crushed the delicate bones of my wrist so hard I thought they might break. And he’d scratched me, I remembered. Deep enough to draw blood. It was only after that that the Ealdorfyre came. “It was,” I said finally. My spirits fell as I recalled the smack of Gran’s head against the step. “My grandmother’s, too.”

“Then perhaps that’s the kind of sacrifice the Ealdorfyre demands from its conjurer.”

My fingers drifted absently to the ridge of my nose, recalling the drops of blood that spilled onto my lips when I had first forced Enhart from my mind.

“There is a link between a witch’s blood and their power. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that you feel your magic first beneath your skin before it spills into the physical world. Sacrifice is always required upon the initial casting, regardless of the type of magic. It comes in many forms, perhaps through exhaustion, or even blood spilled.”

“A sacrifice?” I asked. “To what, the gods?”

He blinked once. “If you like.”

“I’ve never willingly given blood in exchange for magic,” I said slowly. “It sometimes just happened.”

The Chancellor’s tone was pensive. “Curious. It can speed up the learning process significantly. I suppose the prince was unwilling to let you harm yourself.”

I cast him a wry look. Enhart had never hesitated to force me to relive humiliating memories or knock me to my ass, but I supposed what the Chancellor said could be true.

I shook my head, forcing away my concerns. “So now what?” I asked. “I have to open my veins to summon the Ealdorfyre?”

He nodded once. “The choice is yours, but I imagine that it wouldn’t hurt your chances.”

I swallowed the questions that welled up in my throat. “Fine then,” I said. My fingers trembled as I unclasped the holster at my belt and wrapped them around the blade Enhart had gifted me.

I paused. The last time I had spilled blood in the presence of a vampire, it had nearly cost me my life. Ivor chuckled. “I assure you, after a few thousand years not even the scent of witch’s blood whets my appetite anymore.”

My grip slackened for a single breath before I sliced the blade across my skin. A pulse of surprise washed over me. I glanced up, meeting Enhart’s dark gaze across the murky water. He watched wordlessly, his lips pressed into a tight line. His emotions had slipped past his wards, but he withheld any thoughts that might be floating around in his mind.

I shook him from my head. This is what he wanted. What Mordric wanted. My palm became slick as blood welled to the surface, pearls of crimson dripping onto the earth. I held my breath. Heat throbbed beneath my skin, but that was all.

I squeezed my palm, wincing as it stung. Taking a steadying breath, I took the knife to my skin again. The mud lapped up my second offering without offering so much as a whiff of blue smoke in return.

With each droplet of blood, my confidence slipped further and further away. In its place, frustration seeped beneath my skin. I wasn’t sure who I should direct it toward—Ivor? Mordric? Or Enhart, whose face I could no longer see across the darkness?

Perhaps that was for the best.

Of course this was happening to me. For years, I had grappled with the guilt of what I had done in Wealdstone. The Ealdorfyre haunted me nearly constantly. But when I needed it most, it failed me. A breeze whipped across the surface of the lake, sending a chill down my spine. I took the knife higher, tracing another line beneath my fingers. At this rate, I would run out of space soon.

The mournful call of a wolf echoed in the nearby forest. That damned forest. I narrowed my eyes. The sight of it, a black mass in the encroaching darkness, sent a chill down my spine. If I strained my ears, I could almost hear it whispering my name.

“Shit,” I cursed as the knife slipped, nicking me in the thumb.

“Miss Erramun.”

The kindness in Ivor’s voice was disarming. My attention flicked toward him, the knife hovering inches above my skin like a threat. “So, what now?” I asked through gritted teeth. “I do this again tomorrow?”

“Do you feel as if it’s working?”

I bit back a bitter retort. “You’re the expert, Chancellor.”