really good for you.”
Nana using sarcasm was unsettling. Add in the fear that Johnny knew I was still stained … I was ready to vomit.
She shuffled toward the hall, then turned back to me. “You’re going to need the Council on your side, Persephone. Setting yourself up to fail one of their major tests won’t win their trust. And that’s something you’re going to need.”
I sat there in the wæres’ dumbfounded silence. They both quickly returned full attention to their food. Erik had wisely stayed away from the dinette, opting to hold his plate and eat leaning against the counter. This meant they were on either side of me and it seemed their forks scraped on the plates in stereo, loud in my ears. Was this the stain too? I could hardly bear it.
By then, Nana had made it to the stairway. Her groaning as she climbed the steps joined with the scraping forks. No wonder stained people are so idiosyncratic. All these amped senses were giving me OCD.
“What’s Bindspoken?” Erik asked. “And that shroud thing?”
Glad for something else to concentrate on, I said, “If your name is put under the Faded Shroud, WEC will no longer recognize you as a witch. No membership, no benefits, no voting on witch issues, no attending rituals. You’re not ‘recognized’ by them ever again, and you’re denied the right to perform magic for others. Not even to read their cards. It forces you to be a solitary, but ignores you while you go on about your life. No big deal if you are already a solitary. ‘Bindspoken,’ however, is like imprisoning your witch abilities. They bind your power. Kind of like hardening and sealing the aura until it’s a wall, so that you’re effectively severed—magically speaking—from the universe.”
Saying the words made me realize how devastating it would be. If I was Bindspoken and the ley line called to me, I wouldn’t hear it. I wondered if it would sever a vampire’s binding without making me give up the good parts of myself.
Without another word, I left the guys in the kitchen with their savory-smelling meat. My feet took a route through the other rooms, away from the stairs, so Nana didn’t see me in the hallway and start in on me again. Not that she’d likely have had the breath to shout at me while on the stairs. I sank onto the corduroy-covered couch in the darkened living room.
My mind flitted about, searching for some other thing to think about.
This living room was my serene space, although I hadn’t found much time for serenity in the past fewweeks. I kept all my books on Arthur and Camelot here; the deep red walls were decked with framed posters of nineteenth-century portrayals of legendary characters. The furniture was a mix of antiques I’d found in yard sales and more modern comfort. The room reflected me more than any other in the house.
I thought about the attic room Johnny had moved into. He’d finished it out since moving in a couple of weeks ago. It had drywall and a subfloor to start, but now the walls were painted the color of powdered rosemary and mock-hickory Pergo had been installed as flooring. He kept it neat and made his bed—a twin mattress and springs on Hollywood rails without a headboard or footboard. It occurred to me that his feet must hang over the end, he’s so tall. His seven-string guitar sat in a stand next to an amplifier in the corner. A folding octagonal poker table, various plastic bins, and shaggy beige area rugs completed it. There was nothing homey about the room, no photos, posters, or knickknacks, as if he were a throwback to the Spartans. Since he was here as my guard, at least in part, it fit.
Not that I’d been paying him intimate visits there. But I did drop off the occasional basket of laundry he’d left in the dryer.
Thinking about Johnny’s bedroom was not bringing me the tranquility I sought.
I sat up and opened the drawer in a side table and found a lighter. After meandering around the room lighting three
Nana using sarcasm was unsettling. Add in the fear that Johnny knew I was still stained … I was ready to vomit.
She shuffled toward the hall, then turned back to me. “You’re going to need the Council on your side, Persephone. Setting yourself up to fail one of their major tests won’t win their trust. And that’s something you’re going to need.”
I sat there in the wæres’ dumbfounded silence. They both quickly returned full attention to their food. Erik had wisely stayed away from the dinette, opting to hold his plate and eat leaning against the counter. This meant they were on either side of me and it seemed their forks scraped on the plates in stereo, loud in my ears. Was this the stain too? I could hardly bear it.
By then, Nana had made it to the stairway. Her groaning as she climbed the steps joined with the scraping forks. No wonder stained people are so idiosyncratic. All these amped senses were giving me OCD.
“What’s Bindspoken?” Erik asked. “And that shroud thing?”
Glad for something else to concentrate on, I said, “If your name is put under the Faded Shroud, WEC will no longer recognize you as a witch. No membership, no benefits, no voting on witch issues, no attending rituals. You’re not ‘recognized’ by them ever again, and you’re denied the right to perform magic for others. Not even to read their cards. It forces you to be a solitary, but ignores you while you go on about your life. No big deal if you are already a solitary. ‘Bindspoken,’ however, is like imprisoning your witch abilities. They bind your power. Kind of like hardening and sealing the aura until it’s a wall, so that you’re effectively severed—magically speaking—from the universe.”
Saying the words made me realize how devastating it would be. If I was Bindspoken and the ley line called to me, I wouldn’t hear it. I wondered if it would sever a vampire’s binding without making me give up the good parts of myself.
Without another word, I left the guys in the kitchen with their savory-smelling meat. My feet took a route through the other rooms, away from the stairs, so Nana didn’t see me in the hallway and start in on me again. Not that she’d likely have had the breath to shout at me while on the stairs. I sank onto the corduroy-covered couch in the darkened living room.
My mind flitted about, searching for some other thing to think about.
This living room was my serene space, although I hadn’t found much time for serenity in the past fewweeks. I kept all my books on Arthur and Camelot here; the deep red walls were decked with framed posters of nineteenth-century portrayals of legendary characters. The furniture was a mix of antiques I’d found in yard sales and more modern comfort. The room reflected me more than any other in the house.
I thought about the attic room Johnny had moved into. He’d finished it out since moving in a couple of weeks ago. It had drywall and a subfloor to start, but now the walls were painted the color of powdered rosemary and mock-hickory Pergo had been installed as flooring. He kept it neat and made his bed—a twin mattress and springs on Hollywood rails without a headboard or footboard. It occurred to me that his feet must hang over the end, he’s so tall. His seven-string guitar sat in a stand next to an amplifier in the corner. A folding octagonal poker table, various plastic bins, and shaggy beige area rugs completed it. There was nothing homey about the room, no photos, posters, or knickknacks, as if he were a throwback to the Spartans. Since he was here as my guard, at least in part, it fit.
Not that I’d been paying him intimate visits there. But I did drop off the occasional basket of laundry he’d left in the dryer.
Thinking about Johnny’s bedroom was not bringing me the tranquility I sought.
I sat up and opened the drawer in a side table and found a lighter. After meandering around the room lighting three
Similar Books
