HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL (Paranormal Romance / Fantasy Novella) (Forever Girl Series - a Journal) by rebecca hamilton
Authors: rebecca hamilton
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as well. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the cot.
“What is it?” Lenore asked, nudging his shoulder.
“Hmm?” He fidgeted with a few herbs and then glanced up. “Oh. Sun magic requires balance.”
He pushed forward a dish filled with green, stringy leaves that smelled so strongly of dried apple Ophelia could taste it on the air. “Chamomile prepares the body for the magic and purifies your system.”
The next dish he revealed held three cinnamon sticks. “Protection.”
Two final dishes contained Acacia—also for protection—and patchouli for healthy growth. Ethan explained each was an herb of the sun that represented one of the elements.
“Healthy growth?” Lenore asked.
Ethan started emptying the herbs into a small pot. “Will help with your pallor. You’ll appear more human. Though the herb may also encourage passionate love.”
She huffed. “I’d have preferred to be taller.”
Ophelia watched the two with growing fascination. “Where did ye learn all this?”
“My father,” Ethan said. He scraped his hand over the shading of his jaw. “He owned several ancient ritual books. I’d read them with great interest as a child, but it wasn’t until I joined the Ankou that I was able to utilize the information. The Ankou all carry a unique magic, but that is also only as good as their knowledge.”
“And ye are sure it will work?” Ophelia asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I think.”
Lenore scowled. “What do you mean, you think?”
“It should. However, I’ve never done this before.”
She sat on the floor in front of the pot. Ophelia kept her place on the edge of the cot by the window, warily eyeing Ethan as he produced an English trade knife, not much unlike her father’s knife—the one with the sturdy wood handle and the strong steel blade.
Ethan closed his eyes and dragged the blade across the inside of his palm. He squeezed his hand over the pot, dripping blood on the herbs.
“Do vita donum cruoris voluntas,” he chanted. The blood kept coming, and Ophelia’s stomach turned, her heart thundering in her chest. “Do vita donum cruoris voluntas.”
Ophelia’s mother had spoken Latin; Ethan was chanting that he was giving his blood willingly. The red liquid continued to run down his fingers and into the bowl. So much blood. Why wasn’t he stopping? His hand shook and his skin paled. As the blood flowed, Ethan stumbled forward where he kneeled, and had to catch himself on an arm that seemed to quiver under his own weight.
When Ophelia was about to intervene, Ethan finally stopped, clutching his other hand over the bleeding wound. She hurried over to the fireplace and grabbed the bowl of Cruor blood he’d used to help her earlier. She grabbed his hand and was about to try to heal the wound, but Ethan pulled free.
“It won’t work,” he said.
Using his knife, he cut a strip of fabric from one of the sheets and wrapped it three times around his palm. Ophelia tied the ends in a tight knot at the back of his hand. Why was Lenore just sitting there? Didn’t she care? Ethan was doing this for her, too, and she just sat there wide-eyed and staring.
“I’m okay, Ophelia,” Ethan said, touching her forearm.
Instead of returning to the bed, Ophelia sat at his side, glaring at the dark-haired woman on the other side of the pot. Ethan stirred the mixture with a ladle and continued with the second chant.
“Feras praesidium ab sol.” At his side lay a small disk with the mark of the Sun goddess riding on her chariot. He grasped the chain and lowered the charm into the mixture as he continued his chant—the chant to infuse the herbs and Ankou blood with protection from the sun.
Outside, the wind pressed against the cabin, creaking the wooden walls and rattling the windows. The sky flashed, and the weight of a storm permeated the air inside the cabin—moist, heavy, cold. Ophelia’s skin prickled, and she opened her mouth to speak, but she could find no
“What is it?” Lenore asked, nudging his shoulder.
“Hmm?” He fidgeted with a few herbs and then glanced up. “Oh. Sun magic requires balance.”
He pushed forward a dish filled with green, stringy leaves that smelled so strongly of dried apple Ophelia could taste it on the air. “Chamomile prepares the body for the magic and purifies your system.”
The next dish he revealed held three cinnamon sticks. “Protection.”
Two final dishes contained Acacia—also for protection—and patchouli for healthy growth. Ethan explained each was an herb of the sun that represented one of the elements.
“Healthy growth?” Lenore asked.
Ethan started emptying the herbs into a small pot. “Will help with your pallor. You’ll appear more human. Though the herb may also encourage passionate love.”
She huffed. “I’d have preferred to be taller.”
Ophelia watched the two with growing fascination. “Where did ye learn all this?”
“My father,” Ethan said. He scraped his hand over the shading of his jaw. “He owned several ancient ritual books. I’d read them with great interest as a child, but it wasn’t until I joined the Ankou that I was able to utilize the information. The Ankou all carry a unique magic, but that is also only as good as their knowledge.”
“And ye are sure it will work?” Ophelia asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I think.”
Lenore scowled. “What do you mean, you think?”
“It should. However, I’ve never done this before.”
She sat on the floor in front of the pot. Ophelia kept her place on the edge of the cot by the window, warily eyeing Ethan as he produced an English trade knife, not much unlike her father’s knife—the one with the sturdy wood handle and the strong steel blade.
Ethan closed his eyes and dragged the blade across the inside of his palm. He squeezed his hand over the pot, dripping blood on the herbs.
“Do vita donum cruoris voluntas,” he chanted. The blood kept coming, and Ophelia’s stomach turned, her heart thundering in her chest. “Do vita donum cruoris voluntas.”
Ophelia’s mother had spoken Latin; Ethan was chanting that he was giving his blood willingly. The red liquid continued to run down his fingers and into the bowl. So much blood. Why wasn’t he stopping? His hand shook and his skin paled. As the blood flowed, Ethan stumbled forward where he kneeled, and had to catch himself on an arm that seemed to quiver under his own weight.
When Ophelia was about to intervene, Ethan finally stopped, clutching his other hand over the bleeding wound. She hurried over to the fireplace and grabbed the bowl of Cruor blood he’d used to help her earlier. She grabbed his hand and was about to try to heal the wound, but Ethan pulled free.
“It won’t work,” he said.
Using his knife, he cut a strip of fabric from one of the sheets and wrapped it three times around his palm. Ophelia tied the ends in a tight knot at the back of his hand. Why was Lenore just sitting there? Didn’t she care? Ethan was doing this for her, too, and she just sat there wide-eyed and staring.
“I’m okay, Ophelia,” Ethan said, touching her forearm.
Instead of returning to the bed, Ophelia sat at his side, glaring at the dark-haired woman on the other side of the pot. Ethan stirred the mixture with a ladle and continued with the second chant.
“Feras praesidium ab sol.” At his side lay a small disk with the mark of the Sun goddess riding on her chariot. He grasped the chain and lowered the charm into the mixture as he continued his chant—the chant to infuse the herbs and Ankou blood with protection from the sun.
Outside, the wind pressed against the cabin, creaking the wooden walls and rattling the windows. The sky flashed, and the weight of a storm permeated the air inside the cabin—moist, heavy, cold. Ophelia’s skin prickled, and she opened her mouth to speak, but she could find no
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