Blood of the line.
“Blood of the line?” I said out loud, looking up to meet Goose’s indifferent stare. I scrunched up my nose, turning the phrase over in my mind. “Blood of theCorantheline?”
Then I understood. It was so simple — so basic. Soobvious, now that I thought of it. “It needs my blood to activate it.”
Excitement coursed through me at the realization, though Goose looked unmoved by this new development. I immediately wished that I could tell Kaden, but . . .
The impulse fizzled out when I remembered his treachery, and my jaw tightened into a scowl.
“But how do I do that?” I asked, as if the wretched cat had any interest in whether I figured this out.
It didn’t seem right to pour my blood over the delicate brass wheels and mechanisms. Surely the cipher wouldn’t look this pristine after centuries of witches doing that.
Holding it up, I turned the cipher this way and that — even flipped it upside down. When I did, I found a small depression that seemed to have been cast in the metal casing.
It wasn’t a hole, exactly. It looked more like a slit with a peak in the center of the top and bottom.
Instinctively, I glanced over at my weapons belt, which I’d flung over the arm of the couch. The hilt of the witchwood blade glinted in the morning light, as if waiting patiently for me to understand.
Slowly, I unsheathed the dagger and felt the hum of that familiar magic. Holding the cipher in my other hand, I fitted the very tip of the blade into the impression.
To my astonishment, it fit like a key — sinking in no more than half an inch, but enough that it couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Fingers trembling, I set the cipher down and held the dagger before me. I’d never cut myself with it — never even nicked a finger.
Gingerly holding the pad of my thumb against the tip, I rotated the hilt ever so slightly. A bead of blood blossomed from the wound, and I rubbed my thumb along the tip of the dagger.
Goose watched me with predatory alertness as I fitted the blade into the hole.
An otherworldly golden light poured from the cipher, startling me so much I nearly dropped the dagger. I squinted against the blinding glow, which shone brighter than the sun.
Once the spots had cleared from my vision, I looked around. Shimmering runes danced along the walls of Imogen’s apartment — symbols formed from the light shining through the engravings on the wheel.
My chest squeezed at the magnificent display. If I’d had any doubt that I was a Coranthe witch before, it was gone now.
The knowledge gave me an unexpected pang of sadness.
My mother had belonged to the Coranthe line, and I’d lived my whole life thinking she was human.
Had I ever really known her at all?
My throat burned as I stared around at the glittering runes, wishing I could talk to my mother. What would Imogen say when I told her I was half witch?
If I ever got the chance . . .
I shoved this thought aside immediately.
Imogen was alive. Shehadto be alive. I’d know if Silas had killed her, because part of me would die right along with her.
I couldn’t even consider the alternative.
The mere thought of Imogen tied up in that horrible basement dried up the lump of tears that had formed in my throat. I wouldn’t allow myself a moment of weakness — not until I’d saved my friend.
With or without Kaden, I would rescue Imogen and drive a blade through Silas’s heart. I was still a huntress, after all, and I was going hunting.
I waiteduntil nightfall to leave Imogen’s apartment to be sure the other hunters would be gone for the evening. Killing Silas would be difficult enough. I needed to strike while he was unprotected.
I wasn’t worried about any of the other hunters avenging his death. Silas had always ruled by fear and pain. It might have ensured the hunters’ obedience while he was alive, but it did nothing to foster true loyalty.
