Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73252 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73252 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I wish I were more in tune with my intuition like Marie is. Deciding to just go with whatever my gut is telling me right now, I open Google and type in the first name.
Brianna.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I stare at the screen, unsure what else to add.
“Missing,” I say out loud. Then I hit enter. The first thing that comes up is a well-documented case from the early 2000s. I don’t think it’s her. I scroll quickly through the results, but everything I find circles back to the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old girl named Brianna who vanished after leaving work one night.
I do a quick search on her family, but nothing jumps out at me as remotely witchy. Then again, witches and werewolves alike live ordinary lives and look like ordinary people. I tap my fingers against the laptop while I think. There were several vials of blood in that bag, and every single one was labeled.
Just not with actual names.
I get out of bed again and retrieve the leather bag hanging in the back of my closet.
I’m sure Xavier hates having vials of blood stored in our bedroom, but he hasn’t said anything—yet. Only one vial has a human name written on it.
Claire.
And it’s dated from only a few weeks ago. But there’s no Claire in the notebook. I turn the vial over in my hand. There are serial numbers on all of them. Eight digits each. I flip back through the notebook, looking more carefully at the pages belonging to the names that aren’t crossed out.
Then I stop. At the top of the page for a girl named Eudora are three smudged numbers: 083. My pulse kicks up. The last three numbers on the most recent vial of blood are also 083.
“The same person,” I say out loud. I turn the vial over in my hand again. I wish Xavier were home right now so I could ask whether the blood smells different. He told me once that mine tasted different because of the magic in it. But that was when it was fresh. We know magic dies with us, and it isn’t transferred through blood in the same way once it’s removed from the body.
Would he even be able to tell the difference between an old vial of human blood and an old vial of witch blood?
I look back at Eudora’s page. There aren’t many notes; mostly numbers. Measurements, maybe? Test results? I have no idea. Beneath them, in messy, smudged handwriting, are the words: Not pure enough, but worthy of continued investigation and possible integration.
“That doesn’t tell me much,” I mutter. I set the notebook down on the bed and turn back to the laptop. Then I type: Eudora Claire, missing girl. A news article pops up almost immediately. My stomach tightens. Eudora Bellamy disappeared a year and a half ago. She was sixteen at the time and living in a group home in Ohio. The article describes her as a troubled youth and says authorities believed she might have run away in an attempt to return to the East Coast. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time.
According to the article, Eudora had run away twice before. Both times, she’d tried to get back to Connecticut. I blink. Then read the article again. My family is from Connecticut. The feeling in my gut sharpens.
I pick up my phone and text Marie.
Does the name Eudora Bellamy mean anything to you?
I set my phone down, not expecting a response for several hours since it’s the middle of the night. I’m just about to search for the third and final name when my phone vibrates.
I don’t know Eudora Bellamy personally, but the Bellamy family is another prestigious East Coast witch family. They were one of the few other families in your parents’ coven that fought demons. Why do you ask?
Holy fucking shit. I slowly close the laptop and stare at my phone. I blink several times before I can even figure out what to type back.
I think the Order is holding her hostage.
Chapter
Fifteen
“Morning,” Xavier says softly as I roll over, blinking open my eyes. I have no idea what time it is, or when he came into the room. The bathroom light is on, casting a glow into the bedroom.
“Morning,” I reply, voice hoarse. My throat feels a little scratchy. Great. I really don’t have time to get sick. Xavier is sitting up in bed, with a pillow between his naked torso and the headrest of our bed. He’s reading, and he puts his book down to brush my hair back.
“Did you sleep okay?”
“I think so.” I run my hand over my face and tap the screen of my phone, both to check the time and to see if Marie texted me back. She hasn’t, and it makes a knot form in the pit of my stomach, almost the same way it does when I waited for some guy off a dating app to reply. “I passed out for like six hours.”