Daughter of the Spellcaster

Him and Lena? Ryan thought, almost bitterly. Why did everything have to keep coming back to him and Lena?

He returned the knife to its box and set it in an empty drawer, kicked the ruined curtains behind the sofa and sank into his father’s chair, remembering that first night. That very first time. When he and Lena had been snuggled in each other’s arms in his bed right after round one and she’d said, “It felt powerful to me. Did it… did it feel that way to you, too?”

Here we go, he’d thought. He didn’t think she was a gold digger. She was probably one of the romantics. Those who thought they were in love after their first—and subsequently only—encounter.

And yet, beyond his cynical side, some deeper part of him whispered that he’d felt it, too, and he knew it. “Powerful how?” he’d asked, stalling for time.

“Like the Great Rite.”

Frowning, he’d rolled over and searched her face. God, she was beautiful. “The great what?”

“The Great Rite. It’s the most sacred ritual of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?” Rising up to rest his head on one elbow, he said, “Tell me more.”

“Well…” She pulled on one of his T-shirts that he’d tossed onto a nearby chair and bounced out of the room, flipping on lights on the way. “Wow, this is nice,” she called. He heard rattling, water running. Her footsteps headed back in his direction, lights going off in her wake.

Then she was beside the bed, a wineglass half-full of water in one hand and a carving knife in the other.

A little sizzle of alarm shot up his back. “What the—”

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