The Last Harmon [Complete]

Chapter 6

I wake to the sounds of Joey's snores from across the dungeon pathway. I clench my teeth and I place a pillow, difficulty, over my ears. Sleeping with shackles locked around my wrists has proven to be one of my worst sleeping experiences ever, perhaps even the worst, and I once slept with a warlock from the Devon coven.

I adjust my position so that I can see the view of the bars. I know it will be no use, but I try a spell. I chant in the ancient wiccan language quietly, repeating the spell three times. I glance up at my shackles that are above my head, and I feel something pinch against my skin.

Hopeful, I try again.

"Eloidena san vada," I whisper.

It is the spell my great ancestors used in Salem to escape their ties at their executions. But the spell isn't strong enough and not nearly modern enough to break through Amara's magic. The shackles give off a light blue glow for hardly one second, before returning to normal.

I don't want to escape my ties; I just need to reverse the spell on them so that I can use my magic. A spell to break a spell? My mother would know that one. It would be category A, for experienced wiccans only, and finding it has been one of my greatest failures over the years. If I knew what would happen, if I knew this would happen, I would never have given up.

I sit up in the bed with a sigh. I don't necessarily need access to my magic to do what I'm going to do, but it would be helpful to know it's there. I am far from comfortable with my situation, but my mother taught me to always adapt with what I am restricted to do. With magic, what would our family do? Without magic, what would a human do? It is why I am not afraid of being mortal, if anything I would prefer that. As long as my bloodline is safe.

"Morning," Joey grumbles as he stretches inside his cell. "What time is it? Oh, wait."

I smile for a moment. "I was just about to make some coffee. Want some?"

"Thought you'd never ask. Black one sugar."

"I'll get right on that," I say.

"You sleep okay?" he asks. "I know you're only here for two days, but if you weren't, I'd say you get used to the smell."

"The smell doesn't bother me," I admit, hanging my head. "I've smelt worse."

"Let me guess, the dark era?"

I nod. "I was here too, in Arizona. After she murdered my mother and most of my coven, she placed us on lockdown. When the wave of the first bombs dropped, one of them blew the wall of the room I was in. I stepped right out into the daylight, into the warzone. I mean, I was fourteen-years-old, but I wasn't afraid, not until I saw the bodies."

"They don't prepare you to see murder in wiccan school," Joey mutters. "They teach you how to defend yourself and how to attack at force, but seeing it? There's no coping mechanism for it. And after five years I'm sure you and everyone else has convinced yourselves that you'd never want to see something like that again. But to win a war, to survive a war, people must die."

"Not at the expense of children," I say through my teeth. "They didn't deserve to lose their parents, to have their entire world changed. Amara's war was against the mortals and so every mortal was in danger. The next war will be different."

"Next war?" Joey says, tilting his head.

"Wiccans against Slayers," I say. "It's what she's planning, right? It's what every Elder has been planning for centuries."

"Well, obviously I hope that we win that fight," he says. "But the odds of both species surviving are slim. The mortals may be the last species standing."