Hellforged

Morfran.

As if to confirm my thoughts, Mab nodded. “Humanity thrives because our kind has kept the Morfran contained. Most of it, anyway. But now, I fear, Pryce has discovered how to release the Morfran. I’m going to teach you to put it back where it belongs.”

“Good. I’m ready.”

She picked up a piece of dark gray slate, about three feet high by two feet wide, like the slate flagstones lining the terrace behind Maenllyd, only bigger. She lifted the heavy tile like it weighed nothing, carried it across the lawn, and leaned it against the trunk of a tree five yards away. Then she returned to where I stood.

“Have you ever heard the expression stone the crows?” she asked.

“Um, no.”

“It expresses disbelief or annoyance. As in ‘Stone the crows, my bloody car broke down again.’ ”

I shrugged, suppressing a smile. Swearing—even a mild oath like “bloody”—was so out of character for my aunt.

“No matter,” she went on. “It’s more than an expression. It’s an ancient practice.”

“Like farmers throwing stones at crows to shoo them away from their crops?”

“There is that. But I’m speaking of an ancient magical practice. Remember that Morfran means ‘great crow.’ The Morfran can be imprisoned in stone. In slate, to be specific.”

She produced a dagger, easily the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Its bone hilt seethed with carvings of twining vines, symbols, and letters. The blade, six inches long, was made of glassy black stone that glowed with silver light. My fingers itched to heft it and feel its balance. I doubted Mab would let me touch it today. I’d had to practice with wooden swords for two years before she let me try the real thing—and then it was another whole summer with a blunted blade.

“It’s an obsidian athame,” Mab said.

“An athame? I don’t know anything about witchcraft.”

“You don’t need to. Witches call their ceremonial dagger an athame because it’s not a weapon but a tool for directing energy. That’s how we use this knife, as well.” She spun it a few times, like a gunfighter in a classic Western. “What are the magical properties of obsidian?”

Oh, crap. Minerals and gemstones were my weakest area. I hadn’t thought about that stuff in years. “You could’ve told me there’d be a quiz. I would’ve studied.”

“Don’t be flippant. Obsidian—as you should know—disperses and redirects negative energy. The bone hilt lends strength and acts as an intensifier; its carvings are spells written in the language of The Book of Utter Darkness. The athame’s name is Hellforged.”

“Wait … Hellforged?” Suddenly, the dagger looked more ominous than beautiful.

Mab nodded. “It was created in Hell, by Hellions, as a tool for directing the Morfran. Your ancestor Nimue stole it and used it to imprison the Morfran.” Nimue, a formidable Cerddorion demon fighter, shows up in norm culture as the Lady of the Lake in legends about King Arthur. She gave Arthur his sword Excalibur and caused Merlin some trouble.

“It’s a powerful tool,” Mab said. She held out the athame, hilt first. “Take it.”

I couldn’t have heard her right. “Now?”

Mab gestured impatiently. “I’d prefer to proceed more slowly, but there’s no time.”

The dagger was a beautiful object, well wrought and glowing with a mystical silver light. But I didn’t want to touch it, not if it was Hellion-made. Any time I messed with Hellions, I came out on the losing side.

Mab gestured again, and I reluctantly took the athame. When my fingers closed around the grip, a jolt of electricity shot up my arm. The dagger leapt skyward, yanking my arm with it.

“Hey!” I let go before the damn knife pulled my shoulder from the socket. When I did, the athame fell to the grass and lay there, looking innocent. If the thing had a face, it would’ve been wearing a “Who, me?” expression.

I rubbed my shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

Mab, bending over to pick up the dagger, glanced at me. “Purity, child.”

At first I thought she was telling me to watch my language, then I remembered what she’d said yesterday.

“You mean I’m not pure enough to use it.”

She balanced the athame on her open palm. “You are marked by Hellion essence. It’s not surprising there’s a reaction.”

“So why are you wasting my time showing it to me? I mean, it’s pretty and all, but give me something I can use.”

“You can use this.” She twirled it again. It was annoying to see her handle the knife so easily, like she was provoking me.

“No, I can’t.” I rarely raised my voice with my aunt, but I didn’t try to tone it down. “Not if it requires some impossible purity. I can’t help it that the Destroyer marked me. I’d cut the mark from my flesh if I could. But it’s part of me, and there’s no way to change that.”

“You can’t cut out the Hellion mark, true. But you can overcome it. That’s why I told you to focus on being purely yourself.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I muttered, still angry. Yesterday’s attempt to be pure had been a disaster. Instead of achieving some mystical purity, I’d gotten beat up and turned into a sheep. If anything, I’d taken three giant steps back from purity.

“Enough, child. I can’t explain to you what purity means, but I can show you how to use Hellforged. Hold out your hand, like this.” She stretched out her empty hand, palm up.

I shot her a look, but did as she said.

“Now, close your eyes and take a moment to center yourself. Listen to your heartbeat. Control your breathing.”

I did. My heart was still galloping from anger and the shock of the athame’s reaction, but as I moved inside myself, focusing, it slowed to a strong, steady beat. My breaths lengthened as I pulled in calming energy on the inhale and sent out pent-up emotion on the exhale. I repeated those breaths, over and over. Gradually, my emotions smoothed out.

“Open your eyes, child.”

I did. The athame balanced on my palm, just as Mab had held it a minute ago. It seemed weightless, although it vibrated slightly.

“Stay centered,” Mab said. “Don’t think about what I’m doing.”

“That’s like saying, ‘Don’t think about an elephant.’ ”

“What?”

“Never mind. Give me a second.” Eyes shut, I found my center again. I stayed there for five heartbeats, then opened my eyes and nodded.

Mab put her right hand beneath mine. Adjusting the dagger with her left, she gently closed my fingers around the grip. Sparks flicked against my hand, and a buzzing sensation ran from my demon mark up my arm. Hellforged twitched, but it didn’t launch into orbit. I focused on my breathing, and the athame settled down. Mab gave my fingers a slight squeeze, then took her hand away.

As soon as she did, Hellforged bucked like a rodeo bronco. But instead of clamping down, trying to control it, I worked at keeping a double focus—staying centered while inspecting the tool in my hand. It was a gorgeous dagger, lightweight and well made. Silver light shimmered along the glassy obsidian blade, flickering with the athame’s vibration. Gradually, the vibration changed to a pulse, one that matched my own heartbeat. When I felt that, I went from holding the athame to moving it, getting a sense of its balance—perfect—and feel. I wasn’t about to start spinning it, but Hellforged and I were getting to know each other.

“Good.” Mab’s voice startled me, and the athame rocketed from my hand. It landed point first in the lawn ten feet away, where it stood upright, quivering. “What have you learned so far?” she asked, pulling Hellforged from the grass and wiping its blade with a handkerchief.

“That it likes you better than me.”

Mab’s “We are not amused” face frowned.

“Okay, okay. If I stay centered, the athame aligns with me and I can move it.”