Read Online Blood Tied by Jacob Z. Flores - Free Book Online Page B

is weird and unsettling,” I replied. “You shouldn’t be here.”
    “Are we back to that?” he asked. His tone lacked irritation. He seemed to find this humorous, as if no matter what obstacle I placed in his path, he’d simply bound over it in pursuit of me. “Is it coincidental that I’ve been working with your brother and I’m here the night after we hooked up? There’s no doubt about it. But where you see ulterior motives and conspiracy, I see opportunity. In case you’ve forgotten, we live in a magical world. Couldn’t this be the Gate’s way of telling us we might have more in common than just the hots for each other?”
    I snuffed. “I don’t have ‘the hots’ for you.”
    Ben grabbed my groin and tugged on the erection I hadn’t even realized I’d been sporting. “Are you sure about that?” he asked with a wicked leer.
    As my dick throbbed in his grasp, I had to admit I wasn’t too sure about anything.
     
     
    MY FATHER’S voice rescued me from my uncomfortable encounter with Ben in the kitchen. It was time for us to honor our ancestors.
    My brothers elbowed each other and grinned like idiots when Ben and I entered the library where everyone else waited on us. They evidently believed we’d been going at it. Would they ever outgrow their adolescent tendencies?
    I ignored their childishness and swept my gaze around the room that had been set up for the ritual.
    The leather couches and red wingback chair had been moved to the perimeter of the room. To the right of the couches, a small feast had been prepared. Dark bread, apples, fall vegetables, cheeses, nuts, cider, and red wine were offered in tribute to our departed loved ones. In the center of the room were four altars with unlit candles. Each family had set up their altar with photos of their deceased relatives and heirlooms passed down through the generations.
    The Proctors had prominently placed the harmonica that William, Charlotte’s grandfather and former High Priest of the coven, used to play. The instrument was lovingly set between a photo of William and his wife, Elizabeth, who’d both passed to the spirit world when I was in third grade. Charlotte had cried her way through most of the school year. She had been incredibly close to her grandparents.
    A tabletop grandfather clock belonging to Lawrence Stonewall’s great-great-great-grandmother, Perrine, adorned the center of their family’s tribute. She had been one of the most powerful wizards of all time. In fact, she had been one of the only members of the Conclave who survived the battle with Bartram Kane, the warlock shadow weaver responsible for unleashing the vampyren during the Salem witch trials. Other photos decorated the Stonewall family altar, but their stern visages faded away when my gaze drew too close to my family’s altar.
    In the middle of the many loved ones we’d lost over the years, I saw only one photo, the one belonging to Priscilla Blackmoor, my mother. Her luminous red hair cascaded over her creamy shoulders. As a child, whenever I snuggled into the crook of her neck, the bouquet of rose petals and cinnamon had always brought me great comfort. When she’d smiled, mischievousness glinted in her hazel eyes. No one ever knew if they were going to be on the receiving end of a giant momma bear hug or a practical joke. She’d loved a good prank almost as much as she loved us.
    But now that she had been reduced to photos and memories, I couldn’t swallow the bowling ball-sized lump lodged in my throat.
    To the best of my ability, I choked back the tears that threatened to make me a blubbering mess and focused on the fourth altar. It had been set up to honor our predecessors, the past protector covens. It was the longest altar of the four, since it contained photos and mementos that dated back to the birth of our species. It represented a symbolic assemblage of the most powerful warlocks, witches, and wizards who had ever existed.
    The four altars signified