Torn Ivy (Thornfield Supernatural Academy #2)

13. Tate

13

TATE

After Ivy wanted to be alone to think, me and the other guys returned to our house across campus. Torin and Bram have disappeared, leaving me to mope in the kitchen with a glass of whiskey, strong enough to knock your head off. But it’s needed. Something isn’t adding up here. We are missing something vital about who Ivy is. I just can’t figure it out because I can’t clear my head enough to do it. Not that the booze will help. If anything, it will make it worse.

A sharp rap on the back door has me looking up from the swirl of amber liquid sloshing around the glass as I rotate it.

Crossing over to it, I glare at the arsehole on the other side. “You.”

Vex smirks and holds up a book that has seen better centuries and crackles with dark magick.

“You’re going to bring that into my house?” I ask, gesturing to it with the glass.

“Only if you want to know what I know.”

That makes me step aside with a grimace. No way am I letting him have information about Ivy that I don’t. “I’ll get everyone.”

“No. Just you.”

Frowning, I sit at one end of the kitchen table, and he takes the other side.

The grimoire he retrieved from MistHallow sits between us, its ancient pages humming with dark energy. It sets my teeth on edge.

Storm clouds gather outside, matching my mood. The soft patter of rain against windows fills the heavy silence between us.

“You need to read it,” Vex says eventually, his usual smug expression absent. “Found something interesting while researching the chaos magick.”

“And you had to show me alone? Could’ve just sent a text.” I swirl the amber liquid in my glass again, watching the light catch it.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, a warning sign that whatever this book holds, I’m not going to like it. “Not about this.”

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the kitchen. The grimoire shifts in response, dark energy rippling across its surface.

“Your mother’s name was Sarah Well,” Vex states, sitting back. His words drop into the quiet kitchen like stones into still water. “Before she married your father.”

I freeze, glass halfway to my lips. The whiskey catches the lamplight, gleaming like amber. “I’m aware. What of it?”

“Because my mother’s maiden name was Well too.” He opens the grimoire to a family tree, aged parchment crackling beneath his fingers. Pointing to two branches that split decades ago, he continues, “They were sisters.”

The whiskey burns as I knock it back. Rain drums steadily against the windows, nature’s percussion to this twisted family reunion. “We’re cousins?”

He shakes his head. “No. Worse.”

“Worse?” I feel a dread spike in my blood. What could be worse than being his cousin? Oh, you just had to ask, didn’t you?

Vex chuckles. “Your dad fucked my mum.”

“Oh, for the love of all things unholy,” I mutter, resisting the urge to throw up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Wish I was. Explains why we hated each other on sight at university, bro .” His laugh is bitter, echoing in the small space between us.

“Fuck, right off,” I growl. “I’m not buying that for a second.”

Thunder rolls outside as I think back to that first day at Thornfield three years ago, the instant clash of power between us. How it had felt familiar somehow, even as we tried to blast each other across the courtyard.

“Why tell me now?” I ask, studying the family tree’s intricate lines, despite my unwillingness to accept this travesty. Names and dates spread across the parchment like a web, connecting people long dead to the two of us sitting in my rain-dark kitchen.

“Because I’m leaving.” He closes the grimoire carefully, ancient leather creaking. “ Got a job offer at MistHallow. I can’t refuse it, and to be quite honest, when Death finds out I’ve betrayed him, my nuts will be on the chopping block. I don’t exactly trust you all to save my arse when the time comes, yeah?”

I study him - my rival, my half-brother, this person I’ve spent three years hating for reasons I never fully understood. The resemblance is there, now that I know to look for it. Something in the set of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones. “This doesn’t change fuck all.”

“No. We are not suddenly going to be best friends just because we are family.”

“Too fucking right.” I think of Torin, who became more family to me than any blood relation ever could. Of that rainy night in an alley that changed everything. “Family’s what you make of it anyway.”

Vex nods, understanding passing between us like lightning. “That’s not all this book has. You’ll find it an interesting read. It has information about chaos magick that might help with everything.” He stands.

“Try not to be such a dick at MistHallow,” I say, but there’s no real heat in it. It’s strange how one revelation can drain away years of antagonism.

He chuckles, and then he’s gone, leaving me with a grimoire full of secrets and a family connection I never expected. Rain continues to fall outside, washing away the old as something new takes its place.

I pour another whiskey and pull the grimoire closer, thinking of Ivy, of chaos magick and bloodlines and the family you choose versus the family you’re born to, of power that recognises power, and connections that run deeper than blood.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the family tree’s intricate branches. Sometimes, the past surprises you. Sometimes, it explains things you never understood about yourself, and sometimes, knowing where you came from helps you figure out where you’re going.

Time to see what other secrets this book holds.

The grimoire’s pages are brittle beneath my fingers as I read. The first few pages detail the Well family history and about how our bloodline traces back to the first convergence of magick in Britain.

It’s interesting, and I will definitely read more, but this isn’t about me. It’s about Ivy and what we can learn to help her. So, I search for the chapter on chaos magick. Detailed diagrams show how natural energy flows through ley lines and how certain bloodlines act as conduits for different types of power. The Wells, it seems, were known for their ability to channel and direct raw magick - exactly what Ivy’s struggling with now.

A hastily scrawled note in the margin catches my attention: “Chaos requires anchor. Blood calls to blood. Balance must be maintained.”

I turn another page, and a sketch makes me pause. It shows a warlock standing between two forces - Chaos and order - acting as a channel between them. The pieces are starting to fit together in ways I never expected.

The text swims on the page, ancient ink shifting as if alive. A whole section details how chaos magick seeks out natural conduits - bloodlines that can withstand its raw power without burning up.

“The Well line serves as the foundation stone,” one passage reads. “Where Chaos flows unchecked, our blood remembers. We do not control; we channel. We do not command; we guide. This is our gift and our burden.”

My hands tingle as I read, my Blackwell magick responding to the words.

Another page shows detailed notes about what happens when chaos magick meets an anchoring bloodline. The diagram is like a sketch of what happens between Ivy and me - her wild power meeting my more structured magick, the way they sync instead of clash.

“The anchor must be willing,” I read aloud. “The connection cannot be forced. Trust flows both ways, or the channel breaks.”

Lightning crashes outside as I turn to a chapter titled ‘The Price of Power.’ The words are darker here, written in what looks suspiciously like blood:

‘The Price of Power’ bleeds across the page in dark crimson ink. The storm outside seems to pause as if holding its breath.

“To channel Chaos is to court destruction. The anchor bears not only the weight of power but also its consequences. Each time chaos flows through willing blood, it leaves its mark. These marks accumulate like scars upon the soul. Few bloodlines can withstand repeated exposure. Those that do emerge changed. The Well line carries this burden through generations, but even we are not immune to its effects.” That doesn’t sound good.

The grimoire’s pages rustle on their own and stop at a diagram that shows how repeated exposure to Chaos magick can alter a person’s essence over time. It’s not just about power - it’s about fundamental change on a cellular level.

“The anchor becomes both conduit and container,” I read aloud. “In times of great need, they may call upon the stored chaos, but at great personal cost.”

My mind races, thinking of how Ivy’s power stabilises when we’re together. Am I unknowingly acting as her anchor?

If this is true, then every time I help Ivy control her power, I’m taking on part of that chaotic energy and changing myself in ways I don’t fully understand.

Lightning flashes again, and for a moment, I swear I see pink energy crackling along my fingertips. But when I blink, it’s gone. Must be the booze.

The final pages of the chapter are ominous:

“As Chaos grows, so too must the anchor. But beware - there is a tipping point. A moment when the scales tip irrevocably towards destruction. When that time comes, only sacrifice can restore balance.”

As I close the grimoire, the words hang heavy in the air, my mind reeling. Lightning flashes again before thunder crashes overhead.

Sacrifice. The word echoes in my head, filling me with dread. What kind of sacrifice? Who would have to make it? Ivy? Me? Someone else?

I think of the raw power that flows through Ivy and how natural it feels when our magick intertwines.

I pour another glass of whiskey, needing something to steady my nerves. The alcohol burns going down, but it does little to calm the storm of thoughts in my head.

How do I explain this to Ivy, and to everyone, that our connection might be more than just attraction or fate, but a cosmic balancing act with dire consequences?

I don’t have any answers. Not yet, anyway.