Torn Ivy (Thornfield Supernatural Academy #2)

23. Torin

23

TORIN

“The bloodlines are more complicated than anyone realises,” Mum says, her hair pulled back severely. She looks more like a university professor than one of Britain’s most powerful vampires, but there’s something in her eyes that betrays the facade. Something ancient. “Especially when it comes to Death’s lineage.”

She spreads out what appears to be a family tree, but unlike any I’ve seen before. The lines between names shine with faint light, and some branches seem to exist in multiple dimensions at once, overlapping in ways that hurt my eyes to look at directly.

I glare at her in annoyance. She showed up here moments ago, unannounced and is forcing me to listen to her because she says it’s about Ivy. One word that is even a slight insult, and I will stake this woman myself and get her out of my life, once and for all.

“These connections,” she traces one glowing line, “aren’t just genealogy. They’re magical bindings, carefully orchestrated over centuries. Look here - the Smith line merging with the Thornes in 1742. Not a natural union. They were drawn together by forces they never understood.”

I lean closer, trying to focus on the intricate patterns, giving her exactly five minutes to make her point before I start throwing stakes around.

“The Hammond line appears here,” she continues, pointing to a section where multiple lines converge like a spiderweb. “And here. And here. Always at critical junctions. Always when Death’s power needs to be adjusted.”

“Adjusted how?”

She pulls out another document, this one bound in what looks suspiciously like human skin. “Death chooses vessels from specific bloodlines - ones with a natural affinity for chaos magick. But it’s more than simple compatibility. The Hammond line isn’t just attuned to Death’s power. It’s engineered. Has been for centuries.”

“Engineered?” I study the complex web of marriages and magical bindings. Certain names keep appearing - old families, powerful witches, mysterious figures marked with symbols I’ve never seen before.

“Watch,” she says, laying out three more documents in a triangle formation. They glow, creating a projection in the air between them. A three-dimensional map of magical bloodlines stretching back through time. “In 1503, the first deliberate binding. The Hammonds were nothing then but a minor family of hedge witches. But they had potential.”

The projection shows two lines merging, accompanied by a surge of power that makes the air taste like lightning.

“Then here - 1648. The Midnight Convergence. Seven families, seven ritual bindings, all designed to concentrate certain abilities in the bloodline.”

I watch as the magical lines twist and merge, creating patterns that seem to follow some grand design. “Who orchestrated this? Death?”

Mum’s laugh holds no humour. “This goes back further. Much further.”

She reveals another document, this one written in a language that seems to change every time I try to read it. “There are patterns, if you know where to look. Certain families orchestrating specific unions, guiding the bloodlines toward a singular purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Evolution,” she says softly. “Controlled, directed evolution of magickal ability. The ability to not just channel Death’s power but to change it. To make it more.”

The projection shifts, showing more recent convergences. I recognise some names now - families still active in supernatural politics.

“Every marriage arranged, every child born, every death carefully timed, are all part of a greater design. The Hammond line wasn’t chosen by Death. It was created for Death.”

That’s new and interesting. She gets five more minutes. “Created by who?”

“That’s the interesting part.” She pulls out another document, this one bearing symbols that make my eyes water. “There are older powers than Death. Older magicks than chaos, and they’ve been waiting. Planning. Preparing.”

There is a knock at the door, and Bram pushes it open with Ivy by his side. “Hey. We need to talk?—”

He cuts off as he takes in my mother and her documents.

Ivy’s reaction is interesting, though. She stops dead as she stares at my mother. The floating projection of bloodlines warps, responding to her presence like iron to a magnet.

“You,” Ivy states. “You were there. At the cabin.”

Mum’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes narrow. “Miss Hammond. Good to see you again.”

“Again?”

“When I killed your father,” Ivy says, not taking her eyes off my mother, “there was a woman there. Watching before she disappeared in a cloud of purple power.”

“The advanced mage Tate reckoned was there,” I grit out. “It was you.”

“The pieces were already in motion,” Mum says calmly, brushing it off as if discussing the weather rather than her presence at my father’s murder. “Certain things had to happen in a specific order. Your father’s death was a necessary catalyst.”

“The question is why? Why did you want him dead? Why reveal these bloodline secrets now?”

Mum straightens, and for a moment, I glimpse something ancient and terrible in her eyes. “Because Death is not the only one playing a long game. The Syndicate thinks they’re the puppet masters, but there are older powers at work.”

She gestures at the scattered documents, each one shining with centuries of carefully woven magick. “Look at the pattern. The Hammond line crossing with chaos practitioners in 1742. The dark magick infusion through the Smith marriage in 1823. The binding of elemental power through the Thorne alliance in 1901. Every generation, every union, carefully orchestrated to create the perfect vessel.”

“The bloodlines,” I say, pieces clicking into horrible place. “You’re not just sharing information. You’re part of whatever’s been engineering them. Part of the organisation that’s been manipulating supernatural bloodlines for centuries.”

“Smart boy.” Mum’s smile holds secrets within secrets. “Though perhaps not smart enough, if you haven’t figured out why your father really had to die.”

“Explain.”

“Death’s vessels aren’t chosen,” she says, tapping the ancient family trees. The magickal lines respond to her touch, creating new patterns in the air. “They’re created. Through centuries of careful breeding, magickal bindings, and...” she glances at Ivy, “precisely timed removals of certain obstacles.”

“My father was an obstacle?” I ask, feeling the irony. He was definitely an obstacle to me.

“He discovered too much. Started asking dangerous questions about old families and older magicks.” She traces a particularly complex binding in the floating pattern. “He was going to expose everything. All the careful work of centuries, undone by one man’s greed for power. We couldn’t allow that.”

“We?” Ivy demands. “Who exactly is we?”

Mum’s smile grows sharper. “Now that’s the real question, isn’t it? The one The Syndicate should be asking, instead of playing their little games with ultimatums and power plays.”

She waves a hand, and the magickal projections reform, showing new patterns, deeper connections I hadn’t noticed before. “Every major supernatural event in history, every rise of power, every fall of an old family, every seemingly random tragedy are all part of the pattern. All moving us toward this moment.”

“What moment?” I demand, but I see it now in the bloodlines. The way they all seem to converge on this point in time. On Ivy.

“Evolution,” Mother says again, but this time, the word holds weight. Power. Promise. “True evolution of magickal ability. The Hammond line was crafted to be more than just Death’s vessel. It was designed to change Death itself.”

“You know what?” Ivy snaps. “I’m getting really sick of that fucking word. No one uses it again, or I start kicking arses.”

Mum looks at Ivy with something like hunger. “You’re feeling it already, aren’t you? The way your power is growing, changing, becoming something new. Something more than Death ever intended. We orchestrated your entire existence. Centuries of careful breeding and magickal manipulation, all leading to you. The perfect vessel for what’s coming.”

“What’s coming?” I ask.

Mum gathers the ancient documents with a sweep of her hand, and they vanish, her smile holding centuries of secrets. “The old powers are stirring. The barriers between worlds are thinning. And you, my dear children, are standing at the crossroads of history.”

She looks between us, and for a moment, I see something vast and dark behind her eyes. Something that makes Death’s power seem young in comparison.

“The question isn’t who I am or what I’ve done,” she says. “The question is: when you finally understand what’s coming, which side of history will you choose to be on?”

We glare at her, speechless.

“Choose wisely, children,” Mum says, turning to leave. “The dance is only beginning.”

She disappears in a cloud of power, leaving us with nothing but questions and the crushing weight of revelation.

The truth settles around us like falling ash:

Nothing is what we thought.

No one is who we believe.

And the real game?

It hasn’t even started yet.

“What the fucking fuck is older than Death?” Bram snaps, frustrated and annoyed as I am.

“The only thing that comes before it,” Ivy mutters. “Life.”