“Or, or, I could pluck her, and give her to someone who needs the food.” He nodded encouragingly at me.

“Yes,” I said, swallowing down what had threatened to rise up. “We can do that.”

My grip on the knife was slick with sweat. The chicken started to struggle in my grip, as though sensing my tension. “I can’t hold her steady,” I muttered, the knife and the chicken sliding in my grasp.

“Just get it over with,” Chris said. “Do it now.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” I said, struggling to get the angle right. My hands knew what they were doing, but my mind was at war with itself. Walking down this path would change everything for me. It would change who I was.

Do it! The voice in my head was full of wicked glee. Was it me, or was it the King?

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush as I sliced the knife across the chicken’s neck. Blood splattered everywhere, adding to the wetness of tears already dripping down my cheeks. I held the dying creature over the basin with shaking hands, letting the blood flow even as power flooded into me, then handed her to Chris.

Retrieving the candle, I held the flame to the crimson contents of the basin, part of me praying that it would go out and the spell would fail, even as I knew it wouldn’t. Fire leapt up in the bowl and we both jerked back. I could feel magic rising all around us, but it had a dark, malignant edge to it. What I was doing was a corruption of the earth’s power. What I was doing was evil.

“I can’t go back,” I whispered. And before I could lose my nerve, I plunged my hand into the flaming mixture. It was hot, but it didn’t burn. Slowly, I lifted my hand from the basin, flames licking out from my fingers. With the grimoire in my free hand, I held my bloody hand over the map and closed my eyes, visualizing the city.

“Tell me where Anushka is,” I said loudly, and focused my thoughts. I felt power gush from my fingers, filling the air with heat. The blood splattered loudly against the paper, but I kept my focus. “Tell me where Anushka is.” The magic surged, and I smelled a faint hint of smoke, then it was over.

I opened my eyes. Chris was on the far side of the kitchen, his back against a cupboard. He stared at me with wild eyes, the dead chicken clutched to his chest. “Did it work?” His words were shaky, and I could tell he didn’t want to come closer. He was afraid of me. I was afraid of myself.

Wiping my hand on my stained dress, I picked up the candle and leaned over to look at the map.

There were tiny burn marks on the parchment, barely more than pinpricks. But where I had expected one, there were nineteen. “I don’t think it worked,” I said, my breath coming in escalating pants as I stared at the blood-spattered map. “It didn’t work.” I slammed my fist into the floor, skinning my knuckles. “How could it not have worked?”