SHE SHOULD HAVE said no. But if she was really being honest with herself, she had wanted to say yes. When they touched, she'd been shocked by the connection between them. Victoria had known there was something there—she'd felt that spark from the moment they had first met that day in the Admissions Office.

Yet, despite the fact that Christian Devereux was so charismatic and made her heart race, something felt wrong. When he looked at her with those eerie light eyes of his, she felt rattled and on edge. Not to mention what she'd done to him just by thinking about it. Her throat tightened at the memory. Her palms tingled and she felt a familiar heaviness stir in the pit of the belly, the same sensations she'd fought months ago, the ones she'd thought were dead and gone.

Embrace it.

Victoria almost jumped out of her skin as the phantom thought invaded her head. Exhaustion was making her remember things that she'd prefer remain ancient history. She shook it off and sighed, leaning back against the sofa and watching Leto lying on the top edge of the cushions. She stroked his ears as he watched her intently out of one eye, and resorted to her familiar means of making sense of her feelings.

"I don't know why I said yes," she murmured to him. "He's arrogant, and rude, and irritating." She sighed, a soft smile on her lips turning onto her side to face Leto. "But you should hear him on the piano, he's amazing. Reminded me of New York." Leto curled his head into her palm. "Mom would have loved hearing him." Her words slowed. "Maybe that's why I said yes. Anyone who plays like that can't be all bad, right?"

Victoria stared out the window behind the sofa and curled her legs beneath her, her fingers still lingering in Leto's fur. She wrestled with her thoughts.

"But that's not the whole reason. I don't know how but"—she hesitated again, a shiver passing through her—"it happened again. And it's just strange that he didn't react like I thought he would ... like the others."

Leto's head turned toward her and for a second, she felt a strange sensation as if he'd heard her. She could feel a sense of concern that wasn't her own. She frowned dismissing it, and continued her monologue.

"I mean, he's not stupid. It's unnatural to be able to move whole people around without touching them." She studied her hands as if they held the answer, frowning. "It was like invisible hands just reached out of my chest and shoved him backward."

This time there was no mistaking the response. Leto stared at her so hard that every hair on the back of her neck stood at nervous attention.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she blurted without thinking.

Leto growled, holding her gaze disconcertingly, once again compelling her to grasp at something that was just beyond her reach. Given the last few months, she shouldn't have been surprised by anything, and after the existentialist episode with Christian, it didn't seem that farfetched to have an animal stare at her as if he understood her every word. She could do things, unnatural things. A cognitive cat was hardly a stretch.

Victoria bit her lips as a rush of unexpected hysteria filled her, brought on by Leto's stare. She glared at him.

"If you have something to say, just say it already," she snapped.

Her anger faded as abruptly as it had appeared and without waiting for the response that couldn't possibly come, she slumped back on the couch bursting into laughter at her own absurdity. What was she thinking?

Embrace it.

She almost fell off the sofa. That time, the voice had not been a figment of her imagination—it'd been real. But there was no one else in the apartment apart from Leto. She looked at him warily.

"You're imagining things again, Tori," Victoria muttered, closing her eyes.

You know what you are. You've known all along. Embrace it.

She sealed her lips shut against the hysterical panic bubbling behind them. She'd fallen down the rabbit hole into a crazy world where she could topple people over just by thinking about it and where animals could talk. She could feel Leto's glower as if in response to the tune of her thoughts, and she opened her eyes.

He flattened his ears and hissed, staring directly at her. But that was impossible! Cats didn't understand people and they certainly couldn't talk back, unless ... he was like her, something else ... something not entirely natural, not of this world.

"I don't know what you want me to do," she whispered, feeling like a lunatic.

The music box.

The music box? It was a rhetorical question, and in that instant, somehow she understood immediately that the music box held all the answers; it always had.

Victoria rummaged through the cardboard box marked "junk" and found it. It felt the same as it had the first time she'd held it, warm and welcoming. Hers. She removed the amulet from the box, mesmerized by its light. It was undeniably beautiful.

And undeniably terrifying.

Victoria shook her head. "I can't," she said, her hand trembling.

To embrace who you are, you must.

The words were simple but powerful. Victoria understood that she had to know who or what she was even if it meant "embracing" the mad energy that she'd tried to bury inside her. Not knowing was far worse than knowing. She couldn't risk what had happened with Brett ever happening again, or repeating what she'd done with Christian without understanding her strange power. The voice was right—she needed to embrace who she was, but even more, she needed to learn to control this thing inside of her.

Pulling herself together, she took a deep breath and focused inward, finding the sphere of energy, the strange force that she'd used against Christian. Her grandmother's words echoed in her head as she clicked the clasp into place around her neck. "Don't fear it. You are a Warrick."

Victoria closed her eyes, imagining that she was pulling the energy toward her heart near where the amulet rested. To her disbelief, she sensed it follow her bidding. It felt like she had been doing it all her life. The energy responded fluidly, pliant and receptive to her every thought. It was astonishing, and humbling. Victoria breathed out carefully, knowing what she had to do.

With a long indrawn breath, she pulled it into her center and felt it fill every cell in her body. She'd never felt so tall, so full, so whole. She feared that she would burst with it until her breath rushed past her lips and the energy rippled inward, resonating into blood and bone and tissue.

She opened her eyes.

The diamond burned the color of blood.

Leto's eyes glittered.

Yes.

"I don't know how to—" Victoria faltered for a moment.

You've talked to me your whole life.

She stared at him. "I didn't exactly ... expect a response."

Open yourself. Your power is an extension of you. Push outward, and imagine your mind connecting with mine.

She hesitated, but Leto's eyes compelled her to finish what she had started. Tentatively, Victoria envisioned her mind as a ball of energy and imagined a silver thread linking her mind to his.

Leto ...

Victoria.

Curious, she slid alongside his consciousness, exploring it gently. Although he felt catlike, warm and comforting and like family, he didn't quite feel like a cat. She sensed great intelligence, sensitivity, and even humor. In a way, he reminded her of her English teacher in second grade, a twinkly-eyed but bar-no-nonsense kind of person. As an onslaught of memories flooded her mind, she felt Leto cringe and block her out completely.

Shape your thoughts, Leto thought to her. Then give them form with words. Guard your mind always, even against me.

Mindful of not hurling a barrage of thoughts and feelings his way, Victoria formed her mental words carefully, releasing them one by one. It felt strange, enunciating each thought as if she were learning to speak a foreign language.

How do I do that? Guard, I mean.

Imagine an impenetrable wall around you, encasing your entire mind. Good. Do you feel me pushing against you? That wall you just imagined is real.

Victoria frowned. It feels like I have a headache.

Over time it will become effortless. She met Leto's green eyes.

Was the voice always you?

Yes.

So does this mean I am telepathic?

You are so much more, Victoria. Surely you know that. Leto's look spoke volumes. She considered his words.

I ... made those things happen by thinking about them, like Brett ... and Chri ... the boy from today. It felt different earlier though.

She thought about Brett and remembered how the energy had raced along her veins, rampant. Wild. She'd cowered from it then, running away from it and burying it so deeply that it was no wonder she'd been caught off guard by its reemergence.

Yes, the energy felt different. Now it was responsive, less raw. With Brett, she had reacted to a threat and her unconscious reaction had been explosive, uncontrolled. It had terrified her. But now, the energy felt compliant—she was directing its flow, projecting it with purpose and shaping its response. Even with Christian earlier, her action had been more deliberate. She was controlling it instead of it controlling her. Victoria could feel Leto's approval.

Why couldn't I control it then?

Perhaps you were not yet ready.

And I am now?

Only you know the answer to that question. She eyed him curiously.

So what are you?

I'm ... your friend. Leto settled back onto his haunches, his brilliant green eyes twinkled. Technically, a familiar, he clarified.

Victoria swallowed. A flicker of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch flashed through her head. Like Salem in Sabrina? She thought the words aloud before she could think twice.

His immediate disdain was eloquent. Victoria, that is a television show. But yes, if you must make the comparison, although this form is just a shape, a vessel.

Her mouth hung open. If he was a familiar, then that would make her ...

And ... me? Am I ... a ... witch?She almost choked on the last word, feeling stranger with each passing second. She could swear that Leto was laughing at her. His thoughts felt distinctly amused.

You already know the answer to that, Victoria. Of course you are, he said. Although not in the way you're thinking. You don't use a wand or fly on a broom. Victoria's face fell. The amused sensation she'd felt earlier from Leto returned. He was laughing at her! But your mind can command energy, you will foresee events, and you can heal yourself.

Wait. Heal myself?

Yes. If you are hurt, you can call upon your energy to heal yourself, and others too if you will it. However, for most it is finite. At her questioning look, Leto explained. There's only so much magical energy one can wield at any given time, but there are ways around these limits.

"What else can I do?" she asked, her normal voice hoarse.

As you have already discovered, you are capable of enhanced strength and you can cure yourself and others at will, but you can also unleash powerful energy blasts. You can teleport, exert powerful levels of telekinesis and telepathy, and you can invoke powerful spells.

Leto stopped as Victoria's mouth formed a small "o" of astonishment. Even as her brain incorporated what he was saying, she was stunned. She was a witch! How was that even possible? Her family had been normal. Hadn't they?

My grandmother was a witch. The ponderous thought was not a question.

Yes, Leto agreed, but not like you. His tone was enigmatic and he had an expectant expression on his face. It made Victoria feel peculiar, tingly again.

And my father? Did he know about me? Was he like ... us?

Your father was human. Sometimes the magic skips a generation. It happens with mixed witch and human bloodlines.

But it didn't skip me?

No. Leto's eyes were intense.

Doesn't that make me half-witch, >half-normal then?

No. You are a Warrick witch. Magic remains undiluted from generation to generation. You are as powerful as the very first.

The amulet and her grandmother's words flashed through her memory, "Embrace it. Don't fear it." She grasped the amulet, feeling its familiar warmth in her palm.

Why did the diamond turn red?

Leto paused, seeming to search for words. It is a part of the amulet's magic but it only reveals its full power when a true descendant of Warrick claims it. The answers you seek are in there. His glance indicated the open music box, but Victoria wasn't quite finished. She hesitated. There was one more question she needed to ask, one that had haunted her for years.

Leto, is this why I can't ... die?

The magic protected you when you needed protecting.

Memories assaulted her: surviving the mangled wreckage of her parents' car crash, falling thirty feet from a tree when she was ten without any broken bones, narrowly escaping a skiing accident without so much as a scratch ... there were suddenly too many "narrow escapes" to count. Other than her recent time in the hospital, she couldn't remember being sick a day in her life. The luck of the devil ...

Victoria shivered, and changed the subject.

So my grandmother wasn't crazy after all.

No, but her fear for you was misunderstood. She wanted to protect you.

Protect me? From what?

Leto looked uncomfortable. From yourself. Perhaps it would be better if you read the journal.

And just like that, the conversation was over as he jumped off the sofa and padded to the bedroom. He glanced back at her once thoughtfully and then disappeared into the room.

Victoria stood, stretching her cramped body, and checked the clock. It was two in the morning but she was wide awake. She had completely forgotten about the journal in her grandmother's music box but she knew she couldn't ignore it anymore. She followed Leto into the bedroom, caressing the top of the warm box with her fingertips. She opened it and the soft melody whirred to life.

Leto lay on the bed, his eyes inscrutable, watching her. She lifted the thin leather-bound journal from the base of the box. The same crest was emblazoned on the front of it with the name "Warrick" inscribed beneath it. She traced it with her fingers, not sure what she was waiting for. She knew that the instant she opened the journal, her life would be forever changed. There would be no going back.

"Who are you, really?" she whispered.

The answers were in the journal. She glanced at Leto. His eyes were closed. The decision was hers alone.

Victoria's trembling fingers turned to the first page, the faint smell of gardenias drifting into the air. The first entry was dated May 21, 1602. The writing was painstakingly precise. She took the journal to her bed and began to read, her blood trilling softly.

Lancaster, England: My name is Brigid Anne Warrick Kensington. I am but fourteen and married to a man I have never met. My father thinks the marriage will unite our families and win the King's favor now that His Majesty, King James, is the King of England. I am told that His Grace, Lord Lancaster, is a young man and some would consider him handsome. Mother, I swear to you thatI will be true to our blood! I will honor my new husband though I am a Warrick and will always be a Warrick.

The first few entries described the young girl's life in the home of her new husband, and at first were consistent but then started becoming less and less frequent, until there were gaps as long as a year between entries. The next entry date that interested Victoria came two years later, July 14, 1604. Brigid would have been just sixteen years old.

Lancaster, England. Mother, my son was born last week. He looks like his father, a Lancaster through and through. Even the tiny scowl on his brow is identical to his sire’s. He is a handsome devil. The birth was horrific and painful. I cannot bear to remember it. I shall call him Marcus James Warrick, after his father and our Liege Lord, the King.

There were two other entries, one written on Marcus' birthday, outlining his various accomplishments, learning to walk, talk, first horse, first everything. Her pride and delight in her son were unmistakable. The next entry that concerned Brigid herself wasn't until a year later, dated August 7, 1605.

I have lived seventeen summers today. Something is happening within my body. I can feel the restlessness of my blood. It burns. At night I awake drenched and screaming. Some of the servants think that I am possessed. Mother, I fear I must be. I cut my hand yesterday and the blood was black, shimmering with an unholy luster. It could have been a trick of the candlelight, but it frightened me. There was so much of it, and it bled for hours! I hid my wound for fear of the servants’ talk. My Lord Lancaster is worried for my wellbeing. I try to comfort him but it feels like I am dying. I fear he can see through my lies.

Victoria's heart pounded. What she had been through was the same. The next entry followed quickly on the same page, just a day later.

I am so weak. I cannot eat. My body is feverish. Even as I write these words, my hands shake with cold. The servants come in and out of my room, whispering. I keep my wound wrapped because I know they are all watching with their fearful condemning eyes! Mother, I cannot bear it. This blood is a curse! My Lord Lancaster has sent Marcus to the King’s court for the celebration of his son Henry’s birthday. He refuses to leave my side. O Mother! Help me. My blood is burning.

Victoria noticed that the last words were faint almost as if Brigid had had little remaining strength to pen her thoughts to paper. She could hardly forget the fiery feeling of her blood in her own veins, the same that Brigid had brutally endured, also alone. The next entry was just a year later, written on the anniversary of Brigid's birthday.

Lancaster, England. How things have changed since my last birthday. As you may well discern, I am in perfect health. We are expecting our second beloved child and I am seven months into the pregnancy. I already know that it is a daughter. My Lord Lancaster showers me with his affection. How is it possible to love someone so entirely? He is kind and wonderful. He is my life. Forgive me Mother, but I have told him about my strange new gifts. My Lord Lancaster’s love for me remains undiminished and true.

My talents are astonishing. I have many premonitions and visions of the future. Sickness avoids me, and it seems I have developed a Healer’s touch. I can also read my beloved’s thoughts. I can sense that he is worried about King James. The witch-hunts have grown more vicious in the past few years. He fears for our safety, particularly mine, given my abilities. If King James were to find out, we would surely be condemned.

The next entry came just a month later, on September 14, 1606.

My daughter is dead.

The single abrupt sentence floored Victoria, and she gasped as if the pain were her own. The writing continued a day later, pressed into the paper with angry black strokes. The pages rustled, heavy with tears and stained with splotches of dark ink. Victoria felt her heart wrench in empathy as she continued to read.

I am dead. Elizabeth Marie Warrick Kensington is dead. She came into the world a warrior goddess, bathed in blood, so much black blood, it was terrifying. My cursed blood killed her! The servants crossed themselves every time they entered the birthing chamber. She was so perfect, an angel. I have never known such joy watching her tiny, peaceful face, so divinely beautiful even in death. I curse the God that ripped her from my womb! I curse myself!

The dark splotches of ink shimmered and Victoria realized that they weren't ink at all. They were blood—deep, dark red drops imprinted on the pages forever. The journal trembled in her shaking hands. The amulet pulsed hot on her chest, as if it were reliving memories that scorched it. Victoria's eyes raced over the remaining lines of the passage.

The screams that shake the castle nightly come from my own heart. Lancaster has taken Marcus away as he fears for his safety. So he should. I can feel his fear as he looks at me drowning in my hate. I am lost to him, he cannot save me where I have gone. My devil’s blood guides me now. I confess I can do things, demonic things. I sliced my wrist and I swear it healed before my eyes! Over and over I did it, until the black blood barely wept anymore. I bend the servants to my will, taking grotesque pleasure in hurting them. The blood’s magic takes control and I willingly go where it leads me, where I am free of consequence. Lancaster was right to take Marcus away. I am unworthy. I am evil.

The amulet was growing so unbearably hot that Victoria dropped the journal and frantically unfastened its clasp, hurling it into the box. The diamond pulsed blood red. She backed away slowly from the music box. Leto opened a sleepy eye and looked at her.

"Leto!" she cried. "The amulet is cursed! I have the same poisoned blood that she did. I am cursed too. I never should have worn it! Why did I listen to you?"

Calm down, Victoria. He began to purr and within a few minutes, Victoria felt less agitated from his calming energy. She sat back down on the bed, staring helplessly at him, her throat tight.

"I can't wear it," she said. "I just can't."

It is your birthright. You are a Warrick witch and the amulet is yours. You are who you are.

Victoria shook her head fervently. "I don't want it. I don't want any of that! I just want to be normal, and have a normal life. And not hurt people!" On the last word, Victoria's voice broke. "I can't be a witch. I wouldn't know what to do, or be ... or how ... I don't want to become ... her."

Then don't, Leto answered simply. Curious, he asked, did you read the whole journal?

"How could I?" Victoria said. "I can't bear to read anymore."

Perhaps you will feel differently if you do.