Blood witch, I thought Cal says that's what I am, and after last night, after what I did, how can I doubt it? It must be true. I am a blood witch. In my veins flows blood that has been Inherited from thousands of years of magick making, thousands of years of witches intermarrying. I'm one of them, from one of the Seven Great Clans: Rowanwand, Wyndenkell, Leapvaughn, Vikroth, Brightendale, Burnhide, and Woodbane.

But which one? Rowanwand, both teachers and hoarders of knowledge? Wyndenkeil, the expert spell writers? Vikroth? The Vikroths were magickal warriors, later related to Vikings. I smiled. I didn't feel very warriorlike.

The Leapvaughns were mischief makers, joke players. The Burnhide clan focused on doing magick with gems, crystals, and metals, and the Brightandales were the medical clan, using the magick of plants to heal. Or… there was Woodbane. I shivered. There was no way I was of the dark clan, the ones who wanted power at any cost, the ones who battled and betrayed their fellow clans for control of land, of magickal power, of knowledge.

I considered it. Of the seven great clans, if I was in fact from one of them, I felt most like the Brightendales, the healers. I had discovered that I loved plants, that they spoke to me, that using their magickal powers came naturally to me. I hugged myself, smiling. A Brightendale. A real blood witch.

Which means my parents must also be blood witches, I thought. It was a stunning notion. It made me wonder why we'd been going to church every Sunday for as long as I could remember. I mean, I liked my church. I liked going to services. They seemed beautiful and traditional and comforting. But Wicca felt more natural.

I sat up in bed again. Two images kept coming at me: Cal leaning over me, his golden eyes locked on mine. And Bree, my best friend: the shock and pain on her face as she saw Cal and me together. The accusation, hurt, desire. Rage.