In the morning, at Bobby safehouse
Scrubbing blood off my machete where Bobby wanted me to use it on me yesterday to check my regeneration and let me tell you, it was gore but suddenly, I wasn't expecting a revelation. But that's when it hit me—sharp, electric, and all-consuming.
I froze mid-swipe, the rag dangling uselessly from my hand. Officer Loony's dead eyes flashed behind my eyelids, the strange, humming warmth that had bloomed inside me the moment he died clawing its way back into focus. Not just knowledge. Not just memories.
Magic.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered under my breath, heart pounding.
Across the room, Dean looked up from Bobby's cluttered workbench where he was meticulously cleaning his shotgun. He gave me a skeptical eyebrow lift. "You talking to your knife, or finally cracked under the pressure?"
I barely heard him. Flexing my fingers, I reached inward—past muscle and bone—to the knot of energy curled deep inside me. It was sluggish, like a bear waking from hibernation, but it was there.
Something Officer Loony had left behind.
Something I could use.
I spun around so fast I nearly face-planted into the coffee table. "Bobby!" I barked, startling Sam enough that he splashed coffee all over his lore book. "You got any beginner witch crap lying around?"
Instant silence. The kind that usually came right before a house fire or a demon attack.
Dean lowered his shotgun slowly, like he thought sudden movements might set me off. "You wanna run that by us again?"
Bobby didn't blink. Didn't even flinch. Just crossed his arms and gave me a look that could've curdled milk. "You planning on summoning your own funeral pyre, or you got a real reason for asking?"
I hesitated. The truth was a messy snarl in my throat. I couldn't exactly say, "Hey, funny story, turns out when I kill monsters—or apparently cursed humans—I keep souvenirs in my soul locker," now could I?
So I lied. Well, half-lied.
"I've got an idea," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Something that might give us an edge against Kharon."
Sam's forehead wrinkled. "You want to fight ancient blood magic with... spellbooks?"
"Not just any spellbooks." I grinned wide enough to make Dean visibly uncomfortable. "Mine."
Bobby's idea of a "beginner" book turned out to be a battered leather tome that looked like it had been through the Civil War. The cover read Grimorium Arcanum in faded gold letters, and it smelled like burnt sage, bad whiskey, and worse decisions.
He slapped it onto the kitchen table with a heavy thunk. Silverware rattled.
"This ain't Harry Potter," he said, fixing me with a stern look. "Mispronounce a word, and we'll be scraping your remains off the ceiling."
Dean leaned in over my shoulder, eyes bright with morbid curiosity. "So... you gonna turn Kharon into a frog or something?"
"Better." I ran my fingertips over the embossed sigils, feeling the magic hum under my skin. "I'm gonna cheat."
The energy inside me twitched eagerly, like a bloodhound catching a scent. Loony's memories stirred—a jumbled soup of rituals and chants—but nothing concrete. On their own, they were half-baked. Combined with Bobby's book?
Game changer.
Day 1
"Incendia," I whispered, aiming two fingers at the wick.
Nothing happened.
I tried again, louder this time: "INCENDIA!"
The candle exploded.
Dean, walking past with a beer, hit the floor with military precision as flaming wax shrapnel embedded itself in the ceiling.
"What the actual hell, man!" he yelled, batting out embers in his flannel.
Bobby stormed in, saw the smoking crater where the candle had been, and just sighed like a man deeply questioning his life choices. "We're gonna need more fire extinguishers," he muttered.
Day 2
Sam found me cross-legged in the backyard at dawn, surrounded by a salt circle, mumbling Latin like a deranged monk.
He took one look at the setup and held up his hands. "Hey, man. No judgment. Just—uh—what exactly are you trying to summon?"
"Spirit of air," I said, cracking one eye open. "Trying to boost my movement spells."
A beat of skeptical silence.
Then—WHOOSH.
A cyclone the size of a pickup truck ripped through the yard, yanking Bobby's laundry off the line and into orbit. Boxers, socks, and one very unfortunate pair of long johns whirled above us like patriotic flags.
Sam stared as a pair of tighty-whities landed on his shoulder. "That's... definitely not how weather works."
I grinned from the eye of the storm. "It does now."
Day 3
The spell was called Manus Arcanum. Rough translation? "Hand of Magic."
I pressed my palm against the faded ink, whispering the incantation with careful precision. Power surged up my arm—sharp, electric, exhilarating.
The scrap pile trembled.
Then, with a groaning shriek of tortured metal, every twisted bumper, shattered axle, and rusted fender lifted off the ground, spinning into a deadly, elegant orbit around me like the world's ugliest solar system.
Dean dropped his wrench. "Holy crap."
Bobby gawked like he'd just witnessed a cat tap-dancing.
Sam? Sam just started scribbling furiously in his notes like he was prepping for finals.
With a flick of my wrist, I sent the entire mass streaming across the yard. It hovered inches from the barn wall—trembling, heavy—and then settled gently back to earth.
I staggered, panting, my skin hot and buzzing with residual magic.
"Okay," I gasped, swiping sweat from my brow. "That's... new."
That night, lying on the ratty old mattress in Bobby's guest room, magic still fizzed under my skin like too much caffeine. My mind raced faster than my body could keep up.
If I could fuse the magic into my existing powers...
Telekinesis + Manus Arcanum = Force-field armor.
Vampire speed + Wind communion = Near-flight.
Wendigo strength + kinetic amplification = Tank-punching fists.
My heart pounded at the possibilities.
And then—out of the black stillness—something cold brushed against the edge of my mind.
A voice. Familiar. Oily.
"Clever little thief," Kharon whispered.
I jolted upright, fists clenching, eyes scanning the shadows. The room was empty. No sulfur stink. No temperature drop.
But the warning lingered like smoke after a fire.
He knew.
He was watching.
And he wasn't angry.
He was intrigued.
The fear should've paralyzed me.
Instead, it made me smile.
Because if Kharon thought this was clever...He hadn't seen anything yet.
I punched my pillow into submission, rolled over, and stared into the dark.
You want a living weapon, Kharon?
Fine.
But you'll wish you hadn't.