Chapter 22
My breath mists in front of me as I leave the library, the full moon luminous in the dark night. The distant howls of wolves fill the night air. Somewhere out there, Nero hunts in the forest. I hope to the Goddess he stays clear of the shifters, especially on a night like tonight.
My stomach still turns at the thought of him wandering through the Everwoods.
It’s not even the lycanthropes I worry about.
The Everwoods have been rife with demons, fairies, witches, and other monsters.
And while those threats to Nero’s safety have been handled, I think it’s going to take a long time before I trust Henbane with my panther’s safety again.
Pulling my coat tighter around me, I cut across the grass, heading back to my dorm. I left before I could research Eislyn’s pseudonyms. I will go back eventually to do so, but my eyes ache from reading in the dim light, and my stomach is growling for dinner.
And after dinner, I might just join in on the revelries happening on behalf of the full moon tonight. I think this one is called the Beaver Moon. I try not to smirk at all the bawdy shenanigans my coven sisters might get up to in honor of it.
Once I’ve cut across Henbane’s main lawn, I head up the pathway to my residence hall, giving one of the lamassu a cursory pet before reaching the front door.
The fanged Medusa knocker is usually quiet when I come and go from my house, but tonight as I reach for the doorhandle, the serpentine coils of her hair stir to life, and her mouth begins to move.
“A spell will be cast, a trap will be set. Those who are damned remain fettered to their debt. Run, little witch, you smell like a feast, this is no place to be food for a beast.”
The hairs along my arms stand on end. This knocker has never spoken to me quite like this.
That sounded like a premonition.
Run, little witch.
From those words alone, I feel compelled to.
My phone begins to vibrate in my bag. I startle at the interruption, my teeth on edge as I pull the device out.
Sybil’s name is splashed across the screen.
I haven’t chatted over the phone with her in far too long.
Not since I told her about marrying Memnon.
And now I feel like a fool, listening to the howls of shifters filling up the night air.
My best friend has had one hell of a time over the last couple weeks, and I’ve been terrible at keeping up with her.
I answer the call and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hey—” I say breathlessly.
“Selene.” My name trembles on my friend’s lips.
“Sybil?” I say, immediately tense. “Is everything alright?”
“No.” Her hoarse voice breaks over the word, and a sob escapes her.
I clutch my phone hard. “What’s wrong?”
Over the phone I can hear the chattering of her teeth. “S-S-Sacred S-S-Seven.”
My stomach drops.
“C-can you come over here?” her voice roughens, and she sobs.
Hell’s spells.
No is the only appropriate answer, given the situation.
There is a reason that during the Sacred Seven, the seven days closest to the full moon, lycanthropes keep to themselves.
This is the week when shifters are closest to their animal form, and during it, their minds move more like wolves than people.
Non-shifters risk getting hurt or turned if they cross paths with them during this time.
I close my eyes, clutching my phone tighter.
“Of course,” I say. “Where, exactly, are you?”
“Last Rites Cemetery.”
My eyebrows rise.
Bloody boils. I assumed Sybil was on shifter territory. That’s where she’s supposed to be. That she’s here, on Henbane’s property on the night of a full moon—and her first one as a shifter—means something is very, very wrong. I’m burning to ask her just that, but it’ll have to wait.
Instead I say, “I’ll be there in five.”
I tuck the phone in my pocket and head to the rear of the house, where our back patio sits empty. Usually at this time of night at least one or two witches are out here, but right now it’s entirely abandoned.
I’m trying not to think about what I’m actually doing because it doesn’t matter. This is my best friend, and I will always come to her aid, just as she’s come to mine.
Like the last time I stood on Ravensmeade’s back patio with Sybil, there are a couple of brooms casually leaning against dark, wooden wall. Looking at them causes my pulse to race.
Shrugging off my bag, on a whim, I pull out a small crossbody pouch full of basic spellcasting ingredients I carry with me and slide it over my neck.
My larger messenger bag I then lift close to my lips.
“To my room,” I command.
Soft orange magic envelops it, and it floats up from my hands, rising higher and higher into the air.
From where I stand I can see the large oak tree outside my room and the bough that reaches like a limb toward my window.
My bag drifts up, weaving between the branches, before then slipping through my open window high up on the third story.
I hear a distant crash as it collides with something inside.
Damnit.
Whatever, a problem for another time.
I turn to the broom in front of me, my stomach clenching uncomfortably. Last time I rode one of these things, I fell from it like I was Humpty Dumpty. I can still feel the phantom ache of all those broken bones.
But Sybil’s panicked voice echoes in my mind, and it hardens my resolve.
Grasping the broom handle, I tuck it between my legs, then blow out a breath.
Here goes nothing.
“Fly me to Last Rites Cemetery,” I incant in Sarmatian, not bothering with rhymes. There’s no time for my shitty efforts.
The broom shoots forward.
“Oh fuck.” Only my viselike grip on the thing prevents me from careening off it.
I hold on for dear life as it streaks across the grass, nearly taking out a witch walking across campus.
“Sorry!” I shout over my shoulder.
My broom lifts higher and higher as it flies past buildings and toward the Everwoods.
By the time it reaches the tree line, I’ve risen just above the tops of them.
I stare down at the tips of the evergreens, and when I pass a particularly tall one, I’m almost bold enough to stretch my arm out and touch it.
I want to recapture the feeling of wonder I had the first time I did this, the joy that I could hardly contain.
Instead, I’m a ball of nerves, sure I’m going to fall off again.
I arc over the sea of trees, the misty, late autumn air whipping through my hair.
To my left I can see the soft glow of lights from Beldame Library, and far ahead in the distance, I can catch sight of the domed roof of the Lunar Observatory.
But it’s the cold, stone cemetery nestled amongst the dark trees that snags my attention.
My broom slows as we get close, lowering itself to the ground between headstones before it comes to a complete stop.
I hop off, setting the broom against a grave marker shaped like an obelisk.
The place is unnervingly silent, except for… are those sobs?
I move between graves, heading for the larger crypts toward the back of the cemetery as I follow the sound.
“Sybil?” I call.
I strain my ears, but the sobs have died away.
A forlorn screech has me glancing upward. Perched atop a nearby crypt is a barn owl. But not just any barn owl.
“Merlin,” I whisper.
Sybil’s familiar.
“Selene?” The voice that calls out my name is hoarse, deep.
Then, silent as a fucking ghost, Sybil crashes into me from Goddess knows where.
I yelp as her arms come around me, my own arms reflexively wrapping around her. Her clothes are damp, though through them, her skin feels hot.
“Sybil?” I say as she buries her face in my shoulder.
Full-body sobs shake her form as she clutches me close.
“Hey—hey there, it’s okay,” I say, petting her hair gently, my concern for her rising.
Her grip on me tightens. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” she says, emotion thickening her words. “I should never have asked you to come here.”
I smooth her hair back. “Of course you should’ve. I’m your best friend.”
“No,” she insists, disentangling herself and shaking her head. “I was selfish.” She backs away, hugging herself. “And this is wrong,” she says, her body trembling. “It’s not safe for you here while it’s a full moon.”
I glance over her shaking form. It’s freezing outside, and she wears only a thin T-shirt and drawstring shorts—damp ones.
“I’m not leaving you in this state,” I say, growing more alarmed with every passing second.
“Here.” I press a hand to my chest. “Cover my body in armor. Let no object pierce my flesh,” I incant in Sarmatian. My orange magic rolls over my body, settling onto my skin and then sinking in. “I warded myself. Does that make you feel better?”
Sybil’s eyes glisten, and she rolls her lips together and nods, a bit too quickly. “But you promise me you’ll leave if I shift?”
I hesitate. “Is that what you want me to do?”
She exhales a shaky breath. “Of course that’s what I want you to do,” she says, her voice breaking.
“Okay,” I agree softly as a massive shiver racks her body. I try not to show my alarm. “If that happens, I’ll leave.”
Only now does she relax—just a little.
A gust of wind cuts through the cemetery, making a mournful noise as it sends dead leaves skittering across graves.
For several seconds the two of us stand like that, facing each other awkwardly like we’re rivals. Sybil’s lilac power is leaking out of her, but now it has its own translucent overlay—the shifter side of her magic.
“This feels weird,” I finally say. “Can I give you another hug?”
Again, one of those too-quick nods.
I cross the distance between us and pull her into my arms. Beneath my touch I swear I feel her muscles roll and shift, though perhaps that’s just her quivering form.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I don’t pretend to know what it is she’s scared of.
“Sssshhhh,” I say, rubbing circles into her sweaty back, “it’s going to be okay.”
She begins to cry again. “I-I pretended I wanted this,” she admits, her teeth chattering, “but I don’t know if I ever did.”