Chapter Two #2
On the other side of the pyre, Lawrence stands with his band of hybrid wolf-witches and other male witches or warlocks or whatever they’re called.
I don’t know and right now I don’t care.
His face clearly shows pain, eyes never leaving the shrouded form of his wife.
I believe the pain to be genuine even though he hadn’t seen Meredith in over twenty years.
You can’t hide pain like that from a wolf.
A hush falls over the gathering as Lila steps forward, her daughter Alice at her side. They’re both dressed in flowing white robes, their hair unbound and dancing in the manufactured breeze.
It’s amazing how real it feels inside this place, but it’s just a magickal pocket universe.
Still, the grass smells like grass. And the air smells of pine and oak and ash from the fires burning in the cottage fireplaces.
The sun above us is warm on my face and it will set just like the real sun on the outside.
The sky, however, is different, a soft lavender-blue color that never changes.
I like the predictability of it. The consistency.
Lila raises her arms, her voice clear and strong as she begins to chant in an ancient language that makes my wolf’s ears prick up.
Alice joins in, her sweet soprano weaving with her mother’s alto, creating a haunting melody that seems to make the very air vibrate.
The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of sage and lavender stronger now, mingling with the distinct aroma of magick—like the air during a storm right before a lightning strike.
My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, responding to the ancient power in the witches’ voices. Around me, I see others affected too—eyes glowing gold—their wolves close to the surface. The old Moonbound legend says the witches of Britannia made us to protect them…to love them.
And we do. This coven belongs to the O’Connor pack and we will fight to protect it with every breath we have.
As the chant builds to a crescendo, Lila approaches the pyre with a torch in hand. The flames dance, seeming almost alive as they reach for Meredith’s shrouded form. With a final, haunting note, Lila touches the flame to the wood.
Fire leaps up, hungry and fierce, quickly engulfing the pyre. The heat sears my face, but I welcome it. It’s easier to blame the fire for the moisture in my eyes.
We all watch in silence as the flames climb higher, carrying our friend, our protector, our aunt to whatever lies beyond. The crackling of the fire is the only sound in the meadow, punctuated occasionally by a muffled sob or a whispered prayer.
I catch sight of Lawrence across the pyre.
His face is illuminated by the flames, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
For a moment, our eyes meet, and I see a depth of loss there that makes my chest ache.
Whatever happened between him and Meredith, whatever drove them apart, it’s clear he never stopped loving her.
As the pyre burns, a palpable sense of anticipation builds.
This is the moment when Meredith’s magick should return to the coven, to be distributed and reincarnated among the remaining witches.
Alice told me that’s why the ceremony was so important.
And why it had been so important to the coven that we find Meredith’s body at the bottom of the rubble of Oliver’s house.
We dug for days before finding her. And now she is being laid to rest the way she deserves. The way she would’ve wanted.
But nothing happens.
Although maybe I can’t see it—I’m not a witch.
The silence stretches on, becoming uncomfortable, then alarming. Whispers break out among the gathered witches. I catch snatches of confusion, fear.
“Where is it?”
“What’s gone wrong?”
“Her magick…it’s not there.”
I turn and lock eyes with Liam a few paces to my right. His face mirrors the shock and unease I feel. This is bad. Very bad.
Lila steps forward, her face ashen. “Something or someone took Meredith’s magick,” she announces, her voice trembling. “It’s gone.”
The declaration falls like a bomb in the clearing.
Lawrence pushes forward, his grief momentarily overshadowed by anger. “How is this possible?” he demands roughly. “No one had access to her body. We got to her first. This couldn’t have happened. Which of you stole it from her?”
Stole it? Is that even possible?
Lila raises her hands, trying to maintain order. “You need to control yourself, Lawrence. We are her family. We’ve been with her the last twenty years. No one here would do what you’re accusing us of. We need time to investigate. We will find out what happened to Meredith’s magick.”
But her words do little to calm the rising tension between the witches of Banfield Court and Lawrence. I can feel it in the air, an electric charge that sets my teeth on edge. Around me, the other pack members shift on their feet uneasily, their instincts as sharp as mine.
As the arguments grow louder, my mind drifts back to that strange feeling I had in White Fork. The unexplainable pull.
Could it be connected to this?
Or am I just grasping at straws, desperate for any explanation that might make sense of this angry chaos?
But one thing’s for certain—nothing’s going to be the same in the Banfield coven now.