Chapter 39
It’s amazing what a difference a day can make.
Yesterday, when I left Henbane, the place was ablaze with activity, traumatic though it was.
But now when I drive up to coven property, it has a derelict, condemned look to it.
No chimney smoke rises from the Witchery, the on-campus café, no colored magic hangs like a haze in the air, and the lamps, which would be lit on a dreary day like this, remain off.
And just as I imagined, the front gates are closed and padlocked.
I exhale, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as a light drizzle patters against my car.
Do I force my way in or—?
I glance over at Nero, who sits perched on the front passenger seat. He looks over at me and blinks, and I’d like to say we share a look, but I’m pretty sure the big cat cares more about the dirt under his claws than our current situation.
It turns out, however, that it doesn’t matter.
That’s because while I’m contemplating my next move, the padlock falls open, and the chain holding it together unwinds itself from the wrought-iron bars.
Slowly the gates swing inward, and the newly closed school is open once more.
I roll the car in, and out of habit, I park near my residence hall.
I pull my jacket tight around myself as Nero hops out of the car, the drizzle dappling us. I cast a wayward glance at Ravensmeade. The building is definitely more solemn and gloomy now that there isn’t an influx of women coming and going from it.
There are still signs that witches were recently here—there’s a broom still leaning against the house, and a nearby lamppost is covered in a striped pole warmer one of my coven sisters must’ve knitted for it.
But there’s no remaining evidence that only last night, dozens of witches nearly bled out inside the house.
My throat constricts at the memory, along with the grim reality that I might not see them ever again.
Blowing out a breath, I head out across the grassy lawn, Nero at my side. My skin grows cold as the rain soaks into my layers, and I place a warming spell first on Nero, then on myself to keep us toasty in spite of the drizzly weather.
Together, the two of us make our way behind Morgana and Cauldron Hall, past Beldame Library before we cut toward the Everwoods.
It’s only after we’ve skirted around Last Rites Cemetery that, in the distance, I finally spot the high priestess’s house.
It’s just as enchanting as I last remember, with climbing roses and boughs of wisteria clinging to the pale stone walls of the great house.
Nero and I follow the path leading up to the front door, and I’m not at all surprised this time when it swings open of its own accord.
Inside, the high priestess’s home is much like I remember it—minimal, save for the primeval goddess figurine resting in a nearby alcove.
I don’t bother to peer around or wander farther into the house, not when I spot the open trapdoor in the floor of the entryway, the same one I descended into the last time I visited this place.
I turn to Nero to share another look, but the little traitor is already heading down the steps.
I have got to talk to him about plunging headfirst into subterranean spaces.
I follow after him, the smell of earth rising up to meet me the deeper I descend.
As soon as the subterranean room comes into view, I see the high priestess is already waiting for me. She sits at the far end of the space, her white raven perched on her shoulder.
She’s still as beautiful and strange as I remember, with her feathery white hair and dark, piercing eyes. The kind of eyes that hold power.
“You’re wondering why I’ve asked you to come,” she greets me as I enter the room. Nero is already waiting for me by an empty wooden chair.
I don’t bother asking how the high priestess knows what she does. She has that spooky crone thing going for her. Even as our bodies age, our magic strengthens, and Henbane’s high priestess has been steeped in magic for Goddess knows how many decades.
I give a small nod in answer to her question.
“I will tell you all in good time.” She gestures to the plain wooden chair across from her. “Sit.”
I take a seat, my hand moving to Nero’s head. My panther stares at the raven, and he has the audacity to lick his lips.
The high priestess tilts her head. “I can hear them, you know.”
The animals?
I draw my brows together. “I’m sorry? I don’t under—”
“Sugapva amage,” she says.
Ancient queen.
I stiffen, going cold all over at the sound of the Sarmatian words falling from her lips.
“The Hungering Ones?” I breathe.
“Mmm,” she responds, which I’m taking for yes.
“They don’t talk to me,” she continues, “not really, but sometimes I hear them whispering. It’s mostly nonsense, but they’ve been louder and more restless as of late. It seems they are looking to reclaim something they lost.” She raises her eyebrows, her look meaningful.
I swallow.
“Though they have their tricks,” she continues, “it is worth knowing that they cannot simply take what they want. They are bound by rules older than even our magic—what they yearn for must be given to them. Blood, bodies. Souls.”
“Is this why you called me in?” I say, my voice pitched low.
She gives a subtle shake of her head, those pensive eyes of hers fixed on me.
“You have been causing all sorts of mischief since you arrived,” she states.
“I’m sorr—”
She holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize. We witches are mischief makers. It is in the blood.
“Besides,” she continues, “you’ve helped far more than you’ve harmed. That is more than I can say about many of our sisters as of late.” She leans forward, almost conspiratorially. “You’ve helped unravel quite the knot of bonds.”
She knows about that?
The look she gives me is sly. “Your mate is still untangling it, from what I hear.”
I force my features to go blank, but I’m surprised—and more than a little horrified that she’s aware of this. After all, if she knows Memnon’s breaking the bonds, then she likely also has some idea of how he’s doing it.
Namely, killing people and only sometimes reviving them.
The high priestess stares at me for a long moment. “He’s only going to get worse,” she says meaningfully. “You know this just as you knew it once, long ago.”
Her words stack like stones in my stomach. I feel queasy. So queasy.
Bloody crones, intuiting things they have no business intuiting.
“But he is the monster needed for the moment, isn’t he?” the high priestess continues. “There are so many bad men out there. Bad men, bad women, bad fae…”
My fingers tense in Nero’s fur. “What did you say?”
Her eyes sweep over the walls of the room.
“Funny how we can fly through the air—some us of can even manipulate ley lines—and yet we still need our persecution tunnels for the devils that come for us. And they always do come for us. Humans, fae, demons, even other witches. We are both sacred, powerful creatures and yet so very vulnerable to the whims of wicked beings.”
I feel like this woman could really do with a coffee buddy.
Her dark, intense eyes resettle on mine. “She wants a proper throne.”
Who?
The question is on the tip of my tongue, but the look the high priestess levels me with has the word withering away before I can voice it.
You know who, her eyes seem to say.
Eislyn.
“She breeds men like horses,” the high priestess states. “You ruined centuries of meticulous planning, but alas, her moment rises again. The last ruler of the Flora Kingdom is now fertilizer. A regent rules while the throne remains unclaimed. But it won’t remain so.
“You know she wants it. She has always wanted it, and she will act soon. You must be prepared.”
The hairs on my arms rise.
This is the reason she called me in, I realize.
I lean forward in my seat. “What does she need to do to become queen?”
“The Flora Kingdom houses a vault full of scrolls. Each one is a judgment made on behalf of the kingdom, and every scroll has been enchanted to enact these decisions. Burn the scroll, and not only will the spell placed on it be destroyed, the judgment itself will be no more.”
My mind races at her words. So Eislyn wants to destroy the scroll with her banishment on it. As long as she cannot get ahold of that scroll, she won’t be able to cross over into the Otherworld and claim the throne.
Of course, she won’t be able to cross over to the Otherworld to fetch and burn this scroll, so this should be a nonissue. But the fact that the high priestess is sitting here telling me this right now makes me think that it is very much an issue.
“I am not all-seeing,” she admits. “If I were, I would never have let death come to Henbane. I see things in the twist of smoke and hear whispers in the earth. It has not been enough to save many of our coven sisters. Maybe this, at least, will be.”
She looks old then. Old and weary and wrung out.
She clears her throat, her spine straightening. “One last thing,” she says. “I hear you’ve been in search of an impossible spell.”
I draw my brows together, unsure what she’s talking about now.
The high priestess’s white raven caws loudly, then leaps from her shoulder and flies across the room. It swoops low and drops a bag it was clutching onto my lap. I startle as I catch the small pouch.
“What is this?” I ask, even as I open it and peer inside.
Within it is a book no bigger and no thicker than my hand. But from it emanates a nauseating amount of power.
So not just a book, a grimoire.
The high priestess rises from her seat. “Read it, and you’ll figure it out soon enough.” She gestures to the stairs, my not-so-subtle cue to scram.
I cinch the pouch shut and stand, Nero rising alongside me. “Thank you for the meeting,” I say sincerely. My blood is thrumming with all the revelations it brought. “And the book,” I add, holding the bag up a little sheepishly.
She nods, and with that, I turn and head for the stairs.
I’ve just placed my foot on the first step when she calls out, “Oh, and, Selene?”
I pause, glancing back at the high priestess.
“Good luck.”