Chapter 37
Le rituel
CLAIRE
We trotted past an estate that nature seemed to be reclaiming. Thick, brambly bushes and twisted trees dusted with snow clawed at the outer walls. Dead vines crawled up the sides. It didn’t look like a happy place.
Bastien brought his horse to a halt. In one graceful movement, he dismounted and quickly set about tying Lucien to a tree.
I was so cold and stiff that I could barely shift my weight when I tried to swing my leg over Lucien’s back, and I let out a groan of pain.
Bastien had me by the waist and lifted me out of the saddle like I was a doll.
Our eyes locked as he set me on the ground, and a thrill raced through me, just like it always did when he was close enough to kiss.
Brilliant, warm light from the moon settled on his shoulders.
Diana’s glow made his blond hair look nearly white.
There was something breathtaking about seeing him surrounded by it.
It was difficult to focus on anything except the way he came alive in the garden and here under the moon.
Almost like he was… no, that was silly. I readjusted the hood of my cloak, settling it over my head.
Bastien offered me his arm, and I wrapped my gloved hand around the crook of his elbow. He shortened his long strides so my stiff muscles could keep up. “Let’s get you in front of a fire, then I’ll find something warm for you to drink.”
We followed a stone path around the house to an old family graveyard that was encircled by a tall wrought-iron fence and filled with Dark Witches.
Fear raced up my spine and clawed at my chest. I had to keep it together, no matter how afraid I was.
I was going to give these witches a chance to prove Mama wrong.
Two floating braziers illuminated a sign just above the gate that read, Kemp Family Burying Ground. Another shot of fear had me struggling to draw in a full breath. Ghosts of witches long dead surely lingered, as they lingered in our family plot.
Bastien set a hand atop mine and squeezed. I heard his voice inside my head, offering reassurances that no one would hurt me. But I also felt his emotions: sadness, regret, and nervousness.
I glanced up at him and found he was already staring at me.
It took one look to send my heart skittering around in my chest, but it didn’t quell my nerves completely.
As we passed beneath the gate, I took in the scene.
Most of the witches were dressed in long black robes that hid their faces.
However, some braved the chill and were dancing naked around a bonfire.
Others drank from bubbling cauldrons hanging between marble statues that seemed to watch me.
While others sat on the ground, holding hands, chanting around a lifeless body.
Instead of being a solemn affair, as was the case at our funerals, the graveyard was filled with the sweet smell of dark magick and life.
All kinds of life. There were just as many creatures in the graveyard as there were witches.
Snakes as thick as my arm. Goats. Chickens.
Bats with leathery wings. Owls hooting from atop gravestones.
One white raven squawked from atop a statue, and I watched a curvy witch with long red hair arguing with it to come down.
Acceptance and respect. Those were the values of Roselyn. I wanted to try to be more open-minded than I had in the past. I could accept that they were different from me, even if I was afraid.
When the gates slammed shut behind us, Bastien led me across a path of crushed seashells toward the large fire at the center of the graveyard. We stopped at one of the cauldrons along the way and he handed me a cup of steaming hot liquid. “Drink,” he said.
I couldn’t deny that the warmth of the cup on my hand was very welcome after hours on the back of a horse. But… this was straight from the cauldron of a Dark Witch. She’d probably cooked human bones and flesh inside it before this drink.
I drew in a breath, remembering that I was keeping an open mind. I looked into the cup skeptically. “What is this?”
“It’s sweet cider, chamomile tea, and whiskey. It’ll warm you.”
I forced myself to lift the cup to my lips. The scent was sweet and spicy. I took a sip, allowing the elixir to coat my tongue. The flavors were delicious. Notes of cinnamon mixed with the oaky flavor of the whiskey, but didn’t overpower the floral chamomile.
We continued up the path, nearing the fire, but were abruptly stopped by a witch in a hooded black cloak who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
She lowered her hood, revealing a face that was both terrifying and beautiful at the same time.
Her nose was pointed, her cheekbones razor-sharp, her eyes a strange smoke color, and her hair was as red as the flames.
“How good of you to join us, Your Grace,” she added without a smile, just the slightest curl of her lips.
“You have my condolences, Hera. Your mother was a thoughtful witch and a good leader,” Bastien said. “I hope your reign as matriarch of the Kemp Coven will be just as long and harmonious as hers.”
She lifted her eyebrows and inclined her head toward a giant black spider that was sitting on her shoulder as if they were sharing a private joke. “Harmonious? Yes, of course, Your Grace. It’s what Mother would’ve wanted.”
There was a moment of awkward silence,, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the spider. How could I when its eight beady eyes were staring right at me?
When the witch didn’t seem to have anything else to say, her mouth flattened into a hard line, then she clapped her hands. Everyone stood straight up, even the woman who had been arguing so vehemently with the raven on top of the statue.
“Now that His Grace has arrived, it’s time to begin the ritual.”
A magickal charge pulsed through the air, and I glanced at Bastien, who didn’t seem surprised by this turn of events as every witch in the graveyard joined those chanting around the body, including a great panther that padded forward and laid its massive head on her chest. Witches of the Light didn’t bond familiars.
Seeing animals act like this was… strange, but not unwelcome.
I could imagine an owl or a cute little kitten would be excellent companions.
Hera stood at her mother’s feet and lifted her hands into the air.
Everyone did the same. Everyone… except Bastien and me.
I watched as witches chanted, swaying back and forth. Young. Old. Cloaked. Naked. The smell of magick became so strong I could feel it inside my lungs. Through our connection, I said to Bastien, “What’s going on?”
“Witches of the Darkness have a unique relationship with death. Damien, the God of the Underworld, doesn’t take a witch’s magick when she goes to his lands. Instead, through ritual, the power of the witch who died is passed on to another.”
The chanting rose. Dry leaves whipped around the loose circle that had formed around the body. A sense of dread rolled through me.“You’re not just here to pay your respects. Are you?”
He pressed his lips together, and by the expression on his face, I knew the answer before he said anything at all. “Magick this powerful requires balance.”
The wind howled. The witches beside me were bumping into me as they swayed back and forth. The tide of magick so strong that it penetrated through our connection. “What do you mean?”
Slowly, Bastien’s hand fitted around my jaw, cupping my face like he was fond of doing. Holding my gaze as he contemplated me. I could feel how badly he wanted to tell me everything he was thinking, but there was fear.
Fear… he would… scare me.
“The moon is a flame fed by night. Her shape is made visible because of the darkness.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of his words. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me show you.”
Animals hissed and clucked and screeched and growled.
The chanting was nearly as loud as Bastien’s voice inside my head.
He drew our foreheads together as the chaos unfolded around us and closed his eyes.
Suddenly, an image filled my head, just as it had the other night.
I was standing in a circle with a group of men when a silver cup was pushed into my hands.
The liquid was red and thick and I was ordered to drink it by an old wizened witch.
There was excitement and pride but also… apprehension.
“Prince Bastien!” came the shrill voice from outside the memory. The scene faded away and all that was left was the hundreds of eyes staring at us. “Your Grace, if you will, step forward!” Hera called.
My eyes went wide, my breath refusing to come. “She doesn’t mean—”
“Stay right here,” he said, stroking my cheek. “I’ll be back.”
I covered my mouth with a shaking hand as I watched him cut through the mob of witches with tears in my eyes. What was he doing? What was going to happen to him? I might be trying to accept and respect their ways, but a sudden rush of dread filled me, and I knew he trusted these witches too much.
The bloodstone nestled against my breastbone throbbed like it wanted to be back with its mate.
In the distance, past the fence line, I saw a pair of glowing yellow eyes that seemed to be staring right at me. I didn’t know if it was one of the familiars… or something else.