6. FULL MOON ABOVE
FULL MOON ABOVE
BY THE RISING FULL MOON, EMbrY WAS IN A FABULOUS MOOD. She’d improved on the lives of both Oakley and Jonesy, and it was only Tuesday. It was a job well done.
And then there was the matter of Balthazar. A sorcerer! This was very intriguing to Embry. Which was something Balthazar had likely guessed.
Witches and sorcerers were related in a way, but sorcerers broke off from the line in the days of Merlin, devoting themselves as magic-wielding knights first to King Arthur, then to anyone needing a job done. Like mercenaries, but magical.
It was long rumored that they preferred the darker types of magic—bloodletting, crystal-amplification, animal sacrifice—because it put them ahead in a fight.
There were even rumors that they juiced their magic from an ancient, dark, magical well.
But they were such a secretive sect it was nearly impossible to separate rumors from truth—then or now.
It wasn’t as if anyone needed a magical mercenary these days, but sorcerers still kept themselves apart—kind of like vampires.
They didn’t sit on the Table, didn’t participate at all.
Though powerful and rare, they wanted nothing to do with authority.
Or, well, anyone else. They didn’t form covens like witches because that would mean communing with those outside the bloodline.
Yet, here Balthazar was, charming and slightly dangerous in his James Dean way, and Embry could not stop thinking about him…
or the fact that she really wished he’d ask to attend the next coven meeting. Which happened to be that night.
Technically called the Witches’ Sabbath, the meeting fell each full moon and was marked with a gathering on the grounds of the Woodcross Residence.
The meeting was magically warded with alarms that would sound if anyone not specifically invited were to trip the invisible protection.
Additionally, the estate was cloaked in a soundproof spell to drown out the howls of the Raven’s Head werewolf pack that, for obvious reasons, also met on the full moon.
Per rules designated by the Table during the Great Reckoning, there was to be no beefing between magical subsets, only respect for each group’s formal practice. Thus, soundproofing wasn’t a total must, but it sure went a long way in keeping any possible high decibel irritation in check.
Embry had arrived early, eager to take the first step toward the rest of her witchy life. Once their Ascension mentors were assigned, their road to full membership of the Woodcross coven was paved in four hundred years of tradition and coven secrecy.
Apparently, Embry’s jubilant mood had also extended to her other Ascension class members, Ames and Fairfax, whom Embry found totally sucking face against the statue of Hiram Woodcross at the north gate of Raven’s End Cemetery, just outside the coven wards.
Old Hiram had seen many things—including the actual Salem witch trials—and wasn’t one to wither under the weight of secondhand embarrassment, but the pair of them were leaning so hard on the poor pilgrim that they were most certainly testing the structural integrity of the statue with a couple centuries tacked onto its age.
At least they weren’t defacing his actual grave, which lay behind the statue.
Embry had struck out to see why they were running late—she just didn’t expect them to be like, uh, this.
Ames’s leg inched higher in its position wrapped around Fairfax’s hip, the toe of her ballet flats hooking in the triangle of air created by Hiram’s elbow propped out from his centuries-old body.
The man was positioned as though he were looking out from the bow of a ship onto the new world and not as if he’d potion-drugged half of Salem in order to escape to Maine to avoid a hanging.
His final resting place was set in a raised stone grave behind the statue, the man having died a full fifty years after the conclusion of the trials, and without ever thinking he’d be the convenient locale for getting hot and heavy. Which Fairfax and Ames very much were.
Embry cleared her throat. Evidently, they were going to need a little encouragement to postpone the rest of their make-out session until after official coven business concluded.
With a spell and a snap of her fingers, a giant BOOM exploded across the clearing, as loud as those terrible firecrackers that were all noise no sparkle at the Fourth of July.
Ames yelped, her hands flying off Fairfax’s neck and straight to her ears.
The sudden movement sent her whole body arching except for her right leg, which was stuck between Hiram’s torso and elbow.
Off went the pair’s center of gravity, sending Fairfax lunging forward to save Ames from a back dive onto the late summer grass, barely saving himself with a quick grab of Hiram’s proud shoulders.
“Not to interrupt,” Embry interrupted, “but in four minutes we’re receiving our Ascension mentors and if we’re late, I’ll murder you both and make it look like spontaneous combustion.”
Embry hastily swung her arms in a get-a-move-on motion toward the reflection pentagram carved out of the property’s east woods, aka along the boundary separating Embry’s home and the Knighton Residence.
Fairfax combed a hand through his raven curls, his burnished brown skin flushed as he straightened his vintage suit coat—they did not wear Raven’s Head togs to coven functions. The boy looked dashing even rumpled.
“Not that I don’t doubt your skills, Em,” he ventured, “but you do know there aren’t many natural reasons for spontaneous combustion? It’s not exactly the most stealth and sure way to cover up a murder, especially a double murder.”
Embry tossed her hair, perfectly curled and pinned back with lavender barrettes for tonight’s festivities.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to make it look like a natural occurrence.
I was going to make it look like you blew up while making out.
” She shrugged. “That way when I’m an old maid I can warn all the teens off high school dating because I had a pair of friends who were literally so hot for each other they exploded.
A travesty. Save yourselves from your hormones, children. It’s not worth it!”
“Says the girl who encouraged me to give him a chance.” Ames quirked her very swollen lips to the side. “You’re really taking the studious virgin princess thing to new heights, Em.”
“Why, thank you, Amethyst.”
Fairfax laughed. “Are we totally going to ignore the fact that this little witch”—he tapped Embry on the cheek—“obviously wanted to climb our new resident sorcerer like a proverbial broomstick and go for a ride this afternoon?”
Ames immediately cackled. “Goddess, does he ever have that bad boy thing going. It’s a shame we’re not doing Grease. He has Danny Zuko written all over him, Sandra Dee.”
Embry felt the blush rising, hot in her cheeks, but held firm. Studious virgin princess—that was her. Though, she must admit that even in her mind the word princess could only be pronounced in Balthazar’s smooth, seductive accent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She began hauling them toward the meeting grounds. “Now get your butts up to the pentagram before they decide to delay our Ascension because they believe we’re not taking this seriously.”
Fairfax scoffed, million-dollar smile flashing under a rakish lock curling between his brows. “They wouldn’t do that.”
“Bianca Glazer, 2002. Michael Mixon, 1995. Gianna Tolasco, 1971. Ra—”
“There’s precedence.” Fairfax dropped his head back dramatically. “I get it.”
“Do you?” Embry arched a brow. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go on? I’ve got at least ten more names in my back pocket.”
“Wait, that skirt has pockets?” Ames squealed. “Let me see!”
She did indeed have pockets. Embry slipped her hands in them and gave a twirl. Then she yanked both hands free, cuffed each friend’s forearm, and dragged them bodily through the woods and toward the meeting.