41. A GRAVE ERROR
A GRAVE ERROR
FIFTY WITCHES IN ALL ENTERED RAVEN’S END CEMETERY.
Lazarus and Merle led the way, Embry, Rye, Fairfax, and Ames directly at their backs, the elder members and students clumping according to the explicit orders they’d been given.
In magically hewn bronze, Hiram Woodcross watched them advance upon his grave, knee propped up like an explorer admiring “new” territory, elbows akimbo. As silently as possible, they surrounded the statue and the aboveground stone box that sat behind it.
The tomb lid was still closed.
Embry took care to position herself in line with the point of view Alistair’s vision provided—directly in front of the short end of the grave.
Rye stood to her left, Fairfax (and Ames) to her right.
Daddy was on the far side, the rest of the elders spread out like spokes on a wheel, the younger witches divided between them.
She was the point person—Daddy had agreed to that and strong-armed the rest of the coven into going along with it.
Embry didn’t want anyone but her taking the heat from Balthazar, and she wanted to show the coven that she wasn’t a liability.
She didn’t exactly get them into this mess, but she wanted to get first crack at getting them out of it.
Her heartbeat had picked up now, fast enough that it was matching the pace it had pounded as she and Rye raced back to her house that morning.
Maybe it was so loud Rye could hear it, because he slipped his palm into hers, gave Embry a calming squeeze, and whispered for her ears only, “Whatever happens here, we’re going to prove your innocence. ”
Embry stole a glance at Rye, and the determination in the cut of his chin and softness in his eyes when they connected with hers were enough to make her heart leap into her throat.
This boy—this man—had always been a thorn in her side, her ever-present shadow, the true-north compass she couldn’t escape even when it’d be so much better for her reputation to go south.
He called her out on every last iota of her popular, perfectionist, queen bee bullshit.
He saw the real her, behind the magic, the fashion, the flawless, manicured reputation (RIP, that).
In that moment, Embry Woodcross would choose no one but Rye Knighton at her side.
She could barely believe that she’d spent so much time vexed by him. Because his personality complemented hers so well, he supported her even more, and not only believed in her innocence but sought a way to prove it when no one else would.
Embry squeezed back.
Then, as they’d (hastily) planned, she raised her hands. Rye followed suit, as did the others facing the tomb. Embry began a visible countdown on her fingers. After one, they would cast a collective spell to raise the substantial stone lid.
Five, four, three, two…
The tomb exploded.
Embry stumbled back onto the damp grass as a fireball leaped to the tree limbs and smoke billowed in a fast-moving cloud. Coughing, she got to her feet, waving one hand, muttering a spell to clear the air and her view.
The tomb lid was ajar, just as it had been in the snippet of vision Alistair had shared.
Then Balthazar was there, springing up through the opening and dropping to a crouch on the ground before them. The sorcerer’s head lifted, black hair pomaded to a perfect, glistening shine, and aimed a smug yet still-handsome smile straight at her.
He’d been lying in wait. He knew the coven would be here, that she’d be the one to lead the charge, and he was reveling in it.
Embry immediately gathered magic in her fingertips and shot off a stunning enchantment, just as she’d planned, aiming it straight for the lips she’d once longed to kiss.
But just as in her dorm room, her spell shot through the air—a much-hoped-for chance to subdue Balthazar so his crimes could be laid at his feet—and stopped.
To her horror, the sorcerer used the exact same playbook as before.
Not only that, but fifty adversaries were as easy to control as one. It was impossible and yet…
The hourglass of time ground to a halt as four dozen spells of various potency—from stunning, to burning, to at least one illegal killing spell shot from the direction of a coven elder—nearly collided with the sorcerer.
Instead, they hovered around him, a halo of frozen, ineffectual arrows.
Holding time in one hand, Balthazar used the other to wipe away the attacking enchantments like so many pests. They dropped to the grass, vanishing among the autumn-dormant blades.
His spell was like a thunderclap, encasing them in its invisible power, overwhelming them with a surge of strength from the dark well that Balthazar could access.
A seemingly unlimited power pack, freshly juiced with vampire magic, it was as if he harnessed the power of the sun against each witch’s individual candle flames.
Embry knew then that in the dorm he hadn’t just stopped time for her and Rye in her room, he’d stopped it for the whole building.
Balthazar straightened to his full height, and Embry realized his black leather jacket was back in place, his big boots on his feet, all solid, six-feet-plus of him ready to finish betraying her while looking as utterly delicious as possible.
He knew it, too, taking the time to install his most devilish grin just for her.
“I expected you a day ago, Princess.” The sorcerer shook his head. “Must have taken the walking ascot longer than I’d anticipated to grow the cojones for an apology. So disappointing. Then again, we are feeling mighty refreshed.”
We. Though she was suspended, Embry was sure her heart picked up at that single word, a new thumping rhythm—I was right. I was right. I was right.
Balthazar put two fingers to his lips and whistled. Oh shit.
Suddenly, a burst of movement came from behind Balthazar. Emerging from the grave—or at least appearing as if they did—came a volcanic eruption of people.
All dressed in black. All with hands raised and spells at the ready.
They filled in around Balthazar, pulsing with their own magic.
The power they exuded washed over Embry, warming her skin and stinking of heavy enchantment.
She recalled that very first time she saw Balthazar.
Before she knew what he was, she’d known he was more than magically gifted—he seemed to be built of the stuff. These people were no different.
Sorcerers.
Most of them shared the same Superman/Clark Kent coloring Balthazar wielded like a knife—pale skin, dark hair, eyes so blue they seem to glow.
His family wasn’t abroad. They were right here. On his team. Ready to fight.
Embry had been right about this, too—she’d truly believed he wasn’t in this alone.
Instead of rejoicing, a wave of nausea washed over her frozen form. Balthazar was a cog in a very large, magic-stealing machine. And if they were as powerful as he was, drawing from a well newly replenished with the blood of all those Riddle vampires? Not good.
“Woodcross Coven of Ravenwood,” he announced, stage-ready grin in place, “please meet the Hale Clan of Everywhere and Anywhere We Desire.”
Balthazar spread his arms magnanimously, exchanging looks with several members of the group, all displaying varying shades of his smug braggadocio.
“I know we simply look like pretty faces, but I can tell you right now not a single trick in your witchy book will allow you to defeat us.” His grin became a smirk.
“Not that any of you can do anything at the moment.”
The rest of the sorcerers laughed. Embry yearned for her magic to burst forth from where she was suspended, but just like her body, her power couldn’t move.
Balthazar picked that moment to show off how free he was.
Stepping atop the tomb lid, walking over it as if it weren’t ajar, and hoisting himself onto the platform holding the statue of Hiram Woodcross.
He backed up to the statue, a menacing figure to a curious one, looking down upon them.
“We could just kill each of you while you’re suspended in time,” he announced, positively gleeful. “But honestly, that’s too much like cheating.”
He shrugged, and a few of the sorcerers laughed again.
Embry’s anger burned. In the corner of her eye, she could see a smudge of Rye, mussed hair falling away from his face with the force of his movement as he lunged toward where Balthazar had been.
The anger in her belly was the same kind etched in his profile.
Though she couldn’t get a bead on Daddy, she hoped his reaction was the same.
She hoped every member of the coven flamed with fury.
“We could also simply walk away,” Balthazar continued, making a slow circle around Hiram’s form now, checking his handiwork from all sides, “and leave you grasping for yet another not-quite-easy-to-believe explanation for the Table. But, honestly, we’ve gotten so good at killing vampires that we never get to enjoy a good, old-fashioned brawl anymore.
Just a precise prick of a magical micro needle is all it takes.
” He mimicked clicking a pen—in, out, in again.
“Not to mention it is oh-so-much fun to fight an inferior being who is feeling desperate.”
He’d just admitted to killing vampires. Illegally hunting them.
Oakley. Her family. Very likely others.
Embry feverishly hoped Rye’s cameras had microphones. She honestly couldn’t remember from the video at the police station if they did.
Balthazar finished his revolution of the statue and came to a stop aligned with Hiram’s back once again. Facing Embry. “So, perhaps we’ll let you play with us just long enough to give you something to think about while you wait out your years in the Table’s fine prisons.”
Around him, his family nodded. Grins flashed, fingertips filled with magic pulsed and reset. Knees bent, fighting stances at the ready.
Balthazar’s gaze drilled into Embry. His smile dropped.
Then, with a snap of his fingers, time began again.