Chapter 8
C HAPTER 8
AUDEN
The finality of it all roars in my ears.
My grandmother is dead. The High Sorcerer of the Four Lines, the woman at the heart of our brand of modern magic in North America, is dead.
Murdered.
That word sticks in the storm roiling through my brain. My vision is glassy with a scene I can’t shake: Ursula’s mottled face, skin taut and thin as a crepe. No spark in her eyes. No breath in her lungs. Her power fled—gone back to the night, the earth, the ley lines spidering beneath.
The great Ursula Hegemony suddenly just a weight in my arms.
I feel as if I might be sick.
We’re in Ursula’s third-floor study, my vision spinning. I grip the ornately carved lip of the desk. Winter is right there beside me, sniffling and shaking in a way she can’t lessen despite the fact her arms are wrapped around her body as tight as they will go. The slamming of the double doors snaps me to my senses. I let go of the desk and straighten, my expression immediately impassive—the picture-perfect Hegemony.
Evander leads the Blackgate girls into the room from the now-sealed entrance. He lights the hearth with a fingertip as he directs the sisters toward the bookshelves, where they take up residence behind the high back of the reading chair Ursula loved more than any jewel in her extensive collection. The sisters gape at the study, blinking at the final trappings of Ursula—the newly wilting plants upon the massive desk, the quilt draped over the back of the chair at their elbows, the towering collection of magical tomes glittering with gold-leaf spines—the ghost tour they’d joked about coming to fruition in the worst way possible.
This room is Ursula’s spirit more than any other.
The other High Families are already arranged, spread apart in clusters and facing the desk. The Cerises by the fire. The Starwoods toward the center—Luna settled in one of the two guest chairs. It would be proper for the other elder present to claim the remaining one, but Marsyas Blackgate is not in this room.
Evander sweeps toward the front of the study, charging in to direct us, like he did in the garden.
He’s the oathed Hegemony heir. It’s what he’s supposed to do.
But Evander isn’t the only one with a role.
I clamp a hand on my cousin’s very solid shoulder as he rounds the corner of the desk, swiftly cataloging the cabinets and drawers for where to start searching for Ursula’s final directive. “I know where it is.”
My voice is purposefully low as I produce a small key on a whisper-thin chain from beneath the open button of my lavender shirt.
A muscle in Evander’s jaw twitches as Winter closes the gap between us until we form a tight triangle behind the desk, every eye upon us. “You have a key?”
Every High Family has their own way of marking their chosen heir. In the Hegemony Clan, oathed heirs get keys. Evander has had his on the same type of chain since he was sixteen and Ursula made it official. But what he forgets is that though our parents died, the tradition of familial roles didn’t. There is more to a family than an heir.
“I have a key because I’m the executor of Ursula’s estate.”
His broad back to the High Family members, Evander looks as if I’ve actually landed a punch. Winter’s whole trembling posture stiffens, rigid enough it might shatter.
Our guests don’t comment, though they can surely hear what I said. The exchange of interested glances from all three lines is enough. This is the price for keeping secrets from each other—weakness before those who matter most.
But this secret was kept at Ursula’s request. I had to lock it away.
I pull the chain over my head and insert the key into one of the many drawers within Ursula’s desk. She had no need for hidden compartments or even magical protection—fear and power were enough to keep the three of us out of her things, and no one else, not even the staff, had access to this room.
The tumblers turn easily, the drawer opens without a hitch, and there, without any finery or fanfare, is the single page that is the last will and testament of Ursula Hegemony.
Evander looms over my shoulder, peering down at the contents.
A lone line, written in enchanted ink, glittering upon the page: Ursula’s looping signature.
Beneath it are two thumbprints, stamped in blood. One, long and elegant, the other calloused from too much time spent with a lacrosse stick.
I stare at the mark I made more than six months ago now and my chest tightens. The goal for this meeting is the same as before. As always. Exactly as I reminded my cousins as our guests arrived.
Convey what’s important.
Reaffirm Hegemony power.
Scatter to the winds for another three hundred and sixty-five days.
I hold up the will for High Family inspection. Most everyone accepts it as exactly as expected, though Hector decides to lean in as if his personal scrutiny is necessary.
“Would you like to get a better look?” I ask, mildly perturbed but not surprised.
The Cerise patriarch straightens and smooths a hand over the front of his perfectly shellacked hair. It doesn’t move. “No, no. It seems legitimate.”
As if I could fake what is about to come next.
I set the will back flat on the desk, right in the center, where no one’s view will be blocked by Ursula’s plants. The oil task lamp steadily illuminates the page’s contents as I place my right palm on it, my thumb aligned to match with the print I left in Ursula’s blood when she told me of my role and presented me with the key.
A warmth seeps into my hand and the letters of Ursula’s name shimmer. Then, with a glint of jade light and yawning motion, the letters begin slithering like a single snake untangling to reveal it was a nest of asps all along. The mass writhes and wriggles until what was once Ursula’s signature unravels into lines of text upon the page.
Hundreds of words, maybe, all in the same handwriting as before but in a much smaller scrawl. Her signature has reappeared at the bottom, my much less ornate one below it, as executor.
I remove my hand, and, for the second time tonight, Ursula’s voice floods into our ears—from the grave, from the recent past.
“I, Ursula Elvire Muscatel Hegemony, High Sorcerer of the Four Lines, have produced this last will and testament while of sound mind, body, and magic.”
The announcement booms around us, as if the sound waves feed off the fire-warmed air, our awed bodies, the vaulted ceiling of her favorite room in the mansion that had been her lifelong home.
The roaring in my ears subsides to an eerie calm encasing nothing but her words. A chill spreads up my neck. I notice now that this room smells of her, like the mountain wind and new rain. Soil, and verdant life, and the leather and paper of her beloved books.
I close my eyes and focus on the sound.
The words. Her instructions. The last time I will hear her voice.
“In accordance with tradition and magical law, more than one iteration of this last will and testament was written in my hand. Per the particulars of this document’s spell, the executor of my estate, Auden Emerson Hughes Hegemony, will verbally confirm my cause of death as one of the following: natural, accidental, or foul play resulting in murder.”
That word again.
Murder.
As painful as the first time. Perhaps worse. The horror of it grows at the drop-dead period in her pause, building to a chasm over our heads. The crushing weight of it seems to lead the assembled crowd forward, bending them toward the desk like a thread of gravitational pull has split from the earth and is contained in this single sheet of paper.
I swallow. “I confirm the cause of death as foul play resulting in murder.”
The page shimmers yet again and the words grow sharper with this confirmation, each sweep and slash crisping up into focus.
“In the case of my murder, this last will and testament must be read before High Family representatives of each line. If all representatives are present, Auden Emerson Hughes Hegemony will verbally confirm their attendance.”
As I draw in a breath to answer, Evander’s fingers brush my elbow. I know his concern—Marsyas’s absence. But it’s not incorrect to state that the Blackgates have a representative. They have two, even if they’re both underage.
“I confirm that High Family representatives from all four lines are in attendance. Evander Hegemony of the Elemental Line; Hector Cerise of the Blood Line; Luna Starwood of the Celestial Line; Lavinia Blackgate of the Death Line.”
In my periphery, I note the Blackgates exchanging horrified glances. Lavinia is the oldest and therefore the de facto leader of the Death Line, even if she’s not yet oathed as an heir. She should know this.
“With this confirmation, I require each High Family representative to stamp this page with a thumbprint in their blood to seal the magic to each of the Four Lines.”
I return to the drawer that held the will and retrieve four quills, each sharpened to a razor’s edge at the tip. “Representatives, please come forward and add your print to the bottom of the page.”
Hector approaches first, eager as always to adhere to Ursula’s instructions, even in death. He’s pricked his thumb and added his print before Luna has even stood up from her chair. He skids out of the way, leaving room for the Starwood matriarch to add her thumbprint with Infinity’s support.
“Can’t believe I’m the one doing this for you, Ursa,” Luna mutters with a sigh that wracks her entire body as she jabs her thumb as hard as she can next to Hector’s print. “Should’ve been the other way around, you insufferable battle-ax.”
A tear falls in a rolling track down Luna’s weathered ebony cheek. With a sniff, she ignores it and turns away.
Lavinia hesitates as Infinity guides Luna back to her chair.
“Go ahead,” Evander instructs. “It’s tradition for a family member to be last.”
More timid than I’d expect, Lavinia swallows hard before finally stepping forward to the desk and the will, spun around to face her instead of me. She stares down at the paper, clean save for the lines of magic inked and four thumbprints.
“Are you sure I should be doing this?” she asks me, quietly. “Nona—”
“Nona isn’t here. The magic requires a signature. Oathed heir or not, it’s expecting yours.”
Lavinia’s dark eyes widen at my tone, which is perhaps a bit harsh. But I won’t snuff out the spark of anger in my belly at this break in expected protocol. I’m the one trying to survive going through the motions, the least she could do is respect them.
Point taken, Lavinia grabs the third quill, stabs her right thumb, and presses the pad next to Luna’s print. She returns to her sister without another word.
Evander spins the will toward where the three of us stand in a line behind the desk. With a decisive jab, he pricks his thumb and punches it to the bottom of the page. The moment the blood seeps into paper, the warmth of the magical seal flashes through my own veins.
There’s a flurry of movement as everyone in this room accepts the spell that binds us to the remainder of this last will and testament. The Starwoods hold hands, the Cerises stand at attention, the Blackgates watch each other, cheeks pale and mouths pulled taut. Winter’s fingers flex beside mine, and Evander closes his eyes in tight acceptance.
When it’s through, I place my hand again to the will, and Ursula’s final testament plays on, magically satisfied.
“In the event of foul play in my demise,” Ursula announces with the same cold precision she’d use to adjust Chef Maggie’s weekly grocery list to match the season, “the contents of my last will and testament have been altered to suit the situation at hand.”
A new ripple runs through the looping scroll of enchanted ink. What had been sharpened in the previous pass is darkened further, now a rich black.
We all know what’s coming next. The confirmation of a penalty that predates Salem.
“The first request of my last will and testament is in accordance with Four Lines magical law. Within three days’ time, you must investigate my murder and punish the responsible party. For clarification of this deadline, this spell recognizes the day of my murder as day one, ending at midnight.”
The clock on the mantel has just struck nine. That gives us fifty-one hours to investigate Ursula’s murder, try, and punish the witch responsible.
There’s a shifting in the assembled crowd as the eleven of us remaining accept this.
The Cerises speak in low tones. Infinity adopts Luna’s resigned expression. The Blackgates are bent together, wordlessly running through an entire fretful conversation built on facial expressions, hands twined yet again.
My cousins react too. Winter with a wheezing inhale, and Evander with a roll of his shoulders, one hand firmly clasping the opposing wrist in front of his body—a stance meant to be intimidating. I know Evander has likely been mentally planning the investigation since reality set in, expecting to oversee it all. That’s futile too. For all the forced politeness between the families, with what’s on the line, no one will let him do so without a reminder that he is a suspect too.
Ursula begins again. “My second request concerns the successor of my title as High Sorcerer of the Four Lines.”
Evander straightens next to me, like a would-be knight waiting for the tap on the shoulder from the king’s sword that makes his ascension real. “In the event of foul play in my demise,” Ursula repeats, “the details of succession have changed per magical law. The Hegemony Clan and the Elemental Line forfeit the transfer of the title of High Sorcerer to an immediate family member. The Hegemony Clan cedes automatic control of the Four Lines and the power therewith to the ultimate holder of the four master relics.”
All air leaves the room.
For one thick, unwieldy moment, there’s nothing. Then reality floods in, Evander’s voice the first coherent sound.
“That can’t be right.”
Evander’s delivery is stiff, his whole powerful body deflating as he tries to force the words into the utter silence that’s fallen in Ursula’s study.
The master relics—commonly called “the masters”—are exactly what made Ursula Hegemony the most powerful witch in North America and one of the most powerful witches in the world.
What will make someone in this room one of the most powerful witches in the world.
They’re the keys to the Four Lines, funneling and amplifying our magic into the type of power that secretly keeps the world running, and keeps the Four Lines rich enough to buy, break, and bully anyone or anything who would expose our secrets.
“These relics have been installed on the Hegemony Manor estate since the rule of High Sorcerer Shadrack Zebulon Gradefon Hegemony.”
That means they’ve been in place for a hundred years at least. Perhaps more. The land was purchased by Shadrack in 1881 and added onto summarily since then until it totaled the ten thousand acres that it is at this very moment. The house was built over the next decade and then renovated time and again. Though, the master relics have been in our family much, much longer.
The consolidation of the masters and control of the lines have been under Hegemony aegis since Mercy Abigail Hegemony—neé Hedgewidge—saved the Four Lines from both the witch hysteria of the 1690s and the power-hungry designs of Napoleon Demont Cerise, who tried and failed to destroy all types of witches but his own.
The masters are crucial to the Four Lines of magic, yet they’re a mystery to which only the High Sorcerer is privy. I’ve never seen a master—no one here has. I don’t know what they are or where they are. I only know that by holding all four we can feed each line from a central location and enforce the protections that have kept our magic—and our witches—safe.
Evander gathers himself, his feeble protest giving way to something with breath and anger and logic behind it. He’s still arguing like she hasn’t spoken. “There’s no magical law that changes an inheritance in the event of foul play. If that were the case—”
He’s cut off by Ursula’s voice, continuing.
“Clues as to the master relics’ locations and forms will be provided subsequently one at a time. The first clue will appear at the conclusion of this reading on this very same paper. Once the relics are gathered, the holder of the four will earn the ring signifying the title of High Sorcerer concerning the Four Lines until the event of their death. All families will retain control and representation of their individual lines of magic no matter who assumes the title of High Sorcerer.”
That means Evander’s inheritance as Hegemony patriarch and the head of the Elemental Line hasn’t changed. Only his chance to control all Four Lines is affected.
After a pause, the paper beneath my hand shifts again.
“I am sure every family and every person present will have their own opinions about the passage of this title. I would implore this extraordinary group to avoid allowing your personal ambitions to negate the nearly four centuries of cooperation our families have in the enduring and sacred tradition of magic. Find my murderer. Find the relics. You have three days.”