Chapter 20
20
I CHECK MY hide-the-baby glamour as Rebekah and I hurry to get down to the riverfront, rather than feel that strange pulling sensation the Undine sent out last time.
“I hope this Undine is planning on paying me for time lost,” I mutter, locking my shop up as we step out onto the sidewalk.
“I didn’t expect middle of the day trials, that’s for sure,” Rebekah agrees as we start down Main at a good pace. “Aren’t we supposed to be witches? Whatever happened to blood rituals in dark forests beneath a sullen night sky? Or bubbling cauldrons and children getting eaten in gingerbread houses?”
“Disney,” I say.
We look at each other and laugh like we’re fifteen again.
Just for a breath or two.
After a few moments, we see Emerson and Jacob are walking down the street toward us, holding hands as Emerson inspects the Apple Extravaganza boughs on the streetlamps, no doubt already planning the upcoming switch over to Samhain/Halloween cornstalks. Georgie wanders along behind them as if distracted by voices in her head, shiny lights, or the book she’s clutching to her chest like a security blanket. The ghosts are with them.
Emerson’s smile is broad and bright, but that Confluence Warrior deep inside is a little on edge, I’d say. Maybe that’s why she’s allowing Jacob the uncharacteristic PDA when usually, she’s about as private as you can get without locking yourself away.
“Long time no see,” I murmur in Elizabeth’s direction when she wafts up next to me.
“You seemed occupied last night, child.”
I choose not to answer her, and if I’m not mistaken, her ghostly mouth curves.
By the time we make it to the grassy riverbank, no one is saying much of anything. Frost and Zander make their way up from the ferry dock, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who sees the way the crowd parts for them, muttering following along as they walk.
The crowd isn’t as big as it was the other night, but the Undine did say something about a broadcast . I guess no one needs to be here in person unless they’re us...or have a burning desire to watch the Joywood crush us in real time.
I assume that’s the reason most of the people I recognize are standing here near the statue today. It’s like a witch cage match.
Emerson marches right up to the dais, so we all follow. Zander falls into place beside me so easily, it almost feels choreographed.
Or just right.
Long time no see , he says in my head, as he slides his arm around my waist. He speaks where only I can hear him, and feel him, everywhere. He uses the same words I said to Elizabeth, but that feels less like synchronicity and more like weird ghost echoes.
What I should be focusing on is that everyone can see the affectionate way he holds me next to him. I shouldn’t allow it.
Just like I shouldn’t let him in my head. It’s too intimate. It feels like much more than it is. I need to block that up again, no matter what he said about life and the rest of it earlier. I promise myself I will. Soon.
Right now I have to dance attendance on a living statue in the middle of the day. I look around and see some humans taking a walk along the river, though St. Cyprian is too enchanted for them to see anything of import. They’ll think it’s just community theater. Eccentrics putting on a show.
Some of them might even come over to watch, never realizing the “play” they think they’re watching is real life, with real consequences.
We haven’t had any time to prepare , Emerson complains in all our heads, where no one, not even a stray human passerby, might hear that the youngest chamber of commerce president in the town’s history isn’t 100 percent ready for whatever might be happening.
That means they haven’t had any time either , Jacob points out.
Trust that regardless of the Undine or any attendant protections, the Joywood are prepared. Frost this time, in his role as the voice of doom.
Rebekah aims a tight smile and a rolled eye at me as if to say, that’s my man .
Then, proving Frost’s point, the Joywood appear out of nowhere—risky in full daylight when humans are about—and process toward the Undine. Like they’ve practiced this very thing all their lives. They don’t climb up on the dais so much as smooth themselves there, and then arrange themselves in a pattern that gives the impression of a rune without actually being anything but a bunch of people standing about. They look out, regally, to our witchy spectators and incline their heads here, there.
All that’s missing are the scepters , I say on our coven channel.
And the odd guillotine , Georgie adds darkly.
“The first trial shall begin,” the Undine says in her booming voice, her moonlit eyes making it feel like the sullen woods and dark night Rebekah and I were just bemoaning.
You’d think a town full of witches would turn away from the word trial , given the chance , I offer to the group.
Zander laughs, his arm still casually around my waist. Which is the trial I should be concerned with as we stand in front of a group of judgy St. Cyprian onlookers.
My mother chief among them.
Chairs begin to appear, and we are magically nudged to sit in them, so I don’t have the chance to push him off. He’s pushed off for me. I pretend I’m grateful.
“The first trial demands that each coven demonstrate honesty and transparency to the people it wishes to lead,” the Undine intones in her voice of stone and centuries. “Therefore, each coven will be compelled to tell the truth to those who challenge you. The rules are thus. The opposing coven will ask three questions. One representative from the receiving coven will answer. These answers must be the truth. Lies will be broadcast across the world and called what they are.”
How? Georgie wonders in our coven channel.
Magic, Georgie , Rebekah replies dryly.
The statue is still intoning into the early October sunshine . “Whatever representative answers will ask the next question of the opposing coven. Be warned that there will be limited time to react and talk amongst yourselves. As the ruling coven, the Joywood may ask the first question. The trial has thus begun.” The Undine’s eyes dim as if that’s a sign she’s handed over the metaphorical microphone.
“You must be careful, Ellowyn,” Elizabeth warns me. “The truth is important, but the Joywood and their ilk will twist it. You must all be clever.”
Carol stands up immediately, clearly already prepared for this.
She knew what was coming , Emerson says, outraged, to the rest of us.
What I think is that Elizabeth is correct. And that means I really do need to be careful here. We all do.
Before I can pass that on, Carol speaks, her voice carrying out over the small crowd without her seeming to try. This is one of her party tricks. What astonishes me is how good she is at all of them.
“Your so-called Warrior ,” and Carol imbues this word with enough inflection, and a knowing eye roll with her coven to make it clear that she does not approve of Emerson’s designation, “and self-proclaimed leader draws a lot of...” She trails off, pretending to search for a word, with that tittering laugh of hers I have always hated. “ Mixed reactions from the public she claims to want to serve. She can be abrasive . I think that’s a kind word for it.” She turns that stone-cold glare, chilly enough to rival the Undine herself, on Emerson. “Emerson Wilde, self-styled Confluence Warrior , how do you justify wanting to lead people who clearly don’t even like you?”
Because everyone is such a fan of Carol’s? Rebekah’s voice is dark and irritated.
The difference is, no one is afraid of Emerson , Georgie retorts hotly.
I’m not afraid to get up there and list all the reasons we should lead , Emerson says at once.
Elizabeth floats in front of her as if to stop her, though Emerson can’t see the ghost, but Zander can. He grabs his cousin’s wrist. Wait, Em.
“The rules are that your coven gets to choose who answers,” Elizabeth tells me. “Just because Carol directed her question at Emerson doesn’t mean she is required to answer. It should be you , who cannot lie. That sends a message.”
I blink once, taken aback. Then, without thinking it through, my gaze darts to Zander. He’s still holding on to Emerson. He looks at me and nods. A nonverbal go ahead .
But...
I should answer it. I can’t believe I actually put that out there to my coven. Public speaking isn’t my thing for a lot of reasons, but Emerson certainly can’t get up there and defend herself. It can’t be her sister or her cousin or her best friend. It can’t be her fiancé. All of those relationships that in my mind undercut any accusations anyone might throw at her are what the Joywood will use to make her look suspicious.
Elizabeth is right. It should be me.
I should answer , I say more firmly this time. Everyone in this audience knows I can’t lie. Besides, Carol wants Emerson to answer, and I think we can all agree that we don’t want to give Carol what she wants.
Everyone looks at one another. Then slowly, every single member of my coven gives me a nod.
So I have no choice but to stand and watch the Joywood’s expressions harden when I do. Ever so slightly, but they all do it. You’d have to know where to look, maybe—at Maeve’s pinched lips, or Carol’s clenched fist, or the deep line across Felicia Ipswitch’s forehead.
Point one for me and Elizabeth.
I face the crowd, because that’s who these answers are for. The people who are going to choose who leads come Samhain, not the ruling coven who have hated me since before my birth. My hands threaten to shake, but like every time I was forced to give a speech in high school, I find my mother in the crowd. Her gaze meets mine.
I can never disappoint my mother, no matter what I do. Her violet gaze is all love, and I know this is what has gotten me this far. Knowing she loves me, and she will think I’m amazing no matter what I do.
I vow then and there to be that for my daughter.
In order to do that, I need to survive. That means I have to play this game.
“I’ve heard what some of you like to say about Emerson,” I begin, and my voice is strong. Because this is about what’s right, and there’s nothing hard about speaking this truth. “In whispers and behind hidden hands. Loudly and proudly when she’s in earshot, but not to her face, right? You fancy yourselves so polite, almost friendly, keeping it behind her back.”
There are some uncomfortable shifts in chairs in the audience. I don’t smirk, though I want to.
“Emerson Wilde has been a champion for all of you,” I continue. “All of you sitting here—including the Joywood, who stripped her of her magical memories improperly ten years ago—have watched Emerson dedicate her entire life to this town and the people in it, magic or no. Maybe the world doesn’t know that, but St. Cyprian does. Maybe you don’t like the fact that she’s confident, that she isn’t afraid to call people out, that she has a plan and sees it through.” I’m warming to this now. I let my voice ring out like its own bell. “Maybe that’s a little confronting for those of you who’d rather hide behind your hands and tear down things rather than build them up. Maybe it’s a bit confusing for those of you who have been taught that in order for a woman to be powerful, she has to be demure and accommodating. That a woman can’t be too much , heaven forbid. Maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe you were taught that confidence in a woman is all wrong , and you never thought to ask who that benefits. I’ll tell you—not women.”
I don’t dare glance back at Emerson. This is way more honest than I want to be with anyone alone , much less in front of a crowd. But the truth is the truth.
Emerson doesn’t deserve the hate she gets around here. She never did.
“Emerson Wilde loves this town, and she will fight harder than anyone for who and what she loves,” I continue, letting my gaze drift from one familiar face to another in the crowd, noting who looks away and who doesn’t. “She proved it every day she tried to improve this town without the magic that was her right and her due. She proved it when she dove into the confluence and beat back a flood with the magic she was told she didn’t have.”
I let that settle, then go in for the kill. “No one will ever like their leader one hundred percent of the time. A leader’s function isn’t to be liked . It’s to be honest, and honorable, and true. Dedicated to the best possible outcome for all of us, and that is Emerson Wilde in a nutshell. So, Carol, that is how we justify being part of Emerson’s coven, and thanks to her, this bid for ascension.” I look at the Undine. “Thank you.”
Her eyes glow back at me, terrifying to behold. I can’t look away. “The next question is yours.” I try to move back to my seat, but I’m held in place. “You must ask the next question. Now.”
Now? Like there’s some kind of time limit? What should I ask?
There are too many competing voices in my head, drowned out by the Undine’s loud countdown. Five, four, three—
“Have any of you engaged in black magic?” I blurt out. Because we know they do. Why not ask them here, where they have to tell us?
Felix Sewell, the Joywood’s Healer, stands immediately. His voice booms out, almost shaking with sincerity. But my mother has always sniffed dismissively when his name is mentioned and made sure we saw other Healers for our witchy needs.
“I can honestly and with conviction say, I have never in all my life partaken of any magic I knew to be anything but good and pure, not black.” He nearly sputters, such is the force of his indignation. “The temerity of these upstarts to accuse us of such a thing is despicable .”
He said I . So he just means him, Rebekah says.
Jacob sounds pissed, a new sound from our calm, steady Healer. They’re evading the question.
Should we point that out? Emerson asks.
“No,” Elizabeth says. Like she can hear our coven’s inner workings, although that shouldn’t be possible. When I give her a quizzical look, she shrugs. “Blood is a funny thing.”
Elizabeth says no , I tell them.
I don’t share that she heard them. We don’t have time for that.
The Joywood must ask their next question. Felix specifically, and he’s more than ready. The moment the Undine’s eyes take on that glow, he jumps on it, glaring at us from across the dais.
“How do you expect the people of St. Cyprian, the citizens of the entire witch world, to trust an immortal when we all know that only evil things can be done for immortality?” he demands.
“Former immortal,” I mutter. This is a mistake. Apparently, muttering means choosing to answer the question. The Undine keeps me in place, and it seems no one else can speak for us now that I’ve started. Shit.
I glance at Frost. His expression is unreadable, but the fact of the matter is, they’re right. A long time ago, he must have done something bad to be immortal for so long. We all know that’s how it goes. Despite that, a short time ago, he sacrificed it all.
For love.
He even admitted his sins while he did it, but naturally everyone’s acting like that part didn’t happen.
“We’ve all made mistakes,” I say carefully. “I, for one, can’t claim perfection, and I’ve only been on this planet for twenty-eight years. Can you imagine the kind of mistakes you’d make if you’d been around for two thousand? Yes, Frost once did something terrible, a long time ago. He also did something just a few months ago. He risked his very long, very powerful life to protect us. And I don’t just mean the Riverwood. I mean all of us. Frost knows what the Joywood are capable of, and if you think the way he got his immortality is shady, then you should remind yourselves what he said at Litha.”
I don’t need a reminder, because I can pull up his words from a few months ago without even trying.
“Maybe some of you missed it. He told us the Joywood discovered how they could make that power too big, too vast, to be challenged. In order to wield that power, they need immortality.”
I hear the murmurs from the crowd. I see the fury in the gazes of the Joywood across from me and wonder if part of the summer’s quiet was erasing people’s memories of this.
So I keep going. “He told us, ‘Nothing can change what the Joywood have done or will do if you do not stop them.’ Right before the very blood oaths he took struck him down for breaking them, in service to St. Cyprian instead of to himself, he told us very clearly, ‘If they succeed, they will be immortal. And you will all be slaves. You are already halfway there.’” I laugh as I gaze out at the crowd, at the world. “I know which is more likely to keep me up at night.”
Frost’s expression betrays nothing, as expected, but Rebekah’s eyes are full. She’s sitting next to him, her thigh pressed to his, and she smiles at me in a way that makes my own eyes feel prickly. All he does is incline his head, maybe a centimeter. A very grudging thanks .
I think he means it.
I let out a shaky breath. I think we’re doing okay. The Joywood haven’t messed up either, but they’re not blowing us out of the water. I haven’t failed in this.
Now I have to ask another question. Quickly. Something damning. I look at Elizabeth, but she and Zachariah are having an argument about crows , of all things. I glance at Zander.
And I know.
“You guys speak of trust, but the flood that overtook the confluence and nearly drowned the whole town had to be stopped by us . Meanwhile, Summoners are dying early. Far too early. Yet there have been no attempts by you, our leading coven, to address or solve these very pertinent issues. Why?”
Maeve steps forward this time, all smirking delight, and I know this means my question didn’t hit the mark. My heart sinks.
“There are lots of things going on behind closed doors. In an effort to maintain safety , Ellowyn, we can’t broadcast everything we do.”
“Sounds like a lack of transparency to me,” Frost says idly.
“Questions only, covens,” the Undine warns. “Only from the designated questioner.”
Maeve’s smirk deepens. She meets my gaze across the dais as she gears up to ask her question. Or drop her bomb, more like.
“I hate to bring this up.” She clasps her hands together and sends a sorrowful look out to the crowd. The tutting is implied. “But the leadership of St. Cyprian is about protecting witches against humankind. This Riverwood coven, such as it is, has a human amongst them.” Maeve shakes her head at me as if I sadden her. I accept that I probably do, but she’s still going. “Ellowyn, do you really think you’re witch enough to lead ? Shouldn’t that be left to the full-blooded, truly magical among us?”
Zander shoots to his feet. I shake my head at him, because I know the thing he’s best at is blazing temper, and other, more private things, and this is not the place for either—
He doesn’t wait for anyone’s permission. He dives right in.
“As the Guardian of the Riverwood, and a member of a family who have protected St. Cyprian since its inception, I have a unique understanding of the threats we face from the outside world. I know that across this realm and the next, there are plenty of witches who have human blood.” He pauses, and I remember him on high school football fields, playing to the crowd. I know that’s what he’s doing now—making sure that every witch out there with any drop of human blood will choose him. Us. He turns that thunderstorm gaze of his on our opponents. “As the ruling coven, the Joywood have always impressed upon us the importance of the pubertatum as the evidence of our power , not the purity of our blood. It seems a little disingenuous to be worried about it now.”
Carol opens her mouth—we all see it—but something happens. I don’t know if it’s from the Undine or her own coven, but she cannot respond.
Like she tried to lie and couldn’t.
I know the signs.
Carol looks absolutely incandescent with rage, but she isn’t the one who speaks. Surprise, surprise, it’s Maeve again.
“You don’t expect people to trust the man who’s impregnated a human,” she asks, pretending to mutter beneath her breath, but each word carries. Enough that a shocked murmur goes through the crowd.
Just in case people weren’t staring at me before.
“Enough.” The Undine’s scolding tones ring out so loud even the Joywood wince. Maeve’s wretched pigeon ducks back into her panda purse. “You have asked your three questions, Joywood coven. You may not ask another. Riverwood, your last question.”
It has to be Zander. His gaze cuts to mine. He looks fierce and beautiful, and I feel the force of his fury even though I know he’s not directing it at me. I want to reach out to him, but something holds me perfectly still on my seat.
Zander’s gaze turns to the Joywood. “You speak of safety and concern. You belittle us. Question us. You tear us down. You try to change the course of our lives, and you end others. What have you built ? For St. Cyprian? For the witching world? What have you done for us?”
There’s a whole lot of huffing and puffing from the Joywood contingent. It’s Festus who rises to speak in response, glaring at his fellow Guardian as if Zander took a swing at him. “ We have kept the witching world on the right course by making sure we are safe from the likes of immortals and half witches and weakling—”
He’s cut off, and I get the sense it’s from Carol, who’s frowning deeply and disapprovingly. Because Festus’s outburst looks a little desperate. It almost, almost proves Zander’s point.
Is it enough?
“The questions have been asked,” the Undine tolls. “The answers have been given. All who wish to may know what was said here, truths only, and let it inform their decision come Samhain. You are released, witches. Until the next trial.”
Once again, she is nothing but a statue. In the back of the crowd, the bewildered-looking tourists clap.
The witches in the crowd begin to drift off. Mom makes a production of standing, then marching over to us along with a few other people we already know support us. A handful of people trudge over to the Joywood too.
It looks like the same lines we drew at Litha.
Still, I notice Susan Martingale, famous for confronting Emerson about the state of the flower boxes along Main Street every spring, look over at us with a question in her eyes. It makes me wonder if we might have started to turn the tide.
Emerson’s wide grin tells me she thinks so.
Mom squeezes my arm as I climb down off the dais. Then she does the same to Zander. We both look at her like she’s lost her mind.
“Good job, kids,” she whispers.
I look back at the Undine. The light’s still out. She’s nothing but stone as the clouds roll in above us. I want to feel a sense of victory, but I can’t.
Emerson, on the other hand, sees this as a win. She claps her hands together as she jumps down to stand with us. “You guys. You did so good.”
“I think you’re supposed to hate us and be mad you didn’t get the spotlight to yourself, evil narcissist that you are,” Zander returns lazily.
Emerson laughs and pulls us into a swaying hug before quickly releasing us. “ That was amazing. Now, back to work, Riverwood. We’ll celebrate over dinner.”
Then she’s marching off toward town and the bookstore and the last day of her Apple Extravaganza. Jacob trails after her. Georgie, I see, has found that boyfriend of hers I keep forgetting about.
“Do we think that Sage is good enough—” I begin in an undertone.
“No,” Tanith replies at once, before I finish the question.
Then, before I can sidestep it, think to stop it, do literally anything , Zander drops a kiss to my mouth. Quick and casual. In front of everyone .
“See you later,” he says as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.
Then he walks off toward the ferry again, Frost with him, while Coronis, Nicholas’s ancient raven familiar, and Storm fly in lazy circles above.
I stand, frozen in what I would love to tell you is pure fury, all-consuming rage, call it what you want. But it’s none of those things.
Not even when he looks over his shoulder and smirks at me, which he knows I hate.
Rebekah doesn’t even try to hide her laugh. My mother’s face is conspicuously blank. I want to scowl, but I can’t seem to manage it as I mutter a goodbye to Mom and let Rebekah pull me back up the riverbank to Main Street.
I glance back and catch Maeve’s eye. The look she sends me is pure evil. Hatred amped up about as far as it can go. I brace myself against the nasty slap of magic I see coming when her lips move, but nothing lands.
That’s when I remember that we’re protected by the Undine. By the ascension rules.
I want to believe that will keep us safe and well through Samhain. I glance at Elizabeth beside me, and her gaze is on Maeve as well. She looks concerned. Deeply concerned.
Until she catches me looking at her. Then she smiles.
Bright enough to remind me that hope is a dangerous thing, with treacherous fangs.
And winning battles hardly means winning the war.