Chapter 24
24
IF WE THOUGHT waiting for the second trial was long, the wait for the third and final trial feels like an eternity. No amount of meetings filled with Emerson’s endless optimism and pep talks, no amount of living our normal lives and running our businesses, no amount of nights with Zander that end, always, in the simple I love you s that still feel like gifts can ease the slow, anxious tick of time.
All we do is wait. Then wait some more.
Any time Jacob is free, we go over the plans for the ritual that will take my blood—carefully and with good, clean magic—to be used in a cure that will keep the rest of the Summoners in the world from dying the way Zelda and too many others already did.
Any time Rebekah and I are together, we work at trying to magic our way into the future, or back into the past, looking for a hint at when the Undine will strike next. We congratulate ourselves on having two members of the same coven with these gifts, as no other coven can. That makes us powerful because it’s safer this way, with both of us to find our way along these sometimes murky pathways forward and back.
Like it should have always been like this.
But no amount of searching gives us those answers. Because the options are infinite . So many paths, twisting this way and that way and back again, that we can’t sort through them all.
Even if we could, I’m beginning to realize it wouldn’t matter.
The choice must be ours. In the moment.
More, of the moment.
I find that frustrating, but this time around, the frustration makes me want to dig in and keep trying.
Now it’s only a few short days before Samhain. I’m part of the group headed to Frost House to search the immortal library for books on old ascensions, dragons, crows, princesses, blood magic wards, or whatever else we think might help.
Or that’s what Georgie and Frost are doing. Rebekah and I are along for the ride to try reaching into the past for lessons from old ascensions. We decide to walk because it’s a crisp, pretty day, and maybe we all also want the opportunity to get outside and breathe the air.
With Samhain nearly upon us, it’s a simple pleasure none of us can take for granted.
Even beneath a deceptively warm late-October sun, St. Cyprian looks suitably ready for Samhain. The Halloween madness spills out everywhere. Cornstalks are tied to lampposts, and jack-o’-lanterns, gourds, and decorations of witches, zombies, and vampires fill just about every storefront. There are crowds all over the sidewalks. Tea & No Sympathy boasts an impressive display of spiderwebs and—special for this year—ghost decorations everywhere. Some creepy old dolls and daguerreotype photos that I told Elizabeth reminded me of her.
She was unamused.
I should get excited for Samhain the way I usually do any second now , but as we walk toward Frost House, the coming holiday only looms like a shadow.
A threat.
Rebekah and I spent hours perfecting the glamour for my new eyes, because there’s no need to advertise that sort of thing to the Joywood. I stopped bothering with the pregnancy glamour. Everyone already knows that .
The four of us walk to the end of Main Street toward the hill that rises up at the end, cresting to a high bluff over the river. The stairs carved into the hillside lead directly to the towering mansion Frost keeps glamoured to look like a dilapidated old house. With enough charms to keep even thrill-seeking humans far away.
The stairs are long and steep, and I’m almost six months pregnant. Or anyway, I tell myself my pregnancy is the reason I’m out of breath, and not the fact I’ve done nothing but eat too much Redbrick pizza and have entirely too much mind-blowing sex most of this month.
At the top, we all slow down to look out at the gleaming rivers. We let the breeze play over our faces, and listen to the song it carries, made of magic and power from the heart of the confluence in the distance. I feel a pang of sorrow for humans, who see two rivers and don’t feel the power of things the way we do. Who see the charming bustle of St. Cyprian down below, but have no idea what it means. What this particular river town stands for, from brick to belfry and back again.
As if a mutual decision was made, we all turn to the house at the same time, but Frost stops, turning immediately and obviously wary.
It says something that I wasn’t aware that his usual aloofness is...him relaxed.
“Something is wrong,” he says quietly. Coronis caws his agreement from above the old Victorian.
“What is it?” Rebekah asks, her hand finding Frost’s automatically.
“I don’t quite know,” he says in that same quiet way, ripe with menace. He scans the house, and it’s clear he’s not just looking . He’s using his magic too. “Every ward and protection is as it should be and yet...” He frowns. “Something isn’t right.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t—”
Before Georgie can even finish the sentence, Frost and Rebekah are gone. No doubt they’ve magicked themselves inside, and it’s not like they can’t take care of themselves. But four is still better than two when there are potentially lethal shenanigans afoot, or so I tell myself. I shrug at Georgie and she sighs, taking my hand so we can follow them in.
We land in the library. Frost stands next to a little cage that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Even as I think that, something about it tugs at me, and I can’t help thinking it should mean something to me.
“Did any of you touch the weasel?” Frost asks.
“Is that a euphemism?” I ask Rebekah, loud enough to make Georgie laugh.
Frost only gazes back at me with the excessive mildness that reminds me he really was the first, best Praeceptor in witch history. He has that vibe. That, yes sir, thank you, I’ll just sit down and be quiet thing.
“Skip,” he says, and it jogs something in my brain. It sweeps out the cobwebs that I didn’t realize were gathered around that name. Skip.
Skip Simon, Carol’s nasty creep of a black magic–loving son, who she makes sure we all keep forgetting.
“Oh,” I say. “ That weasel.” I can suddenly recall broadcasting that weasel’s antics to all and sundry at the last trial. Carol’s memory magic at work. I scowl.
“The weasel is gone.”
Frost’s expression goes dark then, and this is not a teacher thing. This is the kind of dark that makes me understand why witch armies followed him into battle thousands of years ago.
“Maybe he chewed through his cage or something,” Georgie offers, with more hope than certainty.
Frost shakes his head. “The Joywood are the only ones who could skirt the protections I keep on this house, not to mention the wards in this library, without alerting me.” He looks around in that same dark manner. “This bodes ill.”
I swallow at my suddenly dry throat. Frost doesn’t come out and say what ill he means, but I think we can all draw our own conclusions here. Skip bartered in black magic. With blood. He broke every last good witching rule.
If the Joywood have taken him, they must have a reason, and we know it’s not because Carol suddenly cares about the son she made everyone forget last spring. I can’t be the only one who thinks this is the Joywood getting their black magic on.
None of us say it out loud.
“Let’s fly back to Wilde House,” Rebekah suggests after a moment. “Warn Emerson and everyone.”
Frost nods. “Georgie, collect the books we were to use today. The three of you fly back, and I will—”
“No one goes it alone. Not even you.” Rebekah says this briskly. “Ellowyn and Georgie will take the books back. I’ll stay with you and cleanse the house. Add protections.”
He looks as if he might argue, but he doesn’t. He holds Rebekah’s gaze for a long moment, then turns and sweeps off into the bowels of his library, leaving the impression of a witch’s cloak and the like when I know perfectly well the man is wearing jeans and a Henley.
It might not seem like it , Rebekah says in my head. But this is a violation. I think he needs a few minutes alone.
I nod, turning to Georgie, who’s already whispering spells to send a stack of books back to Wilde House.
“Be safe,” we all murmur at each other with a little more urgency than the standard witch farewell usually contains.
Georgie and I link hands again, whisper a protection spell for both of us as we travel, then fly.
A beautiful Missouri fall stretches out below us. A riot of colors, bright and happy, as if they don’t represent the coming winter, the year’s inevitable death reaching up from the ground to the sky. I shiver a little, fighting off a feeling of foreboding as we land in the living room of Wilde House.
It’s just us for now. Zander is with Emerson at the bookstore, and Jacob is with his family, deep in preparations for the Summoner blood ritual. With the Undine supposedly protecting us, we all figured it would be okay for Jacob to handle his Healer duties without a partner in tow, but now I wonder.
But Jacob’s familiar is with him, I reason. His family is made of strong Healers, like him. He’ll be okay.
I try to believe it.
Georgie immediately sinks into the books she’s magicked over, flipping them open on the table where they landed in tidy stacks. “Sage has been helping with research,” she says somewhat absently as she turns a few pages in one book, then another, with a spell. “He found an interesting translated bit about a crow army, like your ghost and the fairy tale mentioned. It’s a line we’re tugging on.”
I know I shouldn’t say anything about Georgie’s boyfriend. She hasn’t asked. I’ve never enjoyed having people comment on my romantic life unsolicited. I bite my tongue and sink into a chair at the table, cracking open a book myself.
I regret it immediately when I realize it’s not in any language I know. “What if you’re the princess in the book?”
Georgie laughs. “Then I’d be carousing with dragons, apparently. Not reading books about it.”
I eye her. “The thing about being pregnant is that I have to pee in the middle of the night. Like, a lot. Sometimes, when that’s handled, I start thinking that what would be really nice is a snack, and maybe I don’t feel like sharing. Which I’d have to do if I just magicked myself some food that Zander would wake up and eat.”
Georgie makes an encouraging yet distracted sound. “I support your secret snacks, Ellowyn.”
“Last night, for example, I got up around two and popped down to the kitchen to eat some ice cream,” I say in the same offhanded way, but I’m watching her closely. “When I was done with my extreme chocolate and peanut butter moment, I decided to virtuously walk back up the stairs.”
She’s not distracted any longer. Georgie looks up at me, gaze intense.
“How long have you been sleepwalking?” I ask her softly. Her throat works, but she doesn’t say anything. “Or in this case, sleep-sitting, I guess? Is that what you call it when a person is curled up on the stairs, talking to a newel post?”
Georgie looks at me for a little too long, a little too intently, before she laughs. “That’s so embarrassing. Why didn’t you wake me up?” Before I can answer that, she’s flipping pages again. “I used to sleepwalk all the time when I was little. It must be the stress of all this ascension stuff that has me regressing. I’m going to have to charm my bedroom at night again so I don’t end up out in the street, easy pickings for the Joywood.”
I want to chase that down a little more, and maybe work my way around to why her research-happy boyfriend isn’t here, making sure she doesn’t wander off into traffic or worse in the middle of all this—but I can’t. Because Frost and Rebekah appear, quickly followed by Emerson and Zander, and the moment is lost.
“Jacob will be here soon,” Emerson says, a little tightly. Worry in her eyes.
Zander puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I sent Storm over to fly back with him.”
She nods in appreciation and looks around the room, literally vibrating. “I’ll go make us some snacks while we wait.”
I can see Zander is about to follow her when she charges off, but I hold up a hand and point to myself. Wound-up Emerson seems like a job for me.
She’s back in the kitchen, magicking a ridiculous amount of food together. I know she doesn’t realize the way worry radiates off her, or she’d hide it.
“It’s okay to not be okay, Em,” I say when I come to stand beside her in the kitchen where her grandmother used to teach us silly little spells. How to clean up all the crayons. How to make the wind chimes sing without a breeze. How to really talk to plants.
I can hear Grandma Wilde’s voice as clearly as if she’s right here with us.
Beside me, Emerson sucks in a deep breath. “Sometimes, even when you’re worried or scared, you’re still okay.” Then she smiles. Exuding Warrior confidence. “I can feel it all, all at the same time.”
So I make the small drooping plant on the windowsill dance a little, the way her grandma would have, until she smiles.
It’s not until Jacob appears, right here in the kitchen, that relief washes over her enough that her shoulders actually slump. “Hi,” she offers.
“Hi,” Jacob says, his voice deeper. Maybe darker. He heads for her with an intent look on his face that has me immediately vacating the premises.
Jacob and Emerson take a few minutes to follow. Both carrying trays of the food Emerson put together. They set the trays down on the coffee table in front of the hearth, where Zander has lit a fire. When they straighten, Emerson is all leader again. No hint of that overwhelmed woman I glimpsed briefly.
Old Ellowyn would have seen that as a sign that love is weakness, but I see it now for what it really is. The strength to feel it all, all at the same time.
Emerson fixes Frost with a look. “Let’s hear it.”
Emerson’s expression darkens as Frost recounts the story of the missing Skipweasel. There’s that Warrior glint in her eye, but it’s not quite as gleeful as it has been at some other points.
“We knew they were going to do something,” she says after we all sit in the things we’re not saying for a bit.
Georgie strokes Octavius on one side of her in her favorite chair and Rebekah’s Smudge on the other. “I’m not sure how they got around Frost’s protections—”
“Nor am I,” he bites out glacially.
“They covered their tracks. We can’t accuse them of anything. We can’t bring this to the Undine.” Emerson crosses her arms. “It feels like they’ve been working on this a long time.”
“It would explain their quiet times,” Georgie agrees. “Storing up energy, working on spells. With all of us here, it likely gave them time to weaken the protections there.”
Frost’s gaze is frigid as he inclines his head.
Emerson meets his gaze. “I’m sorry, Nicholas,” she says, using the first name that generally only Rebekah uses.
Maybe that melts something in him. “It is better we protect ourselves and each other than a house.” His mouth even curves. “I have had quite a few of them in my time.”
Emerson nods. “We know what they’ve got, but not what they’ll do. Which means all we can do is focus on what we can do. What are the updates on the Summoner ritual, Jacob?”
“We’ve decided to hold the blood ritual the night before Samhain,” Jacob says, “assuming the ascension trial doesn’t create a conflict.”
“If it does?” Emerson fires back, clearly his leader, not his fiancée, just then.
But Jacob wouldn’t be the man for her if things like that bothered him. They don’t. We can all see it in the way he nods. “Good question. We have to hope it won’t, and if it does, plan to move directly into the ritual when the trial is done. We have to do this at the safest time, but everyone agrees that the ritual needs to be completed before Samhain.”
Before the Joywood secure their power and kill us all for our temerity in challenging them, he means.
Beside me, I feel Zander tense. Emerson, usually the soul of optimism, frowns—but doesn’t argue, which is probably the scariest part yet.
“We know the bricks are the most protected, but it’s safest if we do this ritual somewhere with more room,” Jacob continues in the same steady way, and I let his steadiness soothe me. “We’ve decided on the cemetery. With Summoners’ connection to the spirit world, it seems the safest place.”
Everyone makes affirmative noises, as if they can’t think of a safer place themselves, even Frost.
Well.
Almost everyone.
“Why isn’t anyone saying what we’re all thinking?” Zander demands. Tense and stormy. “They’ve got the weasel—who bartered in dark magic with his blood . Maybe that was his true, useless form, but if the Joywood went through all the trouble of stealing him, it’s for something. That something is to hurt us, but first and foremost to hurt Ellowyn.”
“We’re all in danger,” I say carefully.
And I say it, so.
He glares at me. “Name one person who’s been attacked the way you have.”
“Other Summoners, Zander. They need protecting too.” I keep holding his gaze. “You know this.”
Better than most.
I can see the way the loss of Zelda ravages him all over again, or still, right here in this taut little moment.
“No one will be more protected during the ritual than Ellowyn,” Jacob says, calmly. “We’ve talked to Tanith about participating, along with your father, Zander. It isn’t only us against the dark now. It’s a community of light.” He pauses, then sounds almost reluctant as he finishes his list of participants. “Elspeth will be joining us as well.”
I don’t know if everyone can hear the way Zander growls at that, but I can feel it. “Oh, my aunt who refused to talk to my mother because she married down is going to help? Awesome.”
“She’s powerful, Zander,” Emerson says. “You know that too.”
He shoves his hands through his hair, but he doesn’t explode. “Knowing it and liking it are two different things.”
“I don’t think any of us has to like this,” I say. Not just to Zander, but to the whole group. Because maybe Emerson can Warrior herself through this, but the simple fact is we’re all a little shaken by the weasel being taken.
It means something. Something bad.
“We always knew there was going to be a fight. One where maybe we fail or even die.” I send Emerson a sharp look so she doesn’t take my saying this as a call for fist pumps. “The Joywood can still win, but so can we. Jacob is right. This isn’t just us against them anymore. We have a whole community. The slightly more than half of St. Cyprian who have supported us since Litha, and who knows how many more since then? If we depend on them—the way the Joywood would never depend on people they see as beneath them—we already have a leg up. Plus we’re bright and good instead of wrong and dark. That matters.”
I look around the room, suddenly all too aware everyone is staring at me. Including our two ghosts, appearing from wherever they’ve been hiding, their eyes shining.
I clear my throat and sit down, now that I realize I’m standing.
“A pep talk from Ellowyn Good,” Rebekah says in a voice of sheer wonder, her mouth curved and her eyes sparkling with emotion. “That has to mean anything can happen.”