Текст книги "Bespelled"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER 14

Memnon’s wards seem to do the trick. No one but me enters or exits my room, and two days later, as I sit in my Intro to Magic class, I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m safe for the time being.

I tap my pen against my notebook as I wait for Professor Huang to enter. I haven’t reached out to Memnon since he left my room. I still intend to discuss the murders and follow up on the weird clubhouse shit we stumbled on…but I chickened out yesterday, and today…well⁠—

I glance down at the skeleton catsuit I’m wearing. I’ve kept this costume around for years for this very day.

All Hallows’ Eve. Samhain. Halloween, for the uninitiated.

The night when the barriers between worlds are their thinnest. The Samhain Ball three days ago was in honor of the holiday, but tonight, the true celebration takes place.

Outside the lecture hall, witches in costumes are moving pumpkins and unlit lanterns across the back lawn and into the Everwoods. If they’re at all afraid of going into that shadowy forest, they don’t show it. But they must feel this oppressive tension that hangs over the coven.

Everyone is feeling the weight of the killings. From the rumors I’ve overheard in the last two days, Henbane’s administration is considering placing a campus-wide curfew. And if things get worse…there’s the possibility that Henbane will shut down, either temporarily or for good. Already there’s talk that the school is going to get sued by several of the victims’ families. This moment is precarious.

A few darting looks from some of my classmates drag me from my thoughts. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I remember all over again that only three days ago, I was a wanted suspect for murder.

I still hate you, I say to Memnon. It’s a super shitty way to reach out to someone you haven’t spoken with in days, but I think Memnon’s earned this sort of greeting.

Down our bond, I feel a flush of amusement.

Are you just randomly musing on this, or⁠—

Everyone around me still thinks I’m guilty, I say.

That’s not technically true. They might be aware that my name’s been cleared, and they’re simply curious. Either way, it sucks.

Want me to come over there and wipe everyone’s memory of those events?

It would be a hilarious offer if I didn’t believe he was serious.

Goddess, Memnon. Can you not go feral for five minutes?

I feel his grin through our bond, the sensation of it warming me from the inside out.

Stop smiling. It’s annoying.

Memnon does stop smiling, and I somehow hate that even more. I’m about to withdraw the command, feeling like a big meanie, when Memnon says, Let those witches fear you. They should. You are powerful and terrifying, and you have made yourself a formidable opponent. Maybe then people will think twice before they fuck with you—just as I have.

Before I can respond to that Professor Huang walks in, their long black hair flowing like a curtain behind them.

My professor lays their notes out on the podium, looking a little askance before they face the class. “Happy Samhain to you all.”

A few people cheer in response.

The professor nods to a few witches seated in various rows. “I see many of you are already wearing your costumes. I’m glad to see you all in a celebratory mood. This night is your birthright to claim, but I want to take this time to caution all of you to be safe during this evening’s festivities. A campus-wide curfew of six p.m. will go into effect starting tomorrow, November first. Witches will be expected to be inside by sundown and to remain indoors until sunup. Any assignments requiring nighttime spellcasting will be altered to respect this curfew while it’s in place.”

The room is lethally silent, but that tension has ratcheted up.

“Your safety is of the highest priority to all of us instructors here at Henbane.”

I think of Lauren and how she must’ve chased me through the woods two weeks ago and how she’s scouting students for binding ceremonies. My stomach gives a sick twist. Not all instructors here are looking out for our safety.

Professor Huang glances down at their notes and clears their throat. “I would like today to be just another lecture,” they say, “but in light of the recent deaths, I don’t feel as though I can stick to the scheduled discussion. So instead, I want to use today’s lesson to focus on dark magic—what it is, how it is used, and why it is considered forbidden.”

The room goes uncomfortably quiet. This is the part of witchcraft we don’t speak of, the part that we’re supposed to pretend doesn’t exist at all, even though it’s always been there, lurking on the periphery of our world. It’s the aspect of our power that has gotten witches into trouble through the ages.

“With that,” the professor continues, “I’d like to ask you all: What is the first lesson all witches must learn?”

“Primum non nocere,” I call out.

First, do no harm.

The Hippocratic oath. Physicians aren’t the only ones who follow it; witches do as well.

Professor Huang steeples their fingers on the podium, and they nod their head. “Do no harm,” they repeat, enunciating each word.

I mean, it’s a good idea for witches—in theory. In practice, what does that really mean? If someone makes a tincture for success, maybe it helps them, but what if in the process, it fucks over a colleague? Or someone brews a love potion, and it works—but perhaps it robs their significant other of an experience they should’ve had with another. Is it fair to meddle? Where do you draw that line?

“One of the better known dark magic users was Elizabeth Bathory, who wove spells from the blood of hundreds of people whom she tortured and killed to maintain her youth and beauty. Less well known is Gretta Gimbley, who extended her own life by cannibalizing the spelled flesh of her victims. What she didn’t consume, she used to prepare deeply cursed potions, which she sold as medicinal tonics.”

Gretta obviously sounds like a super fun human being.

I go to jot the information down, but…I don’t feel that same pressing need. Now that my memories have returned, my notetaking doesn’t have to be quite so diligent. After a moment’s hesitation, I write it all down anyway. There’s something unbearably comforting about falling back on these old habits. I’m not ready yet to make new ones.

Professor Huang continues, “We sense intuitively what dark magic is—we hear these stories, and we know these witches were utilizing it—but what actually is dark magic? What is blood magic? How do curses and hexes tie into this?”

Everyone is silent, tense.

“To answer the first question, dark magic is any power that deliberately draws on or causes the pain and suffering of another. This can be a spell whose outcome is for another to feel pain and misfortune—such as a curse or a hex, the latter of which is more of a minor misfortune. Then there’s where the power is drawn from. If it is drawn from an unwilling source or taken using unnecessary cruelty and force, then that will draw out dark magic.”

My pulse spikes when I remember that some of my fights over the last two weeks drew on or caused pain. I sink a little lower in my seat.

The professor continues. “Dark magic is a perversion of the natural flow of the universe, and in order to correct for it, magic exacts a price from whoever wields it. This is why the Law of Three exists. Good begets good, and bad begets bad. So I gave you all some clear, basic examples of dark magic, but there are other, murkier aspects of it as well. Collecting power from already dead and decaying things might also draw out dark magic, even if you didn’t kill that thing.” Professor Huang’s eyes sweep over the room as they speak. “All this is further complicated by the fact that sometimes you might have to cause pain to stop a greater suffering—like incapacitating someone who is hurting another. Would that be considered dark magic?”

No one answers, but we’re all waiting with bated breath to hear what Professor Huang has to say.

They give the room a rueful smile. “This is where the headache-inducing nuances of magic lie. The unhelpful answer to this is that it might be considered dark magic and it might not. Ultimately, however, the biggest factor that determines whether your magic is dark or not is your own intentions. So much of this has to do with intent.”

One of my classmates raises her hand. “Why would anyone prefer dark magic to light?”

Our instructor’s gaze is steady on my classmate, their expression grim. “Power, my dear. Dark magic may be dangerous, but with it comes lots and lots of power.”

Once class lets out, I slide my notebook into my bag and make my way to the podium, where a few other witches are currently speaking with Professor Huang.

Once the students ahead of me are finished, I step up to my instructor, fidgeting with the strap of my bag.

Professor Huang raises their eyes. “Yes?”

“I have a question regarding…bonds.”

If my instructor is surprised by the topic, they don’t let on.

“I’m confused about the different types,” I clarify. “I know there’s fated bonds…”

My professor jumps in. “So,” they say, “there’s a lot of nuance to this subject because fated bonds—think soul mates and familiars—do not require binding spells. Fated bonds are intrinsic, magical connections. They get lumped together in name, but truly, in most regards, they are their own thing. As for binding spells, these occur all the time among witches and mages. They’re so normal that they get overlooked. Unbreakable oaths, for instance, are a type of binding spell. There are also other, more unnatural things that can be bound together. Take love spells, for instance. The target of a love spell may have no initial interest in the person who pines for them. A love spell binds the two—for a time. Just long enough to create an opportunity for some real chemistry.”

Okay, this is way more information than I needed, and it hasn’t really answered the heart of my question.

“What about bonds people form between one another?” I ask.

My professor hesitates, then sighs. “You want to know about forged bonds and forced bonds.”

I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek.

“Supernaturals can form magical bonds with one another outside those that are fated from birth. The two types are called forged bonds and forced bonds. They sound similar but they are fairly different. Forged bonds are the lesser of two evils. With these types of bonds, all the parties involved give their explicit consent to the bond formed. Not that this makes the terms of forged bonds necessarily equal. Selling your soul for some heart’s desire is technically a forged bond, though it’s commonly understood that this is no equal exchange. For this reason, forged bonds are heavily discouraged, even between family members or romantic partners.”

Professor Huang gives me a meaningful look, like they can see right through me.

I shift my weight. “Why?” I ask, my anxiety spiking.

Should’ve considered this before I took Memnon up on his own binding spell.

“People change. Hearts change. Creating immutable connections with mutable things can make for hard, unhappy lives.”

“And the other type of bond,” I say hoarsely, unwilling to peer too deeply into that sobering warning. “Can you tell me about that?”

My professor grimaces. “We don’t speak much about forced bonds because of their evil nature. Forced bonds are, as their name implies, forced. They only require the consent of one of the individuals involved, and they can be placed on any other supernatural. There is nothing redeeming about these bonds. They are made to subject their victims to another’s control entirely. Fortunately, they require more power to complete, so the only time these can really happen is with a spell circle.”

I think this is supposed to be reassuring, but it leaves me cold. There are spell circles already in place, and these forced bonds are routinely occurring.

“Needless to say,” Professor Huang adds, “they are the highest class of criminal offense, right up there with murder.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t reassure me either. “What happens if a forced bond is placed on you?” I ask. “How do you undo it?”

“It depends on the terms. But there’s a reason forced bonds are dangerous, forbidden spells. Because if such a spell is placed on you unto death, then only death shall break the bond.”

I cut across Henbane’s main lawn, passing by a coven sister feeding a murder of crows. Several other witches head across the grass with massive, spelled pumpkins bobbing in the air above them like witchy balloons; the pumpkins make dull thunking noises as they bump into one another.

It’s a cute display, but my mind is still in my classroom, mulling over what Professor Huang said. Did Cara, the shifter girl I rushed away from the spell circle, really come that close to being forever under the control of the woman leading it? Is that instructor, Lauren, currently under such a bond? Is Lia solely behind all of it? Was she the high priestess? The questions are going to pick at me.

My eyes still linger absently on those bobbing pumpkins when I feel an unnerving tingling at my back, like a finger stroking down my spine.

Immediately, I look toward the Everwoods, scanning the tree line for the source of the sensation. Amid all the costumed witches, I catch sight of a shadowed individual on the edge of campus. I swear I see a swath of pale gray skin, but no sooner have I blinked than the person is gone.

I hurry the rest of the way to the residence hall, trying to convince myself that I’m not being watched.

My mind drags back to Cara and to the werewolf pack she belongs to. It’s been several days since I last spoke to Kane. I meant to call him before now, but he’s still abiding by the rules of the Sacred Seven, the week surrounding the full moon. That’s when a werewolf’s powers are most potent—and most unpredictable. The pack sequesters themselves during this week for their safety and that of everyone else.

As I cross the foyer and head up the stairs to my room, I grab my phone and scroll to Kane’s number anyway.

It’s time we talked.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 15

“Selene?”

“Kane, hey,” I say as I close the door to my room, caught off guard by his low, gravelly voice. A large part of me wasn’t expecting him to answer the phone considering that today is the final day of the Sacred Seven. I imagined he’d be out in the woods in his animal form.

“How are you doing?” he asks. “I meant to reach out. I heard about…the arrest the other night.” The one he warned me about. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “It’s fine. They released me and cleared my name.”

“Yeah, I heard about that too. I was relieved to hear it.”

Goddess, but there’s nothing like casually talking about being a murder suspect with your former—current?—crush to really make things awkward.

I clear my throat. “Anyway,” I say, “that night, you mentioned that your pack wanted to speak with me about the night I found Cara.”

“Yeah, we’d love to talk to you about that. I’d need to check with my pack’s alpha, but I could probably call a meeting tomorrow if that works for you? I know there’s sometimes festivities following Samhain, so we can always push it⁠—”

“Tomorrow works,” I say. I can prioritize celebrations another year, when supernaturals aren’t getting bonded and murdered around me.

“Great,” he says, his voice growing a little less gravelly. “Then assuming the pack approves the meeting, I’ll wait for you at the boundary line between our properties at five p.m. tomorrow.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

Kane hesitates, then admits, “And in case you forgot some of our call that night, I would still like to see you again.”

My breath catches. I had forgotten, but not in the way he assumes. The memory got buried under everything else I had to deal with in the last three days.

“I still think about that night I came over to your place,” Kane continues, his voice deepening with the admission.

He can’t possibly be referencing the night Memnon tossed him out my bedroom window.

“I’m still so sorry about that⁠—”

“I shouldn’t have left you after the officers came,” the shifter interrupts me. “I should’ve stayed.”

My heart thunders at the thought, but I shake my head. “I wouldn’t have let you.” Memnon was all too willing to hurt Kane.

He’s probably still all too willing.

“That asshole doesn’t scare me.”

I think of the legions of soldiers who lay slaughtered on long-ago fields of wheat, all of them killed by Memnon’s power. I think of the way my former husband took a palace—and the kingdom that came with it—on whim alone. And how dizzyingly easy it was for him to force me to capitulate to his demands. He was raised to be a warrior, and his magic has only made him more lethal.

“He should scare you, Kane. He really should.”

I spend the afternoon in the Everwoods with Sybil and my other coven sisters, setting up the decorations for the festivities tonight. We all either grow or move hundreds of pumpkins along the edges of a makeshift pathway. Though it’s not obvious to the naked eye, a ley line runs along this path. Fairies and spirits often travel these magical roads, and tonight, we’re inviting them onto coven land as honored guests.

Once we’re finished with the pumpkins, we spell lanterns to float in the air above the path, the candles inside each one still unlit.

After the last of the items has been positioned, I dust off my hands and back up.

Sybil skips over to me, her butterfly wings fluttering behind her.

“So remind me again what’s going to happen later?” I say as she links her arm through mine.

She shakes her head. “No way am I going to ruin the surprise tonight. You’re just going to have to see it firsthand.” Sybil glances at the growing shadows. “C’mon,” she says, tugging my arm in the direction of our house. “We should eat and get you changed.”

“Get me changed?” I say uncertainly.

“Babe,” she says, pulling on my skeleton suit, “you’re not going to want to wear this.”

“What’s wrong with my costume?” I say, somewhat defensively.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s going to be constricting as fuck when you start drinking witch’s brew later. I would know. Last year, I literally ripped mine apart to get out of it.”

I look at her askance. “What’s in the witch’s brew?” I cannot imagine anything would cause me to rip my own clothes apart.

She flashes me a secretive smile. “I can’t tell you, but you just have to trust me that it’s all a part of the celebration.”

Cutting loose does sound fun…

I run a hand over my spandex catsuit. “This is the only costume I have,” I say.

She gives my arm a squeeze. “Luckily, you have me for a best friend.”

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 16

“What am I supposed to be?” I ask, staring at my reflection. I look exactly the same, except for some shimmery makeup and a white satin slip dress that leaves me feeling more exposed than covered.

“You’re a sexy ghost—or a dead bride. Whichever you prefer.”

I want to laugh a little. The whole point of dressing up on Samhain is to mask your true identity so that malicious spirits won’t recognize you. But in this outfit, I look like me, only in white.

“Wow, you truly do work wonders,” I say sarcastically.

The joke goes entirely over her head; Sybil looks thrilled.

My eyes linger on my chest.

“You can see my nipples,” I state.

“Babe, we’re going to be seeing everyone’s nipples by the end of the night. But if it’s a big deal to you, I have pasties. We can also use magic.” She wiggles her fingers dramatically to emphasize her point.

I tilt my head back and forth, trying to decide if I want to just wear a white dress—for the ease of stripping later, apparently—or put back on my skeleton costume and get an earful from Sybil.

“Do you think ghosts get offended when we dress like them?” I ask. “Seeing as how it’s the day the spirits cross over?”

“You were going to dress as a skeleton,” Sybil points out.

Yeah, but my point still stands.

Sybil lifts a shoulder. “I don’t think the spirits care, but if you want to play it safe, you could always be a living bride.”

At her suggestion, my mind moves to Memnon and his plans to marry me.

I look in the mirror again, my heart beating fast at the thought.

“I could be a bride.” That seems like a more respectful option.

Sybil claps her hands. “Yay! Then let’s find you a veil!”

We do end up finding an old, moth-eaten veil in some forgotten chest downstairs, though the long train of it that trails on the ground was clearly beautiful back when it was new. I put it on after dousing it in a few sanitizing spells.

Just before sunset, I leave Nero in my room with instructions to stay inside tonight since in a few hours the woods will be crawling with drunk witches. Sybil and I head downstairs, where the rest of our housemates have gathered. Dozens of my coven sisters are taking off their socks and shoes and making their way to the front door in all manner of costume. Goblins, leopards, fairies, mummies, vampires—the already magical company looks even more unearthly in costume.

“Shoes off!” one of my sisters calls out to the room. “We’ll need to ground ourselves during the spell circle.”

“Spell circle?” I glance at Sybil as unease blooms in me.

She smiles secretively. “Don’t look so nervous, Bowers. This is the fun part.”

It probably is. I’ve just been burned by the last spell circle, so I now assume the worst.

Begrudgingly, I remove my shoes and tuck them into a corner, the floor feeling chilly against my bare feet.

One of the witches throws open the door, and another cries out, “Let’s party, bitches!”

Then there’s clapping and laughter, and all of us begin to funnel out of the residence hall. In the process, several witches step on my veil, making my head jerk back and nearly ripping gossamer thin material. Eventually, I have to murmur a spell to make the thing float like fog behind me.

We make our way across the grass behind our house then we plunge into the Everwoods. Here, under the thick shadows of trees, it feels as though night has already fallen. There’s an electric heaviness to the air like a storm cloud about to break.

We reach the pumpkin-lined path, the unlit lanterns above us bobbing in the evening breeze. An owl hoots in the distance, but besides that, a solemn sort of silence has descended over the forest.

We walk along the path until it opens up onto Slain Maiden’s Meadow. Only days ago, Memnon pledged himself to me here. Now, the field is filled with countless costumed witches. In the center of the clearing, there’s a massive pile of wood and kindling.

The moment the sun dips beneath the horizon, a strong wind cuts through the clearing, stirring our hair and costumes.

“In a circle!” an older voice calls out. “Witches, grasp one another’s hands, and take position. It is time!”

Time for what is still unclear, but I follow orders anyway, grasping the hands of a witch with long, wavy black braids and another with cropped blond hair.

Once we’ve arranged ourselves, that grave silence takes over again. I can hear the soft snap of our outfits blowing in the wind, but everyone is so quiet and so still. Even our magic seems subdued, the air almost entirely clear of it.

“Welcome, honored sisters, to our one hundred and eighty-seventh annual Samhain ceremony!” an older feminine voice shouts. I can’t tell who it belongs to, only that magic has amplified it. “Samhain is the holy night when the veil between worlds thins. Tonight, we have gathered to welcome guests from these other lands who wish to visit Earth for an evening. We will invite them through the doorway here, but in order to do so, we must call on our communal power to help open it for the evening.”

So there it is, the reason for the spell circle. We’re pooling our magic to help widen the rift between worlds. Sounds totally safe.

“Then,” the witch continues, “we will make our way down the path to Last Rites Cemetery, where a feast awaits us and our honored guests.

“Beware,” she warns. “Not all spirits are benevolent, and not all guests are dead⁠—”

What in the seven hells does all that mean?

“—so use caution even while enjoying the revelry tonight. Other than that, dance, drink, sing, mingle with our honored guests, and give in to your own innate wildness.”

In the distance, wolves begin to howl, as though acknowledging our wildness with their own.

Another witch now speaks. “Let’s commence the celebrations by incanting the following: Air above and earth beneath, here at last our worlds meet,” she says. “Goodfellows and the dearly deceased, come and join our hallowed feast.”

Down the line of our hands, I feel the current of her power run up my right arm and down my left, and I remember absently that magic moves in a clockwise direction for creation and counterclockwise for destruction.

She begins the incantation again, only this time, the rest of us join in. “Air above and earth beneath, here at last our worlds meet. Goodfellows and the dearly deceased, come and join our hallowed feast.”

I jolt as what began as a small current now amplifies. The magic that would normally waft off us funnels itself along the line of witches, the throb of it startling and decadent as it passes through me.

Again we repeat the phrase. And again and again, until the air is electric and my body is a live wire.

Est amage, what is happening? Memnon says, cutting through the magic-induced haze of my mind.

Witch stuff, Memnon.

I don’t know if he says anything after that. Magic is filling the space where my thoughts are. There’s only this moment and the touch of my sisters’ hands, and the world is magic, all magic, I think as my limbs tremble from the power and heat engulfs me. We are magic.

“…come and join our hallowed feast⁠—”

All at once, the nearly unbearable power flowing through me is sucked toward the center of the circle.

With a crack like thunder, the air rips apart. From it pours forth a wave of some translucent substance. It takes a moment for my eyes to realize it’s not a substance but spirits. Dozens of them. They cut across our circle, heading for the lantern-lit pathway.

“Welcome!” one of the witches shouts, her greeting trailing off into a cackle as more and more specters cross over, their ephemeral forms streaking across the clearing. Laughter rises around me, and I feel it bubbling up in my throat too. The aftereffects of the communal magic have left me lightheaded and euphoric.

The unlit bonfire at the center of the clearing now lights, the wood snapping and smoking as it goes up in flame.

None of us witches have released our hands, and we begin to sway and dance as one, moving in a circle. I don’t know who decides this. Maybe it was me? I can’t tell if my thoughts are my own or ours, the collective whole of our coven.

Someone begins to hum, and the melody catches, until we’re all humming the same wordless tune.

The song grows louder, and the dancing becomes erratic until someone—or maybe all of us—decide to release hands. The magical current cuts off abruptly, and what’s left in my body leaves me tingling and high off power.

“To the feast! To the feast!” a witch shouts, and though the group’s magic is no longer linking us together, I still feel that shared unity, and carelessly, I laugh.

At the sound of it, a nearby witch dressed like a wraith comes in close and gives me a hug, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Merry Samhain,” she whispers before dashing off.

More laughter fills the space as sisters dance and embrace, their eyes and hair a little wild. I’m sure I look the same.

I was wrong to worry about this spell circle. This is how they are meant to be. A moment of unification between witches and a reminder that we are all one.

Sybil appears out of the crowd. “C’mon, my nubile bride!” she shouts, grabbing my hand. The bonfire’s flames dance in her eyes, giving them a moonstruck look.

As soon as my fingers entwine with hers, she cackles. The sound is contagious, and I begin laughing with her, feeling lighter than air. And then we’re running, racing alongside dozens of other wild-eyed witches and eager spirits, all of us following the magical road.

As we careen down the pumpkin-lined path, a deathly chill moves through me. A spirit emerges through my abdomen, and I let out a startled scream at the sight of its transparent form.

The spirit, a young man in a three-piece suit with slicked-back hair, lets out an echoing laugh and streaks ahead of us.

Sybil laughs and laughs at my reaction, her spelled butterfly wings beating behind her. Her laughter turns into a choked cry when a hag on a spectral broom flies out from her body before careening through the group of witches ahead of us. Now I’m cackling and Sybil’s reluctantly giggling, and our bare feet are stepping on sticks and rocks, and I know I’m getting nicked but the wind is smoothing my satin slip over my body like a lover’s touch and raking its fingers through my hair and the veil floating behind me, and I’m caught up in the magic of the moment.

That all ends when hoofbeats—then screams—erupt behind us. Sybil glances over her shoulder, her eyes going wide.

“Seven hells!” She veers off the path, dragging me with her. She’s not fast enough.

I hear the pound of hoofbeats a moment before someone snags my veil from behind me, lurching me backward. I stumble, about to turn around, when a hand catches me around my waist, lifting me off the ground and onto a steed.

I cry out as my ass lands on an oiled leather saddle. I glance up at a man with sharp, dark eyes and inky hair that seems to be decorated with raven’s feathers. My gaze lands on his pointed ears.

A fae.

Did he come from the portal we opened?

“There’s been a mistake,” I say, pushing against the man’s chest, my dress riding up my legs.

His arms tighten on me. “I don’t think so. You’re dressed like a bride.”

My eyes widen. “A b-bride?” I echo. What had Sybil said long ago? Something about stories of fae snatching witches from these woods to be their brides? “No, no. This is not an actual wedding dress, and I’m definitely not looking for a groom. I kind of already have one of those in fact. This is a costume.” I squirm some more in his arms as his horse cuts down the path, nearly trampling dozens of other witches. “Seriously, let me go.”