by Katie Cross
“Where?” she asked again, flying in a circle around my head. “Daughter of the Central Network has no answer! The fairies have no time!”
“Here!” I said, spreading my arms. “In the Witchery.”
Dafina stopped her annoying buzzing. Her eyes trailed over the walls, the belongings cast aside and left without an owner.
“Hmmm,” she said low in her throat, her eyes tapering. She zipped from place to place, searching the nooks and crannies. Cracks littered the stone walls, and the fireplace was much too small, but those things wouldn’t necessarily matter to something so miniscule. Or five hundred somethings so miniscule. She inspected the room, overturning every discarded sock, opening each book, and flying underneath the furniture.
“Under whose authority do you bestow this parcel of land to my pack?” she asked as she approached me again.
“My own,” I said. “I placed the magic that protects this turret.”
“Yes,” she said, humming. “I sense that.”
“It’s mine to give.”
Dafina studied me. I held my hands at my side and rubbed my fingers together. Surely Leda would burst in. She’d never forgive me for giving up the Witchery to a pack of fairies, never mind that she’d left it behind. The bloodthirsty creatures would probably bring the turret down. Although maybe they’d frighten away any Clavas or West Guards who had the misfortune to stumble upon them.
“’Tis done!” Dafina cried, levitating above my head. “I shall find my pack immediately.”
“You can’t move in for at least an hour,” I said. She hesitated in the window, sending me a piercing stare of annoyance.
“An hour?”
“Yes.”
She huffed. “Fine, daughter of the Central Network. An hour.”
Dafina left, and I heaved a giant sigh of relief. Their arrogant little bodies would fill the Witchery soon enough. I wondered if they’d bring back the small rodents they hunted and have a fairy feast on the same table where we had dined so often.
“I guess the Witchery definitely won’t be the same anymore, will it?” I murmured to myself, running the tips of my fingers over the top of our tattered floral divan, wondering what I’d done.
“No. It won’t. We won’t either.”
I whirled around to find Leda shuffling into the room. Her hair hung in limp tendrils around her pale face. Her shoulders were bony beneath her loose dress, but she still looked lovely in her own tired way.
“What did Reeves say?” I asked. A hint of a smile lingered on her face.
“He was polishing the silver when we showed up. Although he acted a bit stuffy, he picked up two children and started giving orders right away, so I think he was relieved.”
I smiled. “Good.”
We stood in the middle of the room in silence. Now that she was here, I didn’t know what to say.
“What happens now?” Leda asked, swallowing.
“Now? Now we fight.”
My words echoed in the empty room.
“And if we lose?” she asked.
The door to the Witchery opened. “Bianca?” Camille said, stepping inside. “Leda? Everything okay?”
Her eyes fell on the messy room and the two of us standing in the middle. Outside, the drums of the West Guards continued their restless thud thud thud. Camille pressed her lips together so tightly they disappeared.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I … I see. You sent that letter to get us here one last time together, right?”
“We were just…” Leda’s voice broke. She looked away.
“Yes,” I said. “We were hoping for one last moment in the Witchery together, just in case.”
Camille’s eyes sparkled. She nodded.
The idea of saying merry part to my friends—my sisters—was so unbearable that I changed the subject.
“Where are you going when the battle begins?” I asked, looking between the two of them. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”
“Brecken wants me to stay with his family,” Camille said, lowering herself onto a chair near the table. She looked down at her fidgeting hands. “Bettina and Angie are living in the attic of Brecken’s house for now. Tabby is ecstatic to have someone to talk to, and Angie is happy to tell her about all her health problems. I think it takes Tabby’s mind off of … well … everything.”
“Really?” Leda asked, one faint eyebrow rising. “Your aunts were willing to leave their house? I thought for sure they’d stay put.”
Camille smiled, her freckles pressing together. “Yes,” she said, chuckling softly. “It literally took an act of war to get them to leave.”
The joke, so light and whimsical—almost fragile—broke some of the awkward tension. Leda’s shoulders relaxed. Leda and Camille had been so distant she hadn’t even known that Bettina and Angie had come to the Witchery.
“Camille,” Leda said, her voice husky. “I’m—”
Camille silenced her by throwing her arms around her. Leda returned the embrace with shaky hands.
“I know,” Camille said. “I love you too.”
Leda closed her eyes, holding onto Camille’s dress. “I’m so excited for you,” Leda said. “Truly. I hope you and Brecken will be very happy.”
“We will,” Camille said. “I promise we will.”
“You’ll be safer at Brecken’s than here,” I said, relieved. “I’m glad.”
Camille bit her bottom lip as she pulled away from Leda’s embrace. “Oh, no. You misunderstood. I’m not going to Brecken’s house,” she said. “His mother wants me to, and so does he, but I’m going to stay here and help fight.”
Both Leda and I started to protest, but Camille stopped us by holding up a hand.
“Brecken is here fighting, and he’s my husband. I won’t be parted from him. I will fight. We will win. Besides, he’s not my only family, is he?” A tear fell from one of her wide eyes. “You, Michelle, and Priscilla are my family, the sisters I never had. I won’t leave you here to fight while I cower in the country. I won’t do it!”
Her voice rose with a fervor I’d never heard before, reaching a frantic pitch. Leda and I exchanged astonished glances.
“Camille,” I stammered. “Are you sure?”
She raised her chin. “Absolutely.”
My mouth bobbled open and closed for want of words. The defiant gleam in her eye said she wouldn’t be swayed. The three of us moved at the same time, colliding in a warm embrace. Their arms felt heavy and reassuring, draped across my shoulders.
“Whatever comes,” I said as we pressed our foreheads together, “let’s agree to celebrate the good times.”
“All the wonderful memories,” Camille said.
“We’ll never forget,” Leda said.
“Never.”
With one last reassuring squeeze, we parted. Tears sparkled in Leda’s eyes. I swallowed mine. Emotion and grief could—and would—come later. Later. When we won or when we died.
We heard a rustle in the middle of the turret. Michelle and Priscilla transported right next to each other in the middle of the Witchery floor.
“Michelle! Priscilla!” Camille cried.
“Oh,” Michelle said, sounding relieved. “We were hoping you’d still be here. Priscilla and I just ran into each other in the kitchens. We both got your message, Leda.”
“Good timing,” Leda said.
Michelle held a hand to her belly, where the smallest budge could be seen through her dress. She kept her hand there, as if trying to protect her unborn child. Priscilla gazed around the Witchery with a frown. She looked lovely, her red hair shining around her shoulders.
“I haven’t been here as long as you four,” Priscilla said, “but it still breaks my heart to see the Witchery so … lifeless.”
Just wait an hour, I thought. “How is Niko?” I asked. Worry flashed in her green eyes.
“Ready to fight,” she said. “The Eastern Network Guardians are protecting the northern section of Chatham City. He’s leading them i
nto battle there. I wanted to come fight with the Central Network.” She let out a long breath. “Although I love the East, the Central Network will always be home.”
“Oh, I have something for all of you!” Camille said. “I was going to track you down one at a time, but this is so much better.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out five silver lockets, all shaped like a diamond and about the size of a thumbnail.
“It’s not a memento,” she said, “because none of us are going to die. The Central Network is going to pull through. It’s a keepsake. A reminder. No matter what Mabel tries, she can’t take our memories. She can’t take our friendship.” Camille looked each one of us in the eye. “Remember that.”
The five lockets levitated into the air when Camille cast a spell, dropping over our heads and onto our shoulders one at a time. They glinted in the dim light, like a sentinel against the encroaching darkness. I clasped mine in my fist.
“I’ll be keeping Clavas out of the kitchens with Brecken,” Camille said, sticking a hand in the middle of our circle. “Once we’ve won the fight, come and find me there. I’ll probably be eating any chocolate that’s survived the battle.”
“I’m going to help the Apothecaries with the wounded,” Leda said, extending her hand forward and placing it, palm up, on Camille’s. “I better not see any of you there.”
“I’ll be with Miss Scarlett.” Priscilla placed her hand on Leda’s. “We’re protecting the orphans and small children in the West Wing.”
“I’ll be with my husband.” Michelle put her hand on the bottom, underneath the others. “And the dragons.”
They all looked at me. I placed my hand on top, palm down, to seal the pile of hands together.
“I’ll be with my father,” I said. “Where I belong.”
“No matter what,” Camille said, “we’ll always be best friends.”
“Always.”
The five of us pulled together in a long embrace. The collective beats of our hearts worked in sync for a few seconds. I held my breath, marveling that I could hurt so much with anticipated pain. Losing any one of these girls would be torturous. The thought alone terrified me—something I would never have imagined the first time I met Priscilla or Leda.
The long, mournful tone of the bugle sounded for the first time, and my heart leaped into my throat.
“What was that?” Priscilla asked.
I put my hand on Viveet. “The bugle,” I said. “It means the West Guards are approaching Chatham City. When it sounds again, it means the invasion’s begun.”
“It’s the beginning of the end, ladies,” Leda said, with the snap and vinegar of her old self. “Now let’s get to work. We have a castle to save.”
Many Powerful Witches
A frantic, desperate bustling had overtaken the castle, with Mrs. L at the center. She moved through the chaos, hurrying from place to place, her cheeks flushed as she shouted orders and directed traffic. Fireboys slammed windows shut and hammered boards across them. Maids used spells to light all the torches to ensure they didn’t go out. A small kitchen maid carrying buckets full of water sloshed by, tears streaking her frightened face.
“We need another bucket here!” called a lad with soot on his face. “In case the Clavas come around the corner!”
Hoarding water to fight the undead. An ugly testament to our desperation.
The vague notion that these witches would soon be fighting for their lives plagued my mind, but I let it go, intent on finding Papa. The door to the throne room stood ajar, admitting a single ray of light into the dark hallway. Papa’s armored body filled the throne. His dark eyes stared at the wall, and his hair stood up on end as if he’d dragged a hand through it over and over again. I put my fingertips on the door and pushed it open.
“Papa?”
His eyes flickered to mine. For a moment, he regarded me in confusion. The Dragon Throne sprawled out behind his shoulders, making him seem more indomitable and powerful than ever.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
“I was just thinking about your mother,” he said with a wistful smile. “Then you walked in, and for a moment, I thought I’d imagined her back to life. You look so much like her, B. It’s uncanny.”
Only the slip slip of my leather sandals sounded in the room as I walked to his side. “I think about her all the time too.”
“Never more than when I need strength and courage,” he said, and his face sobered. “Never more than right now.”
“Are you scared?” I asked.
“Terrified. You?”
I nodded.
“I want you to promise me one thing, B,” he said.
“Don’t make me promise to stay away from the fight,” I said, bristling. “I won’t. If this is the end of the world, I won’t spend it holed up in Chatham Castle waiting for someone else to save me. I’ll die fighting.” I paused, holding his gaze. “Just like you. I want to be at your side.”
Papa hesitated. “You’re a stubborn witch, you know that?”
“Witch?” I said with a grin. “Not a girl?”
He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, his lips dropping into a frown. “Unfortunately not. You’ve been a woman for some time now, I think. I just don’t like admitting it.”
I swallowed. “You’ll let me fight, won’t you Papa?”
Our eyes met again, and he seemed like an old, tired man. I wished we could go back to the days when we played games in Letum Wood until the sun faded and Grandmother called us back into the house, where warm lanterns illuminated the windows and the smell of fresh bread drifted on the breeze.
“You are in charge of your own life now, Bianca. I can’t tell you what to do.”
The idea of so much autonomy seemed foreign. Wouldn’t Papa always be overprotective and certain of my impending demise? “Really?” I asked.
He smirked. “I don’t like to admit it, but I can’t protect you from everything forever, can I? Besides, if I tell you not to do something, you’re just going to do it anyway.”
“What if I mess it up?”
“You will.”
I snorted. “Thanks.”
He shook me lightly. “You’re supposed to mess up, B. It’s part of the process.”
I smiled despite myself, but it soon faded. His face remained as calm as usual, despite my own building hysteria. The last time we’d been in the throne room together was when Mildred empowered him as High Priest. He studied me for several long moments, then leaned forward and wrapped me in his arms.
“I love you, B,” he said against my shoulder. “You and your mother are all that ever mattered. If I don’t make it, I need you to know that.”
Tears filled my eyes. “I love you too, Papa.”
A knock sounded at the door, reverberating through the room.
“May we come in, High Priest?” Marten called from the doorway. I pulled away from Papa’s strong arms.
“Of course, Marten,” Papa said. “Bianca and I were just … gathering our thoughts.”
Marten and Stella entered the room, drawing our attention to the door. It closed behind them.
“Forgive our intrusion on your conversation,” Marten said, stopping a few paces short of the elevated throne. “But Stella and I wanted to discuss a few things with you before the final battle.”
The serious register of Marten’s voice caught my attention. One hand, resting at his side, trembled. This was no idle conversation. Papa seemed to have noticed the same thing. He straightened, leaning forward.
“Go ahead.”
“We have some … important information. About you.”
“Me?” Papa said.
“Yes. You.”
Something in the slow, even cadence of Marten’s words made me uneasy. Marten paused, meeting Papa’s narrowed eyes with new determination.
“We hope the truth will give you strength and me peace,” he said, adding quietly, “In case I fall tonight.”
I gripped th
e smooth, carved wood of the Dragon’s Throne to anchor me. A few sculpted teeth bit into my palm. Marten glanced at Stella, drawing strength from her nod of encouragement.
“Two years after Mildred defeated Evelyn and took over as High Priestess,” Marten began, “she came to Stella and me with the greatest secret of her life. She was pregnant with my child.”
My heart stopped in my chest. Mildred, pregnant? The most by-the-rules, severe witch I’d ever met in my life? No, it couldn’t be. She’d sworn her life to the role of High Priestess. Tradition dictated she remain childless. My mind whirred through what I knew from reading Mildred’s Resistance, but the shock muddied my mind.
Is it really that surprising? Marten and Mildred had loved each other so much, and it was only a tradition—not a law—that the High Priestess be unhindered by marriage or family. Papa slid to the edge of the throne, his hands pressing into its armrests. I held my breath.
“The Network was still unstable at the time, and witches remained distrustful of Network leaders,” Marten continued. “Mildred had made great strides in cleaning up the mess of the Dark Days, but it would be many years before stability was really achieved. In order to spare the Network another shock, she kept her pregnancy an absolute secret.”
“Of course, Mildred refused to take a potion to kill the pregnancy,” Stella said. “We went to extensive lengths to hide it. In the final months, she stayed at a small house in Letum Wood under the ruse of needing a mental health break after the Dark Days. She delivered her baby there in secret.”
Marten stared at the floor. My lungs felt tight. Something uncomfortable loomed in the air, something I couldn’t avoid but didn’t want to see.
“We couldn’t keep our child, obviously,” Marten said, picking the story back up. “I took the baby away after the birth. He was a beautiful, healthy child with dark brown hair. Mildred’s brother Jorden and his wife Imogen tended him until I found a trustworthy family in the Northern Covens to take him. Mildred, by necessity, had to distance herself, or she would have risked the stability of the entire Network. She didn’t know anything about the baby, not his gender nor the color of his hair or eyes. She lived without knowing she had a son. I, on the other hand, watched him grow from a distance. He was happy until—”