by Cristy Rey
“Eunice and I had been friends for much longer when Eunice met her at the shop. You know the one—they sell crystals, cards, and books about preparing herbal remedies. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Eunice continued. “She became interested in her heritage and began exploring mystical traditions of Southeast Asia. When she discovered Wicca and Gaia and all those things that they talk about in the movies could be real, she was intrigued.” Eunice raised an eyebrow and lowered her chin.
“You know, the movies?” she said, cracking a mischievous grin to Sunday. “Movies about magic and teenage witches making spells and calling upon the spirits to get boyfriends. Silly stuff. I introduced myself and made some suggestions for better reading materials as is my nature. I educated her at the library, and soon after, she wanted to see what the arts were like for herself.”
“She’s read books, but she isn’t very good,” Elisabeth added. Eunice nodded curtly with a smart purse of the lips aimed at Elisabeth who shrugged and raised her hands in the air in response.
“You’re very critical, Sister Elisabeth,” Eunice teased. “Michelle has ancestral ties to some very interesting elements of Islamic faith, though she is rather unrehearsed.”
A knock came to the door, and Vicky again went to open it. As soon as Sammy walked in, she turned to the living room. When seeing Sunday seated beside her coven sisters, Sammy’s eyes went large. She beamed a wide, bright smile and bounded toward them, hardly able to contain her excitement.
“Oh my god, Sunny, you don’t know how happy I am right now.” She pumped her fist like her favorite basketball team had just scored a point. “You’re going to be so glad you came.”
The ritual began a few minutes after Sammy arrived. White linen was laid over the oblong dining room table. Anchoring the cloth were antique silver candlesticks that had seen better days. A long, black candle was placed in each of the four candlesticks and was lit. Vicky recited an incantation over the candles as she struck a match to light each one. As soon as they were all lit, Vicky switched off the light.
Although she had been invited to sit among them, Sunday pulled a chair aside and sat in the corner of the room where she could get a clear view of the circle, the objects on the table, and how the women individually contributed. Elisabeth took her place at the head of the table, and the other women sat on either side of her.
Eunice asked the women to link hands. Eunice and Constance clasped hands over the table to round out the end. As soon as the circle closed, Elisabeth named each woman, addressing her with the given title of “Sister.” In response to their name, each woman bowed her head.
“This coven convenes and this circle is formed so that we may raise our spirits as one. I allow my aura to extend from my being and join with my sisters.”
There was a moment of silence before Kayla spoke.
“I allow my aura to extend from my being and join with my sisters.”
After her, Vicky repeated the statement, and each woman followed suit just as she had when Elisabeth had identified her.
Following each of the sisters’ statements, a sharp current ran up Sunday’s spine. Magic was happening. The hair at the back of her head stood up, and she could feel the tingle of the combined energies of the witches in the tips of her fingers and toes. Sunday’s thighs pressed flatly to the seat, and her knees touched. Feet planted firmly to the floor, she sat as erect she could. This was nothing like a knitting circle. Her guards were secured tightly, and she was certain she could keep anything from seeping in and out if she remained focused.
Silence lasted for a minute or two before Elisabeth led the circle in a uniform chant. The language was familiar, but nothing Sunday could translate. Inwardly, Sunday focused on maintaining the security of her shields. As they finished echoing the words Elisabeth recited, the women let go of one another’s hands, but the mystical energy that had been created by the circle remained.
The gathering went on for another hour. After the women had unlinked hands, they read from a text that Elisabeth had brought out from another room and discussed various translations. Their ritual had empowered them to see past the words and offered them insights into passages that otherwise, they would have understood with little depth, if at all. It was a lot like a group of college students analyzing poetry with their professors.
Sunday remained still as the magic in the air lingered, reacting little to what anyone said by nodding here or offering up a “yeah” or “interesting point” when someone looked her way. It wasn’t until the magic started dissipating that she became aware of anything worth raising her suspicions.
As the individual contributions of the weaker witches dissipated from the coven’s collective aura, the stronger, more defined gifts rose to the surface. In that residual stew, Sunday sensed a malignant undercurrent. She couldn’t risk reaching out to it for fear that its sorcerer could feel that it had been identified. Instead, she allowed it to lick at the surface and move of its own accord, until it finally lost its power and evaporated along with the rest of the witch’s contributions.
Whatever it was and whoever spurned it hadn’t been playing schoolhouse with the rest of the coven. The energy that Sunday sensed was demanding and hungry. The way it triggered Sunday’s natural alarms in spite of her security system assured her that it wasn’t white magic. Among them was a powerful witch with very clear, very cunning intentions, and she was using the otherwise pleasant coven for her own dark purposes.
CHAPTER NINE
From his vantage point, Cyrus saw Sunday sitting quietly outside the circle of women. Flickers of orange candlelight danced over her skin. His gaze brushed over her features carefully. Her bright, clear honey eyes shimmered in the candlelight. Her short hair left her long, slender neck bare. He trailed the line from her jaw to her exposed, defined collarbones where a riot of flowers bloomed on her shoulders. His cabinet of curiosities was so close he could taste her.
While Sunday stoically observed the gathering, he could make out the distinct sounds of incantations.
It’s a fucking coven, Cyrus communicated to Angel.
One unique element of a pack-bond was the ability of werewolves in the same pack to communicate without speaking. As wolves, a pack conversed even deprived of their human voices. It enhanced their hunt and created a solid bond between them that was most elegantly displayed when they ran as wolves tracking prey. At the moment, it enabled Cyrus to give his partner a play-by-play as Angel sat in the car a block away.
I don’t like this one bit. Tension laced Angel’s hurried thoughts. Is she holding court? Is she rallying troops?
Doesn’t look like it, Cyrus replied with a measured tone. She’s not doing anything or saying anything. It looks like she’s working really hard to just watch.
Initially, her face seemed relaxed, serene, like she was watching something rather uninteresting on the television, but as the ceremony progressed, her features hardened. Sunday’s long, white fingers and their painted, red tips drummed on her knees. Wrinkles between her eyebrows formed creases as the intensity of her focus increased. It was a subtle change, but Cyrus’ eyesight was keen. When the women released their hands, Sunday’s head jerked ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. She’d caught herself, perhaps, and regained her posture, appearing the detached but interested student, while the women continued their witchcraft.
The Incarnate mixing it up with a coven could be dangerous, Cy.
Take a step back, Cyrus warned. Let’s just hold tight for right now.
Cyrus returned to the car when the youngest of the witches stood up and turned on the lights. With little else to report, he quietly slid into his seat and closed the door beside him. For the remainder of the gathering, Sunday had done little more than nod a couple of times and spoken in short sentences when asked a question. She hadn’t participated at all, merely watched, and from her demeanor, she had regarded the event nonchalantly.
“Did you take down the other witches’ plates?” Cyrus
asked, knowing the response that would come.
“Of course, man. What do you think of me that you even have to ask?”
Cyrus shrugged. He stared out the windshield and watched as Sunday exited the house with two other women, the blonde from the club and another one. After a short exchange, they waved their goodbyes and went to their respective cars. Angel shifted the car into drive when Sunday drove past them unaware she was being stalked.
“We should just tag her and bag her tonight,” Angel suggested. His eyebrow twitched as he glared ahead. When the Incarnate maneuvered between lanes, Angel jerked the wheel abruptly.
Angel had long been growing restless. When they should have been rushing their target to complete their mission, Cyrus was slamming on the brakes. The sudden shift from urgency to delaying the hunt was aggravating. He wanted to go home to Alaska. He wanted to do something other than drive around on an endless survey of Goth clubs, interviewing people who might, or might not have any answers. Wasting away in a rental car while some woman, evil sorceress or not, went grocery shopping was wearing him down.
“We’re not here as PIs, Cy. Our sole objective is to retrieve the Incarnate and turn her over to the Pastophori. The cult’s paying top-dollar for this.”
Like Angel, and more than Angel could ever imagine, Cyrus was eager to take action. But the thought of retrieving Sunday and dumping her onto someone else brought a sour taste to his mouth. Angel’s proposal was one that he would have made a few days earlier. Even when he’d stalked around the Lair, his mouth watered for a bite of his prey. Knowing they were closer to her than they’d ever been only fueled his hunger. Then, he touched her and looked into her eyes. The unquenchable fires, the unrelenting thoughts of her, and the frustration of a long, fruitless hunt simply washed away.
“It’s too soon,” Cyrus answered. “She’s working with a coven, and she’s far from running. We don’t have any data on her working with a coven prior to this, and we can’t walk into a situation that’s so uncertain.” He had to convince Angel that they needed more time because he needed more time. They hadn’t reached out to the pack yet, and he didn’t want to think of the wheels that would be set into motion if they had.
“The Incarnate is here, Cy,” Angel challenged. His hands balled into fists around the steering wheel as his eyes focused ahead with increased intensity. “We should tag her and bag her before whatever she’s cooking gets out of hand.”
Cyrus didn’t need to open a line of psychic connection to his packmate to know that Angel’s agitation was growing close to ripping the steering wheel out of the car.
“We do that, and we walk in blind–”
“Blind?!” Angel interjected hastily. “Blind?! Are you warped? The bitch is gathering witches for some shit, and she’s been here long enough that we can only guess she’s been planning some big show.” His arm shot off the wheel, and he pointed to the car ahead of them.
“That woman is the Incarnate,” he barked.
Never before had Cyrus regretted taking a partner along for the hunt as he did then. Angel was a friend to him, but he was also a member of the pack. The pack was obligated to their client, the cult, to deliver a product, and the product was the woman he no longer desired to relinquish to another. A cold shiver shot up Cyrus’ spine. The Pastophori could do to her what the Northwest witch had done to her, or maybe worse. The pack wasn’t concerned with what the Pastophori wanted the Incarnate for, but Cyrus wasn’t operating under the pack’s orders anymore. Not until he could figure out what to do. All he knew was that he couldn’t turn her over.
“I may not know as much about her as you do, but I know that, whatever her game, she’s dangerous, Cyrus. She just left an esbat. You said it yourself. She just sat there and let them do their thing. No one does that. She’s planning something, and she’s using those women.”
Angel slapped the dash and glowered at his friend. Angel’s glare met Cyrus’, and recognizing that he had just aggressed upon a much more dominant wolf, he looked back at the road and forced himself to relax back into the driver’s seat.
Minutes of silence had passed between them as Sunday pulled up to her house and parked her car. They stopped across the street and shut off their headlights. The pair sat quietly for a few moments. Angel cracked the window and lit a smoke. The tension was palpable, but the more submissive of the two released a sizeable part of the ball he’d been winding.
“Listen, brother,” Cyrus began, sternly. “I’m asking for a few more days before we tell the boys we’ve made her in Columbia. Whatever’s going on, and you’re probably right that something is going on, we’ll need more intel before we can safely acquire her.”
He had to cut Angel a break, give in a little, and accept that, a few days ago, he would have been sitting in the same position as Angel sat now.
“If she’s harnessing the power of a coven, no matter how weak, she’s more than we can handle even now. Bringing our brothers into this would be a risk to them if we couldn’t provide the adequate information to make a safe go of it.”
It was an absolute fact. Whatever desire kept him from turning her over to the cult aside, it was stupid to make a move without being certain that they could take her. Sunday posed a threat to them regardless of any allies she acquired in that coven. Though Cyrus wasn’t at the compound to witness it, everyone knew what she had done to Bernadette. People had feared the elder witch, regarding her like a supreme being cut from their same cloth, even before the emergence of the Incarnate at her side. Whatever affinity bound Sunday to her, in spite of weeks of torture at her hands, did nothing to keep Sunday from such an impossible act of depravity. They had been just stories, rumors, and conjecture, but if they were true, then the Incarnate could put up a fight that neither wolves could handle. She only needed to sense a threat, and they were done for.
“You were on site at her capture,” Cyrus reminded him. “You might not have stayed on with Bernadette like I did, or seen all the shit that I’ve seen, but you know that, as a fucking kid, she wasn’t afraid of us. You think it’s going to be any different now, Angel? You’re kidding yourself.”
He looked out the window and watched as Sunday turned on a light inside her house. Through the curtains, her uneven shadow moved from room to room. There was a perverse sort of satisfaction gained in watching her like a voyeur. His body tingled with the knowledge that she was so close. It was like so many times in the service of Bernadette when he’d watch her moving across the manor. So close he could touch her, but separated by the abyss of his duty. Then, like now, Cyrus could only watch. For years, he’d stewed with a vengeance for the way she made him feel, unable to bridge that gap for fear he might kill her and earn the ire of Bernadette. Bernadette no longer stood in his way, but duty still did. Duty to his pack and duty to his mission.
The realization sank in his chest before he could truly enjoy their closeness. Rather than beat himself up about it any longer, he stuck out his finger and pressed it against the windshield, directing Angel’s eyes to her silhouette. His brows gathered tensely and his vision narrowed.
“She’s a woman now, Angel. She’s walking around her house, taking care of her shit, and she’s none the wiser to us watching her. If she makes us, even catches a whiff of us on her tail, she could tear this city apart. She could, and the whole goddamn town goes up in flames, and she strides out without singeing her dress.”
“If we wait till she falls asleep and take her by surprise, then she won’t know what hit her,” Angel countered. “The quicker we get her, the quicker we get this over with.”
Cyrus turned back and locked eyes with Angel. After a long, tense stare, Angel nodded once, sharply. Angel wasn’t buying the whole lot of doubt that Cyrus was selling. Cyrus hadn’t lied, but was leaving out the real reason behind his decision to hold off on the capture. He didn’t want to hasten anything about this opportunity he was getting. Time had been his enemy for far too long. Now, it was his only ally.
“A few
more days, Angel. Nothing comes up by Friday, and we call Stephen and gather a team. We take her by the weekend, and she’s in the hands of the cult by Sunday.” Cyrus waited until Angel nodded again. Begrudgingly, Angel accepted what Cyrus was saying. It made sense. Having crossed that bridge, Cyrus bought himself a couple of days to do something for himself. He would have to run into her again, orchestrate another encounter that seemed casual and coincidental at face value. The things he’d told Angel had been true. She was undeniably a threat to their safety and to the safety of the people around her, but he didn’t care. Her reaction to him at the club had been anything but malevolent. If they ran into one another again and she responded to him in kind, then he was in no danger of being ripped apart at her hands.
Thankfully, Angel had just given him a day or two to find out. He just had to work fast.
CHAPTER TEN
Vicky and Elisabeth Becker. Constance Smith. Michelle Hampstead, nee Singer. Eunice Johnson. Until Sunday could clear their names, they were all suspects.
The dark magic at the esbat was precise and potent. Someone was using her friends’ coven to some sinister ends, and Sunday needed to intervene. Sunday didn’t want to think that any one of the women in her friends’ coven was capable of it, but if there was even a possibility then she needed to get to the root of it and stop her.
The research process was slow going. Sunday began compiling data as soon as she got home the night of the coven meeting. Poring over public records, and whatever else her Internet searching retrieved, Sunday investigated each of the women. She started at the top: Elisabeth and Eunice. They were the strongest, oldest witches of the bunch. Age didn’t necessarily equate to power, but these two held court over the others with ease. Nothing she found in hours of searching tagged either women controversial, however, so Sunday crossed Eunice and Elisabeth off her list. They were powerful, but they were caretakers. The genuine article.