I’m just making my final edits to my paper when my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID. Sybil.
I bring the phone to my ear. “We’re calling each other now?” I answer. “Haven’t I told you that my introverted ass only does texts?”
“Ah, my kindhearted best friend,” Sybil says. “I knew you missed my voice.”
“I always miss you,” I tell her honestly.
“Aww, Selene, I love you, babe. I was actually calling to convince you to come to Henbane’s harvest party,” she says.
Of course, this is why she’s calling. It’s so much harder to tell her no over the phone than via text.
“That’s for coven members only,” I say, just in case she forgot.
“You and I both know you’ll get in after all you went through,” she says.
Wait, Sybil and I already talked?
I spend a frantic moment shuffling through my memories before I vaguely remember the conversation I had with her back at the airport in Quito, back when I was contacting friends and family to let them know I was all right. The plane crash was big news, even internationally.
“So,” Sybil says, interrupting my thoughts, “you’ll come to the party?”
Of course I want to go to the party. I just…I don’t want to feel like an outsider. This is my third attempt at getting into the coven, and considering Henbane’s fall semester starts at the end of next week, it’s not looking so good for me. I feel like I’m starting to garner people’s pity.
I chew on my lower lip, opening the calendar on my laptop. “When is it?”
“This Friday.”
That’s two days from now; it’s doubtful that I’ll know if I’ve gotten in by then.
“I’m tired. I just got back,” I say.
“Pleeeeaaase,” she begs. “The Marin Pack will be there. So will the mages from Bladderwrack Grove.”
Now she’s throwing the promise of hot shifters and magical dudes at me.
“I don’t know,” I say, still wavering.
“Come on. We hardly ever get the chance to see each other these days.”
Sneaky friend, she knows just how to pile on the friend guilt.
“There’ll be witch’s brew to drown your regrets in,” she continues, “and I heard that Kane Halloway might be there.”
I place a hand over my face. “Goddess above, girl, when are you going to let me live that crush down?”
I was in love with the lycanthrope since the moment I laid eyes on him at Peel Academy three years ago. After he graduated, he returned to the Marin Pack, where he’d been born and raised. I don’t know whether I have supremely good luck or bad luck that his pack’s territory lies right next to Henbane Coven. If I were in the coven, I’d probably see him a lot; the witches tend to freely mix with the werewolves since they’re neighbors.
“Live him down? Oh, I’m not going to stop bringing him up until you have your wicked way with him.”
“Sybil.”
She cackles like the witch she is. “Come on, you know you want to go to the party.”
Do I? Because right now, all I want to do for the next month is curl up in my bed with a book and a cup of tea.
I glance at the calendar again.
There will always be time to read.
I sigh. “All right. All right.”
My best friend squeals. “Yes! And remember to wear a skanky dress.”
“Sybil—”
“And bring a broom, you freak. It’s going to be fun!”
CHAPTER 10
The wind moans through the trees, rustling the evergreens that loom all around us. The air has a chill to it, and I can smell woodsmoke somewhere nearby. South America feels like a world away.
I don’t have a broom, though my dress is probably short enough to make Sybil proud. I’m one misstep away from everyone getting an eyeful of my coochie.
Nero walks at my side, and I’m so proud to have him there. I feel like he’s always belonged next to me, and getting to show him off in all his hulking, ferocious glory puts my magical insecurities to bed.
People won’t pity a witch who’s snagged a panther as a familiar. That’s the sort of bond that inspires respect—and maybe even a little fear. I wouldn’t entirely mind that, if I’m being completely honest.
The two of us cut past the lecture halls and the enormous three-story greenhouse, then head into the Everwoods, the forest surrounding the coven. I follow the distant sound of laughter and music, and for a moment, I pretend I belong here, that I know this campus the way I so desperately want to.
My phone vibrates against my cleavage, which is being used in lieu of a purse.
I pull my phone out, checking the text from Sybil.
Are you here yet? Do you need me to come meet you? We’re just past the greenhouse.
I hurriedly respond.
I’m all good. On campus now. I should be there soon.
A gust of wind kicks up, sending a violent shiver through me.
I rub my bare arms and glance over at Nero. “Are you cold, buddy?”
Nero’s eyes flick to me just long enough to make me feel like I asked an inane question.
“Fine, fine, forget I asked.”
My heels crunch fallen pine needles, and the smell of woodsmoke grows stronger. For a witch, that smell stirs something deep in the bones. This is the magic we’re made of—midnight fires and fog-shrouded forests.
The woods open to a clearing filled with dozens and dozens of supernaturals chatting, dancing, drinking, and laughing around bundles of dried cornstalks. Most of the women, I recognize from the coven, but there are some unfamiliar witches, as well as several lycanthropes as well. I take in the mages—the male equivalent of a witch—and the other lycans. Magic shimmers in the air above them, glittering off the light from the bonfire and the enchanted lanterns that float in the sky.
I’ve missed this.
I’ve spent the past year maneuvering the regular world filled with nonmagical humans and their nonmagical lives. I forgot how a gathering of supernaturals can make my blood thrum.
I hear a squeal, and then Sybil is running over to me, her drink sloshing in her hand, while her owl, Merlin, lifts off her shoulder where he’s been perched.
“There you are!” she calls, her long dark hair swaying behind her. “I was worried you wouldn’t show—” Sybil stops short, her eyes landing on Nero. “What in the Tiger King hell is that thing?” she says, staring at him. Her own familiar glares at the panther; Merlin looks as put out as an owl can look.
Did I not tell her?
“This is my familiar, Nero.” I place a hand on Nero’s head, ruffling my panther’s fur perhaps a tad more aggressively than I need to.
In response, my familiar growls, probably because he’s aware I’m being an ass.
He and I have a love-hate relationship.
“That is your familiar?” she says, edging back a little. “I thought you said he was a cat.”
Nero gives me a long look, like I’ve disappointed him. But you know what? He’s the one who licks his own butt, so he has no grounds to be judgmental.