“Olga,” Sybil chastises. “Now is really not the time.”
“Actually, now is exactly the time.” Olga’s eyes get a fanatical shine to them. “And I’m in the process of getting approval to pull Kate’s final words. It could help catch the killer.”
“That’s still disturbing as shit,” says the witch at the table whose name I still don’t know.
Olga lifts a shoulder. “Never said I wasn’t disturbed.” She laughs, and some of the women at the table laugh with her until it dies away. In its wake is a tense silence, one only punctuated by the scrape of silverware.
Charlotte leans forward in her seat.
“Who do you think did it?” she whispers.
My fears expand in my chest.
It may be my fault. I released an ancient evil, and he may be preying on young witches.
I catch Sybil’s eye before I swallow my nerves and shake my head.
“No clue,” I say to Charlotte.
No one else at the table has a better answer.
It’s only after dinner, when Sybil and I go to her room to work on our first assignments, that I decide to unburden myself.
I try to not let my chin tremble as I sit there on her floor, one of my textbooks open in front of me, while my friend moves about the room, watering dozens of potted plants crammed on shelves or hanging from the ceiling.
Now that a witch is dead—a witch who lived down the hall from me—I can’t help the terror seeping into my veins.
“He found me,” I say softly, jiggling one of my legs in agitation.
Sybil pauses. “Hmm?” she says, pausing to glance over her shoulder at me.
“Memnon,” I say. “He found me.”
“Wait.” Sybil sets down her watering pail. “What?” Her shrill tone has her owl ruffling his feathers before he resettles on his perch.
“Yesterday, when I was getting ready to head back here, he found me. He was lurking in the woods around the coven.”
“Are you okay?” she says, alarmed. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you?”
I swallow and shake my head. “I’m fine. No, he didn’t hurt me. Yes, he threatened me,” I answer.
“He threatened you?” Sybil’s voice has gone shriller. “Screw the Law of Three and its consequences, I will find a curse so potent, it will shrivel his dick off.”
I laugh a little at the thought.
Sybil sits in front of me, pushing my textbook aside. “Tell me everything about what happened.”
So I do.
By the end of it, Sybil has paled. “So this guy actually thinks you’re his wife?”
I nod miserably.
“And he followed you all the way here to Henbane?”
Another nod.
I twist my hands together, chewing on my lower lip. “And now a witch is dead,” I say softly.
Realization fills Sybil’s eyes. “You think he did it.”
I scrub my face. “I don’t know. It seems awfully likely though, right? He shows up, and the next day, a witch is dead.”
Sybil shakes her head. “That…definitely doesn’t look good,” she agrees. “But it could still be a coincidence.”
I want to believe that. I really do. Otherwise, that witch’s death is on my conscience.
Sybil frowns, furrowing her brow. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, babe.”
I take a deep breath. “I promise.”
The coven buzzes with activity as classes come into full swing, and even with the recent murder still fresh, life resettles. Despite all the supernatural aspects of a witch’s life, it’s the mundane routines that move the days here.
I glance out the window from my wards class. Outside, another class is sitting on the coven’s front lawn, growing massive beanstalks in a matter of minutes.
“…the easiest and most durable of wards come in the form of amulets.”
I turn my attention back to the front of my class, where Mistress Gestalt, a guest speaker, is giving the lecture. I take in the elderly witch as she leans on the podium. She’s what the fairy tales not so lovingly refer to as a hag.
Only, the stories didn’t get a lot of things right. For instance, hags don’t need to have warts and sinister features. This one, in particular, is more of a HAG—a Hot-Ass Grandma.
“Tell me,” she says now, “when you think of amulets, what comes to mind?” Her long white hair sways behind her as she walks.
Someone raises their hand, and she points to them. “A stone or pendant you wear around your neck.”
She nods. “Anyone else?”
Someone else calls out, “Signet rings.”
“Good, good,” Mistress Gestalt says. She stops. “What if I told you I was wearing ten different amulets? Do you think you could find them all?”
My eyes sweep over her. She wears a loose royal-blue dress cinched with an embroidered belt, a wrist full of colorful bangles, and leather sandals.
She pulls her hair away from her ear, showing off a copper earring with etched writing. She points to it. “This may be my most obvious example. But I should also tell you that the crowns on three of my teeth are marked with protective wards, and the belt has been embroidered with another spell.”
She points to a few of her bangles, a button at the top back of her dress, and a buckle on her sandals.
“Amulets do not need to be obvious or conventional—there are quite a few I’ve spelled over in the medical field—pacemakers, implants, dentures, and more.”
She spends the rest of the two-hour lecture going over the nuances of amulets and all the spells that can be placed on them. I write down notes on everything she says, determined not to miss a single detail.
A bell trills, marking the end of the class.
“Your instructor wants me to remind you all that your amulets will be due at the end of the week,” Mistress Gestalt calls out. “I myself will be looking them over. The witch who creates the most exquisite work will be offered a formal apprenticeship at my company, the Witch’s Mark.”
I gather my things alongside my classmates, my mind turning over the idea of an apprenticeship. Is that what I want? Eventually, I’ll have to specialize in some kind of magic. I wonder what a career that specializes in amulets would look like…
“Selene Bowers.”
I startle at the sound of Mistress Gestalt calling—and hell, simply knowing—my name. Of course, a name is easy enough to procure, if you’re a witch.
I glance over at her.
She gives me a soft smile, her light eyes a little vacant. “May I have a word?”
My gaze sweeps over the rest of the witches leaving the room. I don’t know what she could possibly want from me, unless it’s something I’ve forgotten.
After a moment, I nod. “Of course.” I make my way toward her.
“Good, good.” She grabs her notes from the podium and slips them into a bag at her feet.
My heart is picking up speed as I step up to her. I don’t even know why I’m nervous. I think it’s simply habit that makes me assume I’m being recognized for doing something wrong rather than, I don’t know, standing out for my amazing magical talent.
“It’s an odd form of witchcraft, yours,” Mistress Gestalt says as she zips up her bag.
I raise my eyebrows. She knows my brand of magic? I shouldn’t be surprised. Crones are especially sharp.