In group-led witchcraft, there’s often a priestess, a witch who leads the spellcasting. Covens too have a version of this, and the witches who lead these regional groups are known as high priestesses.
I’ve never met Henbane’s high priestess before, but I’ve caught sight of her house several times since I was accepted into the coven. It sits like a castle in the woods to the north of campus. Climbing roses and wisteria cover the sides of the pale stone walls. Birds and butterflies flitter around it. It’s the definition of enchanting, though there’s an eeriness to it because it’s too enchanting, too lovely. It mesmerizes the eyes while unsettling the heart.
Magic, no matter how benevolently used, has that effect.
I step up to the large wooden door, Nero at my side, and reach for a knocker held between the fanged teeth of some primordial goddess. Before I can touch it, the knocker cackles.
“No need for that, Selene Bowers. We’ve been waiting for you,” the knocker says around the metal in her mouth.
Goose bumps break out across my skin at the small show of magic. The hinges of the door groan, and then it swings inward of its own accord.
I don’t know what I expect when I step inside—to be honest, I don’t know why I’m here at all—but I’m surprised to see the bare stone walls and smooth floor, the only decoration another primitive goddess figurine sitting in a nearby alcove, her arms raised above her head. Most witches tend to be maximalists, cluttering their walls and spaces with every conceivable knickknack. The lack of it all is strangely unsettling.
There are arched doorways and a myriad of rooms branching from the entryway, but it’s the stairway directly in front of me, the one cut like a slash into the floor of the foyer that has my attention.
“Down here,” a woman calls from below.
The high priestess.
I can tell it’s her without even seeing her face or knowing her name. There’s power folded into her words.
I take the stairs down, Nero at my side. Despite my familiar’s soothing presence, my nerves are set on edge. Dread has long since soured my stomach. I must be in trouble. Maybe it’s the murders. Or perhaps this is about the fight in the Everwoods. Or Nero poaching on lycanthrope territory.
I honestly have a lot to account for.
But I try to push those worrying thoughts away.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and enter a subterranean room whose floors and walls are covered in the same pale stone as the rest of the house.
Directly across from me, on the other side of the room, sits the high priestess. She’s a crone, her skin wrinkled and paper-thin. Her dark brown eyes shine like gems, and there is something beautiful and strong about her—perhaps it is her power alone that makes her hard to look away from.
Magic loves old things most of all.
She wears white robes, gold clasps holding the garment together at her shoulders. Her hair lies like unspun yarn over her shoulders and down past her breasts. A white raven sits on her shoulder.
“Sit.”
I don’t think the high priestess used any compulsion on me, but I swear my ass has crossed the room and lowered itself into the seat across from her before the echo of her voice has quieted.
She folds her hands under her chin, leaving only her index fingers out to tap ponderously against her mouth.
“You don’t seem like a murderess,” she says thoughtfully, “but then again, the guilty often don’t.”
What?
“What are you talking about?”
She gives me a knowing look. “You don’t think I’m so big a fool that I’m unaware the Politia suspects your involvement in the recent murders.”
The silence that follows those words is thick and ugly.
“I didn’t kill those women,” I say softly.
She leans back in her chair, her eyes moving to Nero, who sits next to me.
“I have long found comfort belowground,” she says, switching topics. “My own magic is particularly potent when drawn from deeper earth. Bedrock, in particular, is a very grounding, very powerful substance to draw from. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She levels those dark eyes on me, and it’s as though she can see me entering the subterranean rooms below the residence hall to join that spell circle. As though she can even see me entering Memnon’s forbidden crypt.
I twist my hands together. “I don’t think I follow…”
“Don’t play coy with me, Selene Bowers. You have lost your memory, not your wits. The oldest, most eternal parts of the universe call to you. Water, stone—even the moon.”
How does she know about my magical aptitudes? Even I can only vaguely remember them.
“Many people consider these cold, lifeless things,” the high priestess continues. She leans forward conspiratorially. “They call to me as well.”
She resettles in her seat, her white raven turning its head and inspecting me with one of its dark eyes.
“Supernaturals—even other witches—worry about those of us bewitched by such things because…well, we are more prone to dark enchantments and perverse magic.”
Ah. So that’s what this is about.
“I didn’t kill those women,” I say again, more forcefully this time. “Please, use a truth spell on me if that’s what it takes.”
“Your own mind hides itself from you, Selene. Such a spell would not fully prove your innocence. You must know this.”
I don’t know what this meeting is, but it’s clear that perhaps I now have to prove my innocence to two different institutions—the Politia and Henbane Coven.
I take a deep breath. “I spent over a year trying to get into this coven. Being here has been my dream since I Awoke as a witch. Even if you cannot trust me when I say I hold life to be sacred, you can at least trust that I would never want to jeopardize my spot here.”
The high priestess scrutinizes me, seeing entirely too much of me with those enthralling eyes of hers.
“Yes,” she agrees, “your Awakening profoundly shaped your life’s goals—just as it shapes all of us who come into our truest forms. But,” she continues, her tone changing, “you are not just a witch.”
I go still. So still.
She knows exactly what I’ve only just learned.
“You are a soul mate.” The high priestess tosses it out there as though it’s something almost mundane and not the earth-shattering revelation I find it to be.
“I wonder how that might affect your life’s goals,” she muses, “particularly depending on the soul mate…”
Where is she going with this?
Does she know about Memnon?
She stares at me for a long minute before turning her attention to papers sitting on the desk in front of her.
“The Politia officers aren’t the only ones who are interested in you. The lycanthropes have been barraging me with requests to speak with you. They say it’s urgent, but they will not tell me what it is.”
She gives me a sly look. “They forget that witches see much, and we perceive even more. They do not believe you a murderess. In fact, they seem to hold you in quite high esteem.”
For a moment, my unease and self-doubt disappears, and my worries diminish.
The high priestess holds my gaze. “Would you like to speak with the wolves?”
Do I have a choice?
“You always have a choice.”