Bewitched

CHAPTER 22

Witches party. A lot. Normally, I’m all for that.

Tonight I’m not.

“Sybil, you ca

“Witches are getting murdered on campus grounds after hours,” I say. Already, I heard talk that the coven is thinking of imposing a curfew.

She glances up at me, holding an eyeshadow palette and brush in her hand. Her gaze slides over my lounge pants and loose shirt. “Why aren’t you dressed? I texted you about the party hours ago.”

“Because it’s not safe,” I say slowly. It’s been three nights since I found Andrea, the witch who was murdered in the woods. She’d been unaffiliated with any known coven, simply moving through the area.

Still, her name will be burned into my memory until my magic takes it.

Sybil blows out a breath. “Did you see anyone when you came down to my room?” she asks out of nowhere.

My brows come together. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Did you?” she presses.

I shake my head.

“Did you hear anyone when you were walking through our house?”

My brows furrow further. “Why does that even matter—?”

“The rest of our housemates are already at the party, which yes, is across the Everwoods on lycanthrope territory, and yes, the world is a dangerous place, but the world has always been a dangerous place for witches, Selene.”

Other witches were already out in those woods? The thought chills my blood. Why is no one else taking this seriously?

Sybil continues. “The Marin Pack is patrolling the forest, and the coven’s head witches have cast protective wards on the area. Whoever is killing witches would be unable to hurt any witch without the entire coven and the shifters knowing.

“Besides,” she throws in casually, “they’re saying the women weren’t killed in the woods, just moved there.”

A shiver wracks my body.

As if that’s much better.

“And you’re going to walk through those woods alone?” I ask.

“Goddess, Selene, I was going to walk over with you, but I can find another witch to head over with if you’re not coming.”

Hell will freeze over before I let my best friend travel across those woods with some random housemate who may not be looking out for her the way I will.

Even if it gets me freaking murdered in the process.

I blow out a breath. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll come along, but only so you don’t get yourself killed in your quest to get drunk and laid.”

Sybil lets out an excited squeal. “You’re not going to regret it.”

I highly doubt that.

“Pretty sure the people who invented heels were fans of waterboarding, iron maidens, and the Spanish Inquisition,” I mutter as I pull on a thigh-high boot from Sybil’s closet. I wear a deep-blue minidress with exaggerated bell sleeves. “And I’m the loser who’s wearing them,” I continue, “all so I can drink cheap booze and make poor decisions.”

“My goddess, Selene, stop cha

I make a face as I pull the other boot on. “My i

“Don’t you want to see the werewolves’ territory?”

Not really.

“Plus, Kane is going to be there—”

I groan. “For the love of our goddess, please stop with Kane,” I say.

“Only if you go. If not, I’m going to find him and tell him you’re wildly in love with him and want to have his little wolfy babies.”

Horrified, I glance at my friend. “Sybil.”

It might’ve once been true. Now, when I close my eyes, it’s a different face I think about. One that makes my stomach twist with both dread and desire.

Sybil cackles, every inch the villainous witch.

“You wouldn’t,” I say.

“No, but only because you’re going.”

Sybil braids a small section of my hair on either side of my temples, then secures them away from my face with clips painted to look like real butterflies. She murmurs a spell under her breath, and the next time I look in the mirror, I see the wings of my clips flutter and resettle, as though they were real.

The two of us touch up each other’s makeup, and then we leave the house. Sybil and I cut across campus, past the massive glass conservatory on our right, which is still lit up, despite the late hour. Lampposts around the school bathe the rest of campus in pretty golden light, but the moment we hit the tree line, the shadows swallow us.

“This is a bad idea, Sybil,” I say, staring around us at the dark forms of trees. It doesn’t help that my familiar is off hunting tonight instead of at my side. There’s nothing like having a panther bodyguard to make a girl feel safe.

Sybil bends down and plucks a weed from the ground. Holding it in her palm, she whispers a spell. The plant shrivels and twists before our eyes. In its place grows a ball of pale green light. She blows on it, and it bobs ahead of us, lighting our way. Almost as an afterthought, she drops the dead weed from her hand.

I stare at her for a second longer. “You truly are extraordinary, you know.” I’m so proud of her, my friend who will one day change the world.

“Awww,” Sybil says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “So are you, Selene.”

I draw her words close and let myself believe them. When my memory loss feels overwhelming or when it prevents me from doing the sorts of things other witches take for granted, I can second-guess my abilities. This is my reminder to tell my insecurities to fuck off.

Sybil winds her arm through mine. “Isn’t it wild?” she says. “Just think of all those stories they tell about these woods.”

I give her a sharp look. “You mean the ones where witches are being murdered?” I say, my voice rising a little.

“Goddess,” Sybil says, exasperated, rolling her eyes at me. “The Everwoods has far more to its history than the recent murders.” She glances at me. “Have you heard about the witches claimed during the Sacred Seven?”

According to werewolves, the Sacred Seven are the seven days closest to the full moon, the time when their magic compels them to shift. Normally, packs keep to themselves during those days, usually to stop themselves from accidentally harming nonshifters.

“No,” I say. “What the hell do you mean there have been witches claimed during the Sacred Seven?”

Sybil lifts a shoulder. “Lycanthropes have been known to lay a claiming bite on witches out late in these woods—if, of course, the witch is unable or unwilling to stop them.”

“What?” I say, aghast. “That actually happens?” My eyes flick to the sky above us, searching for the moon. But of course it’s not there. Even if the trees and the clouds weren’t obscuring my view, tomorrow is the new moon, which means there’s not much to see in the sky right now.

“That’s how lycanthropes claim their mates.” Sybil gives me a sly smile. “Ask a shifter tonight how their parents met. Some of them have witch mothers.”

Witch mothers who might also shift into wolves, if what she’s saying is true.

“It’s not just lycanthropes either,” Sybil continues. “There are stories of fae who’ve snatched witches from these woods to be their brides.”

“Are these stories supposed to make me feel better? Because all I know now is that I should worry about murderers, werewolves, and fairies.”

“Don’t forget your vengeful mummy,” she says playfully, a smile spreading on her lips.

My mood darkens at the reminder. But before I can dwell on it too long, the distant thumping of music drifts through the woods.

We continue on a little ways, and then, ahead of us, the forest brightens, and through the trees, I catch sight of supernaturals dancing and mingling in a small clearing next to a cabin.

Sybil and I make it to the revelers, and Sybil’s orb floats up and joins dozens of others in the air above us, each emitting light the shade of the caster’s magic. It looks ethereal, and the sight of it reminds me of Sybil’s earlier words about the fae claiming brides on nights like tonight.

A shiver courses through me.

Next to me, Sybil murmurs, “Through sweat and salt and musky fear, send the cold away from here.”

The chill in the air disperses, leaving the night feeling a touch balmy.

“You’re welcome,” Sybil whispers.

I shake my head and smile. I keep forgetting how much fun it is to openly use magic. I’m still used to living among humans and concealing it.

Sybil and I head inside the cabin, where more shifters and witches are hanging out. I recognize a big group of witches from our house, and I join them while Sybil runs off to grab us drinks.

I listen as my coven sisters chat about how hard premed magic is and nod when appropriate, but I’m distracted by my own unease. This feels like a reenactment of Little Red Riding Hood, only the whole story is flipped on its head, and the wolves aren’t going to eat us—whatever is lurking out in these woods will.

In my mind’s eye, I see that murdered witch again, with her gaping chest cavity and missing organs—

“I saw Kane.”

I nearly jump at the sound of Sybil’s voice in my ear.

“Maiden, Mother, and Crone, Sybil,” I say, clutching my heart. “You scared me.”

“Ease up, Bowers,” she says, pressing a red cup into my hand. “I’m not going to bite. Kane, on the other hand…”

“Will you stop?” I whisper frantically.

“Never,” she whispers back.

As I speak to Sybil, I catch the eye of one of the witches across the way, her features almost painfully symmetrical.

I’m about 75 percent sure that’s Kasey, the shady spell-circle witch. She responded to my earlier text with the time and place of the spell circle.

Now she gives me a little wave, and I wave back at her, my stomach twisting on itself.

Really need to get a respectable job. I don’t have the nerves for shady side gigs.

Olga comes over to us, her hair a frizzy tangle of curls and her eyes wild.

“No Book of Last Words?” Sybil says, looking the witch over. “I thought you never parted with it.”

“Ledger,” Olga clarifies. “It’s the Ledger of Last words.” She holds up her drink. “And I didn’t want to spill beer on it. But I’ve added to it since we last spoke…”

I force myself to tune out the rest of what she has to say. Normally, I’m as curious as the next person about death and last words and all that jazz, but tonight it’s not sitting well. Not when I’m already on edge.

So I sip my drink and let my eyes wander over the cabin while my coven sisters chat.