If he chooses not to leave, Drake will have no choice but to take part in The Harvest. That, or he’ll be executed once they find out he was a part of destroying the statue and killing the Phovi.
None of this was supposed to happen. How in the Darklands are they planning on choosing the so-called sacrifices now? Without the statue. I knew this whole ceremony was corrupt. They don’t even need Death’s magic or the gods. They’ll likely pick the names themselves. Bastards.
Through the open window, I hear church bells and let out a weary sigh. “They’re summoning everyone.”
“You should go,” he replies. “If you don’t, they’ll suspect you.”
As the final dong resounds, my body shivers and a wave of coldness washes over me. “Darklands, no. I’m not staying while you run, and who says they won’t arrest me?”
“You know they won’t.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Cali. I should have done this alone.” He takes a step forward and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. Despite Drake’s body pressing against mine, I can’t find any comfort, rendered numb to any other sensation.
My voice is barely audible as I mumble into his chest, “Like I’d have let you.”
“If we both go, they’ll hunt us faster. You’re the daughter of an elder,” he says, as if I could ever forget. “Even if they find out you were involved, they won’t kill you.” As he retreats, his eyes remain fixed on me, their intensity unnerving. “Don’t come after me. Promise me.”
An irresistible urge to lean in and kiss him consumes me, even if everything is hopeless. The desire has been building up inside me for so long, but the fear of losing our friendship keeps us from acting on any feelings we have.
But that doesn’t matter now. Not if he’s leaving.
I drift closer, my heart hammering against my ribcage. He leans forward and caresses his thumb over my lips, tracing them with his eyes as he inches closer. Wild-eyed, his lips brush against mine, and I hold my breath.
His grip tightens, then he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “We can’t,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You need to forget me.” Gulping, he pulls away, lingering his fingers over my hand for a second longer. “It’s for the best.”
He turns slowly, pressing his lips tight, as if he might break at any moment. I watch him leave, and step forward, desiring nothing more than to go after him. But as his footsteps fade, my bottom lip trembles, a sob quaking my chest. Shaking my head, I run to the window, grabbing the rotting ledge, battling hot tears, refusing to let them pierce through.
Gods know if I start crying, I won’t stop. He will be okay. He has to be. As I stare through the grimy glass, my heart sinks. I watch Drake appear below, then run toward the forest. Closing my eyes, I suck in several deep breaths, attempting to ground myself. Drake must leave. It is the only choice. Yet, even with him gone, the elders know someone used decay magic.
Wasting no time, I hurry to the other room, snatching a vial of poison from the table and staring at the shimmering dark-purple liquid. Resolved to push aside the emptiness left by Drake’s absence, I prepare to leave for the church.
I tighten my grip around the vial of poison. If the elders find out I’m behind the use of decay magic, even my father won’t be able to protect me. But I refuse to go down without a fight.
SEVENAzkiel
I sink deeper into the foliage of Morcidea Forest, keeping to the shadows. My eyes focus on a willowy man in the center of the town square, tonight’s entertainment on the second eve of the Night Market.
The witch’s magic echoes mine as he devours the light from the torches illuminating the booths and glittering, dark items on display. The crowd gasps as they are plunged into darkness, with nothing but the reprieve of the crescent, white moon.
Flickers of orange light glow on his fine, embroidered tunic as he absorbs and weaves its essence into his clothing. In moments, every part of the fabric covering his body glows with a fiery beacon.
With a twist of his wrists, the specks of light leave his clothes, then return to their candles. My lips curve as I watch the practiced magician. He cannot be any older than thirty, yet he has mastered light absorption—one of the three powers my coven can inherit from me.
Cheers and clapping erupt throughout the market, and I take another step back, wondering where she is.
My senses reach out for my ethereal power, every part of my being aching to see the witch I plan to kill. Leaves rustle around me as shadow vipers slither closer, drawn to the magic in my veins. With a hiss, they watch the mortals alongside me, our eyes focused as one on Ennismore.
Everything has changed since I was last here, except for the church. What was once a handful of scattered small houses now includes shops and a market, transforming the area into the town square.
The festivities of The Harvest pause when the church bells ring and crows scatter from the branches. A small smile curves my lips when I spot my sigil emblazoned on tents and the cloaks of the witches and warlocks. They still worship me the most, but as I notice the symbols of my sisters and brothers, the contentment quickly fades.
I move deeper into the shadows of the forest as the crowds pour from the buildings and the square, all making their way toward the church. Excited, intelligible chatter rises amongst them as they discuss The Harvest.
Despite some of their elders’ weaknesses, I swell with pride as the people celebrate the traditions I created, so they could have protection after I left. With each Harvest, a new elder is born, acquiring the powers of the fallen sacrifices, ensuring a long lineage of elders through the generations.
In return, I could return to the Darklands knowing the elders forbade anyone to go to Tenenocti, except on the night of The Harvest, on my orders and the new sacrifices join my dead in protecting the island. Although, few try. Those who do are drowned before they can arrive.
While my reapers—cloaked, skeletal beings born from darkness, and created using my sister’s magic—take over my tasks of guiding the dead. Not that the dead have a destination. Without Cyna, we drag most of them to the Darklands, deserving or not.
The crowds in the square disperse, dressed in their finery, the colors varying depending on the coven they were born into, and head toward the church.
My magic tingles as I turn my eyes to a woman who hikes up the skirt of her dress, showing worn boots stained with the inky blue blood of my Phovi.
I grit my teeth, then look up to see her long, brown hair cascading down her back, the golden and chestnut hues catching against the moonlight.
I never expected my heart to skip a beat until I lay my eyes on her for the first time.
I growl under my breath as my ethereal power—living within her—caresses my senses from afar.
Each step is graceful, every movement hypnotic and enticing, yet I can’t help but notice the darkness lurking in her eyes. There’s something familiar about her, perhaps because of the power we share.
My breath catches unexpectedly in my throat when she half-smiles at a woman in passing. Her cheeks dimple, her full lips slightly curved, and a deep, aching sadness drowns my thoughts.
Calista.
It takes several seconds before I move again, and my heart rate picks up, each beat a struggle. I cannot take my eyes off her, and sweat slicks my forehead, a fog clouding my mind until I cannot think. I shake my head, desperate to remove the anxiety threading my veins.
Every time I lay eyes on her amidst the crowd, observing her as she navigates through it and pondering how she acquired my magic, I am frozen.
My lips part as I track her movements. She carefully maneuvers herself, keeping a safe distance from the other people. For a moment, I contemplate whether she also shares my fate of never experiencing another’s lingering touch.
