Lucien smiled at Odette as he supported her weight. She was featherlight, almost insubstantial. “Take your time.”
“Thank you, Lucien.” She accepted the water and snack from Birdie, and after a few sips and a bite of chocolate, her colour returned. “Sorry, everyone. It was a strong image I saw from the seal. That’s all. It was like a cobra strike.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I feel a bit embarrassed now.”
“Let’s get her in a chair, Lucien,” Morgana said.
After she was settled and had taken a few deep breaths, Odette smiled. “I’m fine. We can carry on soon.”
Barak crouched opposite her. Everything about him was clenched tight—his jaw, his fists, and his corded muscles. “What did you see? Belial?”
“Yes, and someone else. The scribe. Belial was fleeting. A flash of his eyes and then he was gone. But the scribe was intense. I couldn’t determine his age, but he was one of you. A Nephilim.”
Barak’s black skin turned grey. “Surely it can’t be possible.”
“I know what I saw. Not pure angel. Belial was his father, I’m certain.”
“Of the House of Belial. That’s bad news.” Barak sat back on the floor heavily, looking at Estelle and then Lucien, absolute confusion on his face. “It shouldn’t even be possible. You said the parchment and ink were old, but the manifesto was newer. So that means the scribe is of more recent centuries, too?”
“Yes. Well, I think so.” Odette’s gaze flickered to her coven and Estelle. “I don’t see things with crystal clarity, but I can usually trust my intuition.”
Birdie nodded. “Yes, she can. We have all learned to trust what she sees.”
“So, what we—me and my brothers—have feared, is true. We had hoped it was just human agents that he possessed, but I suppose it was the only logical conclusion, really.”
“Is it so bad?” Morgana asked, puzzled. “You are Nephilim, and you are here!”
“Well, human agents are easier to fight, that’s for sure. Of course, we have battled other Nephilim many times over the years. That is not the issue, either. It’s how he is here, now! We died in the Great Flood, and found our way back through an open portal. But him…”
Birdie nodded. “I see. He either survived for millennia after making it through the Flood, or was brought back another way.”
“And if he did survive,” Estelle said, meeting Barak’s worried look with her own, “how many others also did?”
“Exactly.” Barak regained his feet. “No matter. That is not for you to worry about. We will deal with that. It’s even more important now to get more information from the manifesto. You’ve already told us so much, though, Odette. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” She too stood up. “I’m afraid that fainting is one of my standard responses when I’m psychically overwhelmed. It’s a defence mechanism that shuts down my psychic awareness. However, I am okay, and we can continue.”
They settled back into their positions, this time with Odette outside the rune circle. While they set up, Lucien studied Barak. He looked preoccupied, his jaw tight, and he attempted to reassure him. “It will be okay. We will find them and stop them, no matter how many there are.”
“Belial’s sons fought dirty.”
Lucien laughed. “So do we. And we have JD’s weapons now, too.”
“You want to help?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? What else will I do with my time? I have all this strength and speed that I’m finally getting used to using, thanks to you.”
His thoughts drifted as the witches cast the protection spell around the pentacle on the floor and started the first spell. Birdie led them, the High Priestess of the Moonfell Coven, and Estelle seemed happy with the decision. Lucien was used to her twisted lips that denoted disapproval. She had always been kind to him, but there was no doubt she was abrupt when things did not go her way.
The truth was that Lucien still wasn’t sure how he’d live his new life, long-term. He wasn’t looking ahead for more than weeks at a time. For now, he was enjoying his freedom, and enjoying living in Chadwick House. He could maybe ask The Orphic Guild for a job, or get a contract with the PD. Jackson had actually suggested it once, but he said he needed time. Now, as life settled down, it seemed like a good idea. He could get paid and find his own place. He couldn’t live in Chadwick House forever. Or perhaps he could move back to France. Perhaps the Paris branch of The Orphic Guild could offer him a job there. Although, for now, London pulled him. He had friends who knew about his situation. That was worth more than anything.
Estelle took her place around the circle again, happy to let Birdie lead. It was her house, of course, and her coven that she was working with.
For the next hour, the witches worked their way through the spells, first starting with Moonfell’s own that Birdie and her granddaughters were more familiar with, and then moving to Alex’s. She was used to working with other witches, and lending her magic to a spell, and this was no different—in theory, at least. Birdie’s magic was rich, like a fine, aged wine. So far, they had extracted no further secrets from the manifesto. The pages lifted and turned sometimes, and once a spell caught them in a kind of whirlwind before settling the pages back on the table. Estelle became more and more frustrated, but Birdie calmly continued, moving steadily through the spells in the order she had chosen.
There was logic to her actions, starting with the familiar ones, and then the simplest, leaving the more complex to the end. Estelle was sure which one would work, though. She had been ever since Alex had sent it through. The one to which he had suggested they add Barak’s blood. Finally, after another failed attempt, Birdie gave Estelle a long, measured look. “Blood it is, then.”
She summoned Barak and pierced his finger with a sharp-bladed knife, adding a few drops to a potent herbal mixture that also contained herb oils and a thimble of potion, then smeared it on the edges of the manifesto before setting the circle up again.
They took their positions once more, at the four points of the compass, Birdie remaining at the altar in the east. As Birdie commanded the manifesto to unveil its secrets in Middle-English, the space within the circle darkened, as if she had conjured a storm. A haze descended on the pages, and they lifted into the air and hung there. The text lifted from the parchment and swirled like some sort of alphabet soup. Estelle’s breath caught in her chest as she struggled to contain her power. The spell was drawing it in, like a giant sink hole.
Then Birdie shouted words of command again, and images began to form in the circle’s centre, like a flickering film or a hologram, and finally the manifesto began to give up its secrets. A large sandstone cave, and then a temple, blazing with candles, an angel with outstretched wings and sightless eyes. A casket overflowing with jewels. A heap of weapons. A desk stacked with parchment. A library of scrolls. All passed by so quickly it was hard to keep track. A cityscape unfolded. Old buildings, undulating roofs, towers, and houses. Then the letters that had swirled aimlessly started to rearrange themselves into words.
Names.
Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Barak and Lucien scramble for paper. Birdie dragged her attention back, her voice rising as wind whipped up in the circle.
And then something exploded out of the images, shredding the manifesto and sending the letters tumbling. A wave of power rolled outwards, hit the protective shield, and rebounded like a wave. Out of the midst of it came the sound of a haunting, mournful call of a trumpet, accompanied by the flash of tawny wings edged with gold. Blinding white light exploded outwards. Estelle closed her eyes but stood firm. The circle would not break. Not while she still drew breath.
The trumpet sounded again, the white light pressing on her closed eyelids. She felt Birdie’s steadying presence, and then Morgana and Odette’s. The circle held firm, until the light vanished, and silence fell.
She opened her eyes, terrified she had plunged into a void, but the witches were still there, blinking in the candlelight, as half blind as she was. As her sight returned, she saw the table and chair in the centre of the circle were now splintered wood, and the manifesto was a confetti of tiny pieces spread across the floor.
She whipped around to stare at Barak and Lucien, who looked similarly dazed. “Did you see who it was, Barak?”
His features were mired in confusion. “It was Belial’s commander. And he carried Belial’s horn.”
Olivia felt as if she didn’t have a care in the world as she enjoyed a pub lunch at The Wayward Son.
A weak February sun illuminated the small backroom of Alex’s pub, a fire crackled in the grate, and her food was delicious. It was the company, though, that sealed it. The witches were fun and welcoming, and the three Nephilim joked and teased Reuben about the wedding. Not his fiancée, though—El, the stunning, blonde-haired witch. But maybe that was because Reuben seemed particularly obsessed with it.
