by Teri Harman
The men wept.
Bartholomew opened his eyes and watched.
The cloud of angry spirits—fathers, brothers, grandmothers, wives, and great-grandfathers of those in the mob—moved into the circle. Bartholomew dipped his hand to the earth, and the ghosts followed his command. They plunged their ephemeral limbs into the chests of the men, still frozen by the Dark witch’s command. One by one, the ghosts wrapped their hands around the souls of the mob and then, like tugging weeds from the garden, wrenched them out.
The night shivered with tortured cries.
When the souls of all but one of the offenders was extracted, Bartholomew sent the ghosts flying back to his Covenant, ready and waiting with his specially prepared iron boxes. The ghosts dutifully deposited each soul into a box, and then they returned to prostrate and moan at Bartholomew’s feet.
The boxes clanged shut, the locks clicked into place.
Nearly a whole town of souls boxed and put away.
On the road lay a mass of bodies, wilted on the cold dirt, faces frozen in horror. One young man stood fixed and alive, a single survivor. Bartholomew stepped around the bodies, stopped in front of the boy, towering over him. The Dark witch fixed his fathomless eyes on the boy’s and whispered in his burning voice, “You live to tell the tale. Go back and warn the living of what happens when you cross Bartholomew the Dark.” Bartholomew nodded, and the magic holding the young man in place released. The poor boy fell to the earth, cowering. Bartholomew withdrew the circle of light back into the moonstone, now melting the flesh of his hand. He gazed down on the boy, who finally scrambled to his feet and ran back to the town.
Bartholomew turned, walked away, his cloak flapping behind him. He led the ghosts back to the graveyard. At the top of the hill, he directed them out to their individual graves, still partially hidden in the mist. They wailed in sorrow and relief.
The witch raised the moonstone out in front of him and dropped it to the earth, bits of his burned flesh going with it. By the time the stone hit the grass, Bartholomew’s hand was fully healed.
The Otherworld took back its borrowed souls with a hiss of freezing air.
Bartholomew turned and made his way out of the graveyard. His silent Covenant, burdened with the boxes, followed.
Chapter 13
Waning Half Moon
May—Present Day
Afickle spring had finally descended on Twelve Acres, casting off the winter chill and bathing the world in warmth. The windows of Willa and Simon’s room at Plate’s Place were thrown open wide, the new sheer curtains dancing in the breeze. Early evening sun poured into the room as thick and bright as honey. Outside, the massive weeping willow tree laughed in the breeze, its lithe branches swaying in tune with the buzz of new life.
Willa and Charlotte sat on the bed, studying for finals. Willa was dangerously behind, having spent most of her free time searching through grimoires for clues to the mystery of Simon’s powers instead of studying. Despite the looming threat of losing her academic standing, her lack of focus was made worse by the echoes of last night’s dream.
Shortly after dropping off to sleep in her bed at her parent’s house, Willa dreamed she was standing in this bedroom, the Plate’s Place room, watching herself and Simon asleep in the bed. The room was a pallet of gray, with colors muted by the cold night. Suddenly, Simon woke, eyes wide and frightened as he looked around the room. He immediately woke her and said, “Willa, we have to go. We can’t stay with the Covenant. We don’t belong here.”
His sense of urgency, the plea in his eyes, woke her from the dream. Unsettled, Willa soon realized that what she’d seen was more than a dream—it was a lost memory. The night of the first earthquakes, back in March. Simon had had his nightmare, turned on the TV, and he’d said something to her, but she’d been too sleepy to remember his words. Until now.
Simon’s words came back to her with startling clarity. Willa, would you come with me if I needed to leave? Would you leave the Covenant?
Simon was thinking about leaving.
The idea rocked her off center. That night she’d been able to get him to open up and talk about his powers. Since then, he’d clamped down even tighter than before. He hadn’t faked another failure in training, but he was still holding back and refusing specialized training.
Is he pulling away? Getting ready to leave?
Grabbing a chenille throw from her bed, she tossed it around her shoulders and stood gazing out the window at the dark street. Her mind couldn’t process the idea of leaving. Would you come with me . . . ? She could never watch Simon walk away, never not go with him—the idea drove an icy chill through her heart. But neither could she imagine leaving the Covenant. The decision to join had been difficult enough; its reversal seemed impossible.
In many ways it’d been easy to start fresh, become a witch, and join the covens; but in others, it’d been incredibly intimidating. Willa was accustomed to a simple life, a life that rarely changed. Being a homegrown Twelve Acres folk, raised by two parents who worked and lived in quiet ways, the greatest adventure she’d had before meeting Wynter in the basement had been the annual family road trip to nearby national parks. Her simple past made a future of greatness feel impossible, out of place.
But she’d taken a leap of faith, accepted Wynter and Rowan’s offer, with Simon’s support. Life in the Covenant was reality now, comfortable, although often unpredictable. She couldn’t even fathom a life beyond what they had now. What was the alternative to life in the Covenant? What was Simon thinking?
Simon’s words also brought up a whole new issue Willa had never considered. If Simon felt so out of place that he wanted to leave, did that mean they really were out of place? In her grimoire reading, a pattern had emerged of covens forming only where strong bonds and familial legacies already existed—not by accident, and not so suddenly. Witch circles formed carefully—very carefully. But here they were, members of True Covens and the Covenant, and all within a year of discovering their powers.
Maybe it wasn’t fate, maybe it was just an accident. A mistake.
Now, in their room in Ruby’s home, a place Willa loved more than anywhere else, she looked across the bed at Charlotte and questioned everything.
Charlotte had traded her token sweater for a cute lilac top trimmed in lace, but her hair still hung in one long braid. Fiddling with the end of the plait and biting her lower lip, Char read her economics book. It occurred to Willa that she knew next to nothing about Charlotte, or any of the Covenant for that matter. Who were these people she’d turned her life over to?
Mentally exhausted from her night of worry and debate, Willa knew the only comfort was information. Answers.
“Hey, Char,” Willa said, pushing her history book aside, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she answered, not looking up.
“How did you and Elliot meet?”
Char dropped her braid and looked up with a smile. “Actually, we grew up next door to each other. Our parents are in a coven together—just a regular one though, nothing fancy like us.”
“So you always knew you’d be together?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. We were best friends as kids, and when we got older it just became more. We’re soul mates like you and Simon.”
Willa nodded, smiled. “What about the True Covens? How did that happen? How long have you been with Wynter and Rowan?”
Charlotte closed her book and drew her knees into her chest. She wore mint green skinny jeans, her feet bare. “Well, let’s see. I met Wynter and Rowan when I was ten. Wynter and my mom knew each other when they were young—met during a family trip to Oregon or something. They reconnected later as adults. One night while they were visiting, Elliot and I snuck out of our beds and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation.” She laughed. “'Course, it’s kinda hard to spy on witches, but we did overhear them talking about Wynter and Rowan wanting to form two True Covens before they sent us back to bed.” She paused to smile and shake
her head at the childhood memory. “Anyway . . . Wynter wanted my mom and dad to join, but they are too loyal to their own coven. Elliot and I, however, couldn’t let go of the idea.”
“So you joined when you were only ten?” Willa raised her eyebrows.
“Not exactly. A couple weeks later, Elliot dreamed that we were standing with Wynter and Rowan on a high cliff, watching the sunrise. In the dream, she told us it was our destiny to join the True Covens.” Char tossed her braid behind her. “I found Wynter’s number in my mom’s address book, and we called her. At first she laughed—politely, of course—and thanked us for our interest, but said they were looking for adults. We were devastated but resigned. Then, a year later, Wynter came to us, said she couldn’t shake the feeling that we should be members of her covens.” Char let her legs go and leaned forward. “I think it helped that we’d both recently completed our Elemental Challenge. The youngest successful challenges in our family histories, I might add.”
“Impressive.” Wow! They were only eleven! Simon and I are so far behind.
Char pursed her lips, looked at Willa with her piercing Mind-witch look. “So what’s really on your mind? Why the sudden twenty questions?”
Willa shrugged. “I just realized I don’t know much about you guys.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Uh-huh. Is that it?”
Willa smiled as normally as possible. “Of course.”
Charlotte leaned back on her elbows. “It’s all pretty much the same old story: family connections and the guidance of the magic. Each of us demonstrated exceptional abilities with our Gift and were looking to do more with our skills.”
“And everyone’s been together for the last eight years?”
“Pretty much.”
“What about . . .” Willa swallowed, looked at the quilt, “the two members that Archard killed? The ones Simon and I replaced?” She had wondered before, but never had the guts to ask.
Char looked away, suddenly fixated on the movement of the curtains. For a long moment she didn’t speak, and Willa wondered if she ever would. Finally she said, “Their names were Levi and Bobbi. Levi was Cal’s younger brother, Bobbi his sweet wife.” She smiled sadly. “Cal was so protective of Levi. It nearly killed him when we . . . when we found Levi and Bobbi like that.” Her voice clouded with emotion.
Willa couldn’t help the question. “Like what?” she whispered.
Char sat up, crossed her legs and looked down at the quilt. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, her face pinched in pain. “Archard flayed them piece by piece—probably had knife-happy Rachel do it.” Both girls shuddered, having tasted the pain of Rachel’s blade. “Then he strung them up from the trees at Cal and Darby’s house.”
Bile rushed up Willa’s throat, her heart squeezed tightly. “Oh, Char. I’m so sorry.”
A few tears trickled down Char’s round, porcelain cheeks. She nodded. “Bobbi was so nice. She taught me how to make apple pie, and she had this laugh . . .”
A crow cawed loudly from the branches of the willow. Something in the bird’s mournful screech sent chills down Willa’s back. Not only were she and Simon new, they’d taken the place of people who were meant to be there, people who were already True Witches, already family.
“We really are the misfits around here, huh?” She hadn’t really meant to say the words out loud.
Charlotte pinned her with a look. “What do you mean?”
Willa exhaled, shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry.”
“No, what is it?” Char reached out, taking Willa’s hand. The gesture made Willa’s throat tight.
“We’re just so far behind and so . . . out of place. We’re not family, and barely even friends—just strangers who were in the wrong place at the right time. And then there’s Simon . . . I know everyone worries about him. Sometimes I just feel like we might be holding you all back.”
“Hey, no,” she squeezed Willa’s hand. “No, you are not. We love you. You are right where you should be. Don’t ever think otherwise. The magic brought you to us. That’s as good as being actual family.”
Willa appreciated the words, but she couldn’t bring herself to fully believe them. She wanted to, but couldn’t, push aside a shadow of doubt. Something she couldn’t shake since remembering Simon’s late night questions.
They both jerked in surprise when Elliot knocked on the open door. He wore his usual polo shirt and jeans. “Hey. Sorry! You two okay?”
Char smiled brilliantly at her soul mate. “Yeah, of course. Just startled us.”
Elliot smiled back, his teeth extra white against his dark brown skin. “Good. Well, Simon just got home, so it’s time for the next small challenge.”
Willa nodded and slid off the bed. Char followed but grabbed her shoulder before she could leave. “Hey, don’t worry so much. Everything is fine,” the Mind witch whispered. Then she hugged Willa hard and sure. Willa half smiled, doing her best to take her words to heart.
Blindfolds again? Really?
Simon stood on the back porch, Willa at his side, a black silk blindfold on his face. They’d been blinded before coming out of the house, and Rowan had said nothing about this next test. Who knew what waited for them in the backyard.
Simon hadn’t faked anything since Willa confronted him about it, but doing well in basic training was fine, acceptable. These preparatory tests were a different story. He was expected to fail or at least struggle. If he didn’t . . .
Taking a slow breath, he tried to reach out and sense something from his coven-mates. An odd tremor answered his search. What is that? What’s going on?
Someone pushed him forward, said nothing. He stumbled down the steps and moved over the grass. The willow rustled overhead, a few branches catching on his face. Willa was still next to him, her breathing loud. His own heart picked up speed. The yard smelled of wet earth.
Okay, not liking this.
Another push from behind, this one hard. Falling forward, Simon expected to hit the grass, but instead he kept falling until finally landing with a painful thud on what felt like wood. He rolled to his back with a grunt. Above him Willa screamed and then her body thudded too, but the sound was oddly distant.
The light changed, something blocking it from above. The air felt closed in, the sounds muted.
Simon ripped off his blindfold to total darkness. His hands lashed out and met smooth wood. No. No way.
Staccato thuds sounded from above him like a machine gun. His stomach turned over.
Buried alive.
The huff of his breath sounded as loud as waves in the narrow wooden box. His father had once locked him in a closet for a whole night for healing a neighborhood dog. The dark, musty air and sense of imprisonment of that night were nothing like this.
Hot anger rushed up his throat, made his hands hot with magic. Sweat broke out on his forehead and dampened the hair at the back of his neck. Blue lights began flashing behind his closed eyes. What kind of a test is this?
Or maybe the Covenant has finally decided to get rid of me.
He shook the stupid, paranoid thought aside.
Think. Think. What’s the challenge here? What are we supposed to do?
Buried in the ground. Under the dirt. In the earth.
Is it an Earth challenge?
A ripple of emotion made its way through the dirt to his mind—heavy, black fear. Willa! Oh, no. Willa is down here, too.
Simon exhaled slowly and tried to reach out to her. Willa?
Simon? Came her trembling reply to his mind.
Are you okay?
He felt her hysteric, short laugh. Oh, just great! You? she said sarcastically.
He smiled to himself. Okay, so what do we do? I’m thinking Earth challenge?
Yeah, me too. But the most I’ve ever done with Earth is grow a sad little daisy out in the garden. How are we supposed to get unburied-alive?
He frowned and pressed his hands to the lid of the box above his chest. Could he push al
l that dirt up and away with magic? It would take a tremendous amount of power. He might be able to muster it, but he doubted Willa could, even though she’d become impressively powerful lately. He moved his hand to the side he thought Willa might be. He closed his eyes. How far away is she?
Slightly surprised, he got an answer, a diagram in his mind: she was only a foot away, buried as deep as he, about four feet down.
An odd, heavy slithering noise reached Simon’s ears, breaking his focus. Goosebumps rose on his arms as he opened his eyes to the black What is that?! A moment later, the wood at his feet groaned in protest. A loud crack, the splintering of wood. Something hard, thick, and cold wrapped around his leg.
He jerked away as much as he could, but there was no escape. The intruder slithered up Simon’s leg as visions of being swallowed by a giant snake flooded his mind. He reached down and grabbed at the thing. Roots! Not a snake. Tree roots.
Simon wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
Willa’s screams broke through his panic, echoing in his head.
Willa?!
There’s something in here with me. It has my leg. It’s squeezing me. It hurts!
It’s some kind of root. Can you pull it off or use magic?
The dirt outside the box shifted and more roots burst into his box—one on each side and one above. Dirt fell on his face, stuck to the sweat pouring off him. He turned, spit it out of his mouth, and tried to shake it off his eyes. Willa’s screams pitched; he felt her coughing, panicking.
Simon, they’re everywhere! The dirt is filling in. I can’t breathe!
His box was also quickly filling in with dense dirt, making it even more impossible to move. Shoving his hands through it, he tore at the roots, pulling them from his legs and torso as best he could. His chest burned, air running low.
Think!
Simon!
Willa?!
He felt her coughing again, choking on the dirt, and then nothing.
WILLA? Then out loud, “WILLA?!”
Still no answer, in his mind or otherwise. Why wasn’t anyone helping her? What kind of test was this?
Simon’s anger blazed blue in his chest, hot and bitter. He lashed out to the side, using his elbow and then his fist to break through the box. Dirt sprayed into his face, but he didn’t care. Magic poured out of his hands without command. The dirt between him and Willa’s box moved aside lifted away by a bubble of energy.
