by Teri Harman
Panic closing in around him, Simon scrambled toward Willa’s box. The roots were still trying to pull at him. He sent a burst of magic at them, and they crumbled to dust. He punched his fist through the side of Willa’s box, splinters of wood digging deep into his flesh. He groped for her, his eyes useless in the dark.
When his hand finally found her arm, a spark of heat flared between their skin. He tugged her unconscious body toward him, wincing at the roughness it required to free her. Fumbling, he found her face. “Willa?” he choked out. There was no
more air.
Simon pulled her against him and pressed his eyes closed. He let the magic inside him rise, like a river in flood. Then he let it explode. The impossibly heavy dirt above them erupted upwards. He blinked up at green willow leaves and fragments of dying sunlight.
Gulping down big breaths, he inspected Willa, her body limp and covered in dirt. He brushed the dirt from her eyes, nose, and mouth. “Willa? Come on, my Willa! Breathe!” He dug his hand into her hair, held her head, his lips pressed to her forehead, and sent a rush of his healing power into her body.
She responded with a horrid gasp, followed by a sputtering round of coughs. Simon sighed in relief and hugged her close. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He looked down her body and pulled away the roots wrapped around her legs and stomach.
She coughed more and then relaxed in his arms. “Simon?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s okay. We’re out.”
“You got us out?”
“Yeah.”
“I couldn’t breathe. The roots . . .”
“I know.” Simon clenched his teeth, his anger still bubbling hot in his chest. He looked up to the lip of the pit he had blown in the earth. All ten other witches were looking over the side, staring down, covered in dirt. He resisted the urge to send another bolt of magic in their direction. Instead he let the magic dissipate out underneath him, shaking the ground for two protracted seconds.
Willa sat in Simon’s dusty arms at the bottom of the pit thinking, I failed. I failed the test. Though grateful to Simon for saving her, she still wished she’d been powerful enough to do something to help, instead of playing the damsel in distress.
Twisting her neck, she looked up at the faces of all her coven-mates staring down at them, trying but failing to read their expressions. Even Charlotte looked like she’d either seen a ghost or committed a heinous crime. What is going on? Why did they do that to us?
Anger came off Simon’s body in turbulent waves of heat; she could hear his heart pounding a furious beat.
Beyond the heads of the Covenant were the delicate branches of the willow. Maybe I can still do something to help us. She lifted her hand, noticing with a frown that her skin was a dark shade of brown from all the dirt, and focused all her magical energy on the long, thin branches.
Simon looked down at her as the branches reached into the pit, the old trunk groaning as it flexed, and formed a swing of sorts under them. When the swing was woven and stable, the tree straightened up, lifting Simon and Willa out of the pit. The branches set them gently on solid ground, sitting as they were in the pit, then retreated to their normal places with what sounded like a contented whisper of leaves.
Simon stared down at her, his face as dirty as the rest of him, with dirt nearly as dark as his eyes. “I wouldn’t call that failing.” He hugged her tighter.
Rowan stepped closer, and Simon’s face instantly darkened, the look he gave the Luminary as poisonous and threatening as a viper. “Just don’t, Rowan,” he said through clenched teeth. “How can you call almost killing us a test?!”
“Simon—” Rowan tried.
“No. No way. I’m done. This is ridiculous.” Willa could see Simon’s pulse racing in his throat and temples. She put her hand on his chest, but that didn’t slow it down. “How long would you have waited to help Willa? Huh? She passed out, couldn’t breathe. Did you even know that?”
“Of course!” Rowan said, kneeling down to get on equal ground. “Charlotte kept a very close watch. You were never in any real danger. We were just about to pull you both out when you . . . well, when you . . .”
“When I what? When I used my crazy powers that you all are so scared of? Yeah, I did. Willa was in trouble!”
Rowan exhaled, dropped his chin. “Please, Simon. Don’t be upset. I had a theory about your powers, and I decided to test it.”
Simon stiffened. “So we’re lab rats to you now?”
“Simon,” Willa said quietly. He looked down at her, eyes wild, jaw tense. “Let’s just listen for a minute. Please?”
He looked at Rowan. “Why don’t you just admit that you are afraid of me? That you don’t know what I can or will do?”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed, his lips pulling into a thin line. “I am not afraid of you, Simon. I’m trying to understand you.”
“By putting Willa’s life in danger? That’s unacceptable. If you have a problem with me, come to me. Don’t put her in the middle.”
“You are missing the point,” Rowan continued, his shoulders tense and his voice strained in a way Willa had never heard it.
“No, you are missing the point. If you want me gone just say it.” Simon looked from Rowan to the others. No one spoke, most avoided his eyes. “Well, I guess that’s my answer.”
Rowan’s blue eyes darkened. “You are out of line, Simon. No one is asking you to leave.”
“I’m not your soldier!”
“Simon!” Willa broke in again. She pushed hard on his chest. “Stop it! Please give Rowan a chance to explain.”
Simon’s jaw clenched and then released, but he sat back, eyes square on Rowan.
Rowan nodded and passed Willa a grateful look, but she glared at him with equal venom. I’m not on your side right now, Rowan. She didn’t understand why he would do that to them either.
“That night at the cave,” the Luminary began, “everything was very intense, very emotional. You didn’t have that burst of power until you realized Willa was there, until you saw her, yes?” Simon nodded stiffly. “Well, I started wondering if your loss of control was connected to your emotions, specifically concerning Willa.”
“You think it’s my fault he lost control?” Willa asked, horrified she might be a source of his problems.
Rowan shook his head. “No, not exactly. But, as we just witnessed, he used all his power to help you, to rescue you. I think the problem is an emotional problem, not necessarily a magical one. Does that make sense?”
Simon squinted in thought. “So, you’re saying I can control my powers if I don’t get too . . . emotional?” He shook his head forcefully. “What about the fact that I have more than one Gift? Don’t you think that might have something to do with it? I feel this battle inside me all the time. I don’t know what to do with it. What do I do with it?”
Rowan nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not trying to explain the source of your powers, just an idea about how to manage them. Acknowledging that there’s a fight in you is good. If we can minimize that conflict inside you, manage your emotions and reactions, then things will get better.”
“I’ll never be able to manage my emotions if Willa’s life is in danger.” Simon shrugged, slightly defiant. “And you know what else? Her life was never in danger until we met you guys.” With that Simon stood, lifting Willa to her feet. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
Willa stared at him for a moment, panic popping in her veins. He’s gonna leave! My dream! Oh, no! “Simon, take a breath. What Rowan said makes a lot of sense.” Willa looked at Rowan. “I don’t think he needed to bury us alive —” Rowan’s eyes widened, and she gave him a look “—but you have to admit it proved a point.”
Simon shook his head, looked toward the front of the house as if he were debating whether to stay or bolt. He folded his arms. “I guess. But I just . . . I need some time to think.”
Rowan said, “Understandable. Go get cleaned up. Come back when you want to talk more.”
Simon looked at W
illa, the need to leave evident on his face. “Okay. Let’s go.” Without waiting, he turned and took off.
Willa blinked at him. Her mind suddenly felt the way her body had under the weight of all that earth.
She hurried after him. He yanked open the door to the Jeep.
Willa ran toward him. She wanted him to stop, to slow down.
“Stop. Just stop. Okay?” she said, breathless.
Simon released the door, his shoulders slumping forward. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But, Willa, do you really want to stay after that? Aren’t you mad? Nothing about this has gone well. I mean, Rowan just buried us alive to prove a theory!”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Of course, I’m mad, but . . . I can’t think. I don’t know what to think!”
He fell silent. After a moment, he stepped closer to her. She wanted to cry, to collapse into him, but fought it. This was not the time to break down; she had to think.
“Willa, I know you like being a part of this. But I’m not so sure it’s the right place for us. Maybe we should move on.”
“But we are witches. I can’t go back to the way things were before. I can’t! And I’ve never quit anything in my whole life.” She sniffed, fighting the tightness in her throat. She laughed without humor. “In seventh grade I tried out for the volleyball team because one of my friends wanted to but was too nervous to go alone. We both made the team, and I played the whole season.” She looked up. “I hate volleyball. But I couldn’t let myself quit.”
Simon gave a small smile, his eyes lightening for the first time. “You played volleyball?”
Willa scowled at him. “Yeah, and I was really good. I just hate team sports. I’m like you: I’d rather climb a mountain or take a yoga class. But that’s not what we are talking about!”
Simon frowned. “Yeah. But this isn’t junior high sports, this is our lives.”
Willa sighed, her body heavy with exhaustion. “Exactly. We can’t just run away from it. I don’t think Rowan meant any real harm. You have to remember that we aren’t used to how they do things, how they think. To them, burying us alive might be totally normal. We have to give this time. It’s barely been six months.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But you are used to being on your own, and I get that. And I get that you feel like an outcast. I do, really. But I just . . . we can’t leave, can’t walk away because things get bad.”
Simon sighed heavily, looking past her down the street with what looked disturbingly like longing for escape. “I’m not sure we belong here, Willa. I want to think we do, but . . .”
The echo of his words from her dream sent a wave of cold down her neck. “Maybe we have to earn the right to belong. We have to keep trying.” She swallowed. “Rowan is trying to help, and you push him away. I try to help, and you push me away. We are getting desperate. Maybe that—” she pointed to the back yard, “—was Rowan getting desperate.”
Simon blinked several times and looked away. Willa wondered if she’d gone too far, but she didn’t regret her words. He needed to hear them.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, and after a silent moment said, “But what if another Dark witch comes after the Covenant? I don’t want to spend my life fighting—I want to spend it helping, healing. When the quakes came, I thought about that a lot, and I’m not sure I can do it.”
“But the quakes didn’t come again. May’s new moon passed without any quakes. Maybe that threat is gone.”
“Maybe. But another will come. You can’t wield this much power without others wanting to take it or destroy it. I should have seen that from the beginning.”
Her anger flared again. “Simon, I’m not going to let you run away from this. You have unbelievable power. You need to embrace it, not hide from it. Let Rowan train you. Listen to him. Please, let him help! Let me help!”
Simon blinked at her again, shocked at her sudden fire. He turned away, jaw tense. “What if it doesn’t work?” he whispered.
“What if it does?” she countered firmly. “And I’m going to find the answer to why you have multiple gifts. I promise. That’s what I do—find answers. Okay? Can we at least try a little longer? Until the Elemental Challenge? If things are still bad or get worse, then,” she swallowed hard, “we’ll leave. Together. But you have to make more of an effort.”
He held her eyes, and she tried not to let them get wet. Did I just say that?
“Okay,” he agreed.
She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. “Okay?”
He stepped forward, took her hands, lifted them to his lips, and kissed her dirty knuckles. “Thank you for yelling at me.” He smiled. “For you, I’ll stay, and I’ll try to train with Rowan. We’ll see how things go until the Challenge.”
Willa studied his face. “Okay. Good.”
Char came walking across the grass, head hung on her chest, hands in pockets. She stopped several feet away. “So sorry, guys. I know you need some time, but Wynter just got a call from a friend in England. Apparently, some baddie killed a bunch of monks. Will you come back?”
Willa looked up at Simon. “Not like this,” he said stiffly, looking down at his filthy shirt and jeans. “We’ll be back in a half hour.”
Char frowned, her round face looking nearly childlike with the expression. “Yeah, of course.” She turned away.
“Get in the Jeep,” he said to Willa. “We’ll clean up, and then we’ll hear about what’s going on in England.” He opened her door. “I told you the bad guys would be back.”
Willa nodded, a new knot of worry in her stomach.
Chapter 14
Waning Half Moon
May—Present Day
For the last four weeks, Archard and Rachel had been scouring England. Digging and cutting into both land and flesh for answers. From references in the final pages of Bartholomew’s grimoire, they guessed that the Dark witch’s last days were spent somewhere in England, but the country had changed a lot over the last five hundred years.
And the legends were as varied as the landscape.
Some said Bartholomew died in Scotland, taken by the Celts and buried alive somewhere on the moors. Others affirmed that he and his Covenant had been hunted down by monks in southern England, their bodies dragged behind wild horses until there was nothing left. Still, others claimed the Dark witch had never died, but still roamed the earth, living in secret.
Archard believed none of it.
“What if he destroyed the boxes?” Rachel asked as she drove over yet another narrow, bumpy country road on their way to the port town of Bideford.
“Not a chance,” Archard replied. “Bartholomew would never destroy those trapped souls. There is too much power in them.”
Rachel slammed on the brakes of the rented Mini Cooper to wait for a flock of sheep to cross the road. “Still, they could be anywhere.”
Archard shook his head and brushed at the thin lapels of his black suit. “No, he would have kept them close.”
“How do you know that?” Rachel tapped her glossy black fingernails on the steering wheel.
“Because that is what I would do.” Archard flicked a spot of lint off his pants.
Rachel cut a doubting glance in his direction and then laid on the horn, hurrying the sheep along. “Well, these monks better give us some real answers. The black moon is coming up fast.”
“If rumor serves us right, these monks will know about every witch sighting, hunt, escape, and spell done in Southern England for the past thousand years. They were the ones responsible for the famous Bideford witch trial hangings. Three witches.” Rachel shook her head. Archard glanced out at the lazy sheep. “They’ll give us what we need.”
Two hours later, they arrived at the ancient monastery, hidden in the hills outside Bideford. Rachel and Archard stood outside the squat stone building, glaring up at it in the brilliant morning sun. To the right, an apple orchard sloped away and around the monastery. To the left, a quiet field of g
rass rolled over the hills, soaking up the sunlight. The scent of garden soil and sea salt played on the air.
Rachel shielded her eyes as she squinted at the thick line of blue on the horizon. “This place has known magic.”
“Yes, I feel it, too.” He lifted a hopeful eyebrow at her as they made their way into the building. Heavy silence greeted them. The vestibule, ancient and unchanged since the day it was built, was lit only by an inadequately small candle chandelier. A yawning corridor spread out in front of them. From the darkness of the hall came the sound of shuffling, hurried footsteps.
Archard and Rachel waited impatiently for the owner of the footsteps to appear. Soon they saw a squat monk dressed in a traditional brown habit and sandals. At the sight of the two witches, he squared his shoulders, and crossed himself.
“You do not belong here,” he said, his voice rough from disuse and heavily accented.
“No,” Archard said, meeting the monk’s tired eyes with his own steel gaze, “but we need information. Give us what we ask, and we will leave you in peace.”
“And if we do not?”
Archard offered a wicked smile, all the answer the monk needed.
“State your request, witch; but know that we are accustomed to dealing with your kind,” said the monk, his lips pursed in distaste.
Archard’s grin grew. “I need to see your records from the 1500s. Anything to do with a man known as Bartholomew the Dark.” Archard didn’t miss the flash of recognition on the monk’s face, although he tried to hide it.
“We know nothing of this man, and we do not allow outsiders to see our sacred records. You must go.”
Archard had to admire the man’s courage, the way he managed to keep his voice level as he said the words. He sighed. “I’m sure you can make an exception for us.” Archard gestured to Rachel who glared, like a panther on the hunt.
