by Teri Harman
The pain raged, pulsing cold against the back of her eyes. Despite it, she forced her lids open into slits to look at him. But it still wasn’t her Simon. She screamed and crawled away, kicking up sand into his face.
“Willa!” Simon yelled.
That face. She knew it. She feared it. But why was it here? How? Had anyone else seen it? And why was it masking Simon’s?
Wynter pulled Willa into her arms, and the pain ebbed away. Simon moved cautiously forward. “Willa?”
She didn’t dare look at him again, so she buried her face in Wynter’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Willa?” Wynter asked.
Willa shook her head, her hot tears wetting Wynter’s white dress.
“Willa—” Rowan started, but his words were cut short by the sudden uproar of the trees. All eyes turned to the forest, shaking and swaying of its own accord.
“What’s going on?” Simon asked, tense.
Rowan’s face drained of color. “They say . . . ‘He’s coming.’”
Archard stood in the shelter of the trees, his heart thrumming a wild song of anticipation. His graphite eyes peered down to the beach below, where the twelve Light witches gathered around their fire. He watched eagerly as their mirror burst to life with his own image, and savored the candy-sweet taste of their reaction.
He’d expected the spell to reveal his current location, but thankfully the Dreams girl had broken the circle before it could.
Turning to Rachel, standing behind him in the trees, holding Bartholomew’s grimoire and the black bag with the boxed souls carefully in her hands, he said, “It’s time. Let’s open it.”
Something inside him had changed after the ghost spell on the blessing moon. He felt a new strength, a depth to his magic that pulsed inside him with indomitable energy. A new intuition had awakened, and he could sense the Dark magic all around him, he could control it without the aid of as many spells. He’d truly broken the will of the Powers, and now they cowered to his every desire.
This is what Bartholomew felt.
Rachel pulled the box from the sack with a velvet whisper. Archard took it from her, placed one hand on the lid, and muttered the names of the souls he wanted: the ten imprisoned ghost-witches. Then he handed the box back to Rachel. He pulled his marked moonstone from his pocket, held it aloft, directly in front of the box.
“Open it,” he commanded. The lid creaked back. His moonstone burst to life, a thread of milky silver snaking out from the stone into the box. The ribbon of light gathered the souls Archard requested and brought them out, leaving all the others trapped. Ten misty spirits dropped like liquid to the ground and then rose to their full heights, a line of ghosts, eerie-white in the black night. A moonlight tether circled each neck, connecting them to Archard’s stone. Leashed, silent, and controlled.
Archard grinned, met the poisonous stare of each ghost-witch, and then turned his face back to the beach.
The Light witches were all gathered around the pretty Dreamer, anxious eyes flicking between her and the True Healer. The mirror had been lowered to the sand, forgotten. Archard tasted savory revenge on his tongue. How he hated these witches and their self-righteous piety! They may have bested him once, but not this time. Bartholomew’s magic was his alone to command, and not even their Covenant power could stand up to its force. Before, he had only had a taste of that strength; but now that he had consumed Bartholomew’s whole book, digested it, and been reborn in a kind of Darkness, they could not even fathom—nor escape.
He would enjoy every second of their agony this night.
“Let’s go,” he threw back to Rachel. He tugged on the stone, testing the strength of his ten, tenuous leashes. They held nicely, each of the ghosts jerking forward to follow him to the beach. He took a few steps forward, and suddenly the trees erupted in upset chatter, their branches swaying and leaves rustling fiercely. He glanced around, smiled again, and then stepped down into the sand.
Time slowed. Everything, including the ocean, held its breath. Willa, still wrapped in Wynter’s embrace, lifted her head and looked over her shoulder. Am I dreaming? What she saw felt so unreal, so unnatural that it could only be the twisted illusion of a dream.
In the dark night of the black moon, the Light Covenant watched as Archard, as alive as they’d ever seen him, strolled down the sand. In his hand a stone that radiated ten strands of white light, each one attached to the neck of a ghost. The apparitions were still too far away to recognize, but cold dread pricked Willa’s heart.
“Wynter, do you—”
“Yes, yes. Holy moon, I see them all.”
A dreadful scream cut through the air and brought time snapping back. Willa and Wynter turned to see Rain hit the sand, her shirt soaked with blood. Next came the screams of all the Covenant members as their bond dissolved in the acid of Rain’s murder. Willa clutched at her chest, gasping for breath through the searing pain behind her heart. Her symbol necklace grew freezing cold against her skin. The pain tasted of grief, sour and potent. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how deeply she was attached to her coven-mates. Seeing Rain dead in the sand felt like her own death, and the sudden ripping sensation behind her heart felt like eternal damnation.
Through the sting of the broken bond, Willa looked over at Simon, also clutching at his chest. His eyes met hers, and his face said the same things she felt. I didn’t know. Willa wondered if they would have felt this same pain walking away, leaving.
“Rain!” Wynter screamed as she scrambled to get to the girl, but she was too late. Rain’s black eyes glared up at the moonless sky, unblinking, empty. Willa looked down the beach. Archard’s free hand hovered in the air, lifted out toward Rain’s lifeless form.
Simon moved up behind Willa, pulled her to her feet, placing her protectively behind him. The rest of the Covenant, finally shocked into action, moved close to them, forming into a tight group. Rowan and Wynter cast out a protective shield of magic, enclosing the group inside it.
Archard, closer now, brought with him a freezing wind. It lashed at the Light witches faces and arms. Willa blinked at its fierceness and moved closer to Simon, the vision in the mirror of another face over his forgotten.
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to see the faces of the ten ghosts that Archard pulled behind him. There was something different about them—their bodies more liquid than the sheer, fluttery ghosts she knew. Another tug of dread, and then the icy fear of recognition.
She pushed away from Simon, moving to plunge forward. Rowan caught her arm and held her. “Willa! What are you doing?”
“Solace! Holy moon! That’s Solace!” she pointed a trembling finger at the spirit of her best friend. “No! And . . . Ruby! Oh, Ruby! Amelia, too! Charles and Solace’s parents. Ruby’s Covenant.” Willa felt her mind slip into hysterics. She pulled against Rowan’s hold, every part of her desperate to help.
But Rowan held her tight, and Simon stepped forward to take her other arm. “Willa, stop!” Simon begged.
“No, no, I can’t. I have to help them. It was them. I knew it! They asked for help, and I didn’t do anything, and now look . . .” Cold tears poured down Willa’s face.
The Covenant looked intently at the line of ghosts. Wynter let out her own shriek of terror and dropped to her knees, cradling her right arm. “Holmes!” was all she said. Rowan let go of Willa to crouch next to his wife, throwing his arms around her, his eyes alight with anger and fear as he recognized the ghost of his wife’s torturer.
Archard was only a few feet away now. Ice had formed on the wet sand, and Willa shivered in Simon’s arms. She didn’t look at the Dark witch, instead her eyes moved from her friend to the other Light witches she knew so well, despite having never met them when they were alive. The eyes—it hurt to look directly at their eyes. All the sorrow and fear in the world seemed caught up in their hollow eyes.
The reality of what Archard had been able to do turned her stomach. If he could do that . . .
“Good e
vening,” Archard called out over the sound of the surf. “So sorry to interrupt your little spell.” He smiled a dagger-sharp smile. Pleasure, bright and potent, shone in his eyes. He glanced down at Rain’s dead body at his feet, nudged her with his shoe. Willa clenched her teeth together.
Rowan transferred Wynter to Darby’s care and turned to face his opponent. In a rough voice, his accent thick, he said, “What have you done, Archard?”
Archard’s smile flashed again. “I have become the most powerful Dark witch since Bartholomew walked the earth.”
Rowan blinked. “Bartholomew is a myth.”
A loud laugh rose into the air. “You are such a fool, Rowan. I did all this”—he gestured to his own face and then tugged on the leashes—“with Bartholomew’s grimoire.” Archard gestured to Rachel and the large black book in her hands. Just looking at the book made Willa’s stomach turn; she’d seen it before in some of her dreams about the mysterious witch. Bartholomew. His name is Bartholomew.
Archard inhaled loudly. “Unbelievable power, Rowan.” To prove his point, the witch jabbed a hand forward, and Hazel cried out, clutching her chest. Willa spun around just in time to catch Hazel as she fell dead, her chest ripped open, a mangled mess of blood. Willa’s stomach turned violently, and she backed away from her coven-mate’s body. Simon helped her to her feet and held her close.
Rowan’s jaw fell open, and he stood silent for a few seconds. Then he swallowed. “What do you intend to do with this power?”
Archard laughed again, and then narrowed his cold stare at the Light luminary. “I intend to make you watch while I Bind a Dark Covenant using these ghosts.” He tugged on the leashes again, causing the ghosts to stumble forward. Willa winced, aching to reach out to them. Archard continued, “And then I will kill each one of you.” He lifted a finger, dragging it through the air, marking each of them. “You last, of course, Rowan, so that you can watch the rest of your coven-mates die slow, painful deaths. Then you can die knowing you’ve left the Powers in my hands.”
Simon’s head pounded, the pain like sledge hammers against the interior of his skull, demolition from the inside out. The breaking of the Covenant bond had rattled him, but something else was happening inside him, something set free. His blood boiled with the want—no, need—to strike out at Archard. A voice in his head whispered, Use your power. End this with only a few words. Save them now or more will die.
He shook his head and moaned quietly at the pain and overwhelming desire.
No! I can’t use it.
The pounding only increased until he trembled from the effort of resisting. Willa, locked tight in his arms, didn’t look up, didn’t notice, all her attention given to the ghosts quivering behind Archard.
Rowan was talking to the Dark witch, but Simon couldn’t focus on the words. At least not until Archard said, “And then I will kill each one of you . . .” Simon’s attention snapped onto the Dark witch. He found no doubt in the statement, no hesitation, and Simon’s Mind gift told him that the witch had more than enough power to do it. This wasn’t like before, when the covens had been evenly matched and Archard had been desperately out of control. Simon knew without a doubt that Archard could—and would—defeat them. His heart sank with the knowledge.
The pounding in his head flared, and the voice urged him on again. You are the only one who can stop it.
Rowan swiftly lifted his hands, throwing sand at Archard, a cue for attack. Simon released Willa, and they used their fresh, strong elemental skills to throw anything and everything they could think of at Archard. All their coven-mates using their strongest skills, an all-out assault.
The air filled with sand, water, fire, wind, rocks, drift wood, even large tree trunks—a hurricane of magic.
But after a few minutes they realized that there was no retaliation. Together, the Light witches stopped their assault, lowering their hot hands. When the air cleared, Archard stood unharmed exactly where he’d been before. The debris of their attack strewn in a perfect circle around him, the ghosts, and Rachel.
Willa gasped, put a hand over her mouth, but Simon did not feel surprise, only irritating trepidation.
Satisfied that he had their attention, Archard lifted his free hand, throwing a handful of stones at them. Simon lifted his hand to deflect the marble-sized stones; but, instead of falling on top of them, the stones fell in a circle around them, thunking into the sand, red and round. Before any of the Light witches could react, a thin column of red flame surged upwards from each stone, fiery prison bars.
The covens backed away, bumping into each other, jostling for space out of the reach of the red flames. Simon’s stomach turned with the fear pulsing off of his coven-mates. Trapped!
“Water!” Rowan yelled. The covens responded by summoning a wave of water that rushed forward and lifted into the air, crashing down on top of the trap—and on all of them inside. Simon closed his eyes against the water and curved his body over Willa to protect her from the brunt of its cold weight. Sputtering, he wiped his face and blinked at the unaffected bars. Now he and his coven-mates were soaking wet and freezing, as well as trapped.
Archard laughed. “Those flames cannot be put out by anyone or anything but me. Your pathetic little elemental tricks will have no effect. So I suggest you settle in.”
Willa reached for Simon, looked up into his eyes. The frantic fear darkening her beautiful face pulled at his desire to use the power inside him. If you’re going to save her, you know what you must do. Would you rather watch that witch murder her?
Simon flinched. Willa grabbed his hands. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. Simon shook his head, unable to explain. Then Charlotte and Elliot were beside them, fear wafting off them like a putrid stench.
“What are we gonna do?” Charlotte asked.
“We have to help them,” Willa said desperately, moving her eyes to the ghosts. “We can’t let him do this to Solace and Ruby and the others. It’s too terrible.” Glassy tears rimmed her eyes. Simon pulled her close.
“But how?” Elliot said as he turned his eyes to Rowan. Rowan, Wynter, Toby, Corbin, Darby and Cal were huddled together mumbling a spell, hands held out toward the bars.
“They can’t break it,” Simon said matter-of-factly. The three turned to look at him with curious eyes. He looked down. “Don’t you feel it, Char? Something is seriously different about Archard. His magic . . .”
They all turned to look through the bars. Archard moved the ghosts into a circle, making his preparation. In the shadows lay Rain and Hazel’s bodies, now forgotten, half-covered in debris from their attempt to get at Archard. Willa sniffled and said, “Poor Rain and Hazel.”
Simon couldn’t help the thought that maybe Rain and Hazel had been the luckiest of them all.
Rachel handed Bartholomew’s book to Archard. He took it into his arms and moved to the center of his circle. The ghosts, still tethered to his moonstone, swayed and moaned around him, but it only gave potency to his purpose. Carefully and respectfully, he laid the book in the sand and opened to the page where Bartholomew had recorded the spell he’d used to Bind his Covenant. With a few minor adjustments, Archard knew the spell would work to Bind his own, untraditional Covenant.
Archard closed his eyes and took a moment to savor the racing of his heart and the pulse of the magic rushing in his veins, eager to be released. This moment would be even greater than the spell on the blessing moon. A thing of legends!
Deep breath and then Archard’s eyes flashed open.
From the pages of the book, he pulled a single piece of parchment. On the page he’d written the names of all his ghost witches, as well as Rachel’s and his own—marked down in his own blood. Next to his name was the Luminary sun symbol. He ran a finger over the symbol and smiled.
Then he stood.
Next to the book he conjured a small flame, burning from nothing and hovering above the sand, red and brilliantly fractured like rubies in the sun. He held the paper above the flame, out of reach,
and left it to flutter there, suspended by magic.
Turning his face to the obsidian sky, with the darkness cut by the jagged stars, Archard inhaled the crackling power of the black moon, more than strong enough for his Binding spell. It was, after all, a night known for Dark magic. Fate had brought him to this moment to make magical history.
Rachel joined him in the gap of the circle, surrounded by the ghosts. Archard glanced over at the Light witches cowering in their cell and met Rowan’s eye. Archard held his opponent’s stare and then turned back to his covens. Lifting a hand, he summoned the moonstone; it rushed through the air to his grip. The ten strands of light still held the ghosts, and now Archard sent a separate thread to wrap around the whole circle, its icy touch pulling them together. Rachel’s eyes widened, but she looked at him with eagerness.
With his witches enclosed in the moonstone’s hold, Archard closed his eyes and snarled out the Binding spell.
“Beneath the shadow of the supreme Black Moon,
I summon the Powers, no longer immune,
To the foulest of wrong, the blackest of black.
These souls I Bind, though bodies they lack,
And form a Covenant, rare and Dark;
To rule the Powers, I make my mark.”
Archard, with merely a blink of his eyes, sent the piece of parchment with all their names written on it into the hungry mouth of the flame. The fire snatched the paper, devouring it in one ravenous gulp. Then, in a flash, the flame snuffed out.
A tremendous rush of power, cold as the dead of winter, blew through him, settled into his bones. Archard gasped, Rachel cried out in surprise, and the ghosts moaned loudly, their voices pitching into screeches of protest. For a brief and terrifying moment, Archard could feel the minds of all the ghosts in the circle, he could feel their anger and grief. He feasted on it, savored it as it gave potency to the power now solidifying inside him.
