by Jen McConnel
She sighed again and crossed to the foot of my bed. Sitting gently, she plucked at the quilt with her fingers. “No. I wish it were that simple, though.”
I hugged my knees into my chest. “Are you still my patron?”
Her eyes met mine. “I can’t read your thoughts anymore.”
I frowned. “Does that mean no?”
“Darlena, when you ate the pomegranate, what were you thinking about?”
I thought back to that night. It seemed like it had happened in another lifetime. “I was thinking about Justin,” I began slowly, “and the spell I cast, and—” I broke off, realization dawning on me.
“And you were thinking about me.” She spoke softly, and her voice sounded sad.
Swallowing, I nodded. Was the goddess about to kill me? I thought about the oath I’d sworn to her, and waited for the waters of the sea to attack me for breaking faith. I squeezed my eyes, not wanting to see what would happen. After a moment, I opened them again, confused. I was still sitting in bed, unharmed. The goddess was watching me.
“You could choose to swear yourself to me again,” she began, “but I doubt that you will.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable. “I learned a lot from you. And I’m really grateful.”
“But you don’t think I’m strong enough to help you now, is that it?”
I shook my head quickly. “Not at all! You are strong, and I’m lucky you were protecting me and helping me.” I chewed on my lower lip, choosing my words carefully. “It’s just that … I need to be able to focus on Red magic, not just love magic.” Seeing the stormy expression on her face, I hurried on. “Not that I think love magic is weak! Believe me”—I laughed ruefully—“I learned my lesson. It’s strong; it’s just not the right kind of magic for me right now.”
Aphrodite was silent. Anxious, I leaned forward, willing her to understand.
“I made my declaration to Red magic without any thought, acting on impulse. And then when I swore myself to you, I was more afraid than anything else. I never thought I’d have the chance to reconsider some of the choices I’ve made.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t reconsider your choice of Red magic in general.”
I shook my head. “I still don’t understand it all, but something about this just feels right.”
She nodded slightly. “You are going to be powerful, Darlena. You have already exceeded my expectations. But”—she glared at me—“don’t assume your power will buy you another chance once I’ve left here tonight.”
My voice trembled. “Are you threatening me?”
She smiled sweetly. “Oh, not at all, little Witch. But I want to make one thing clear: if you want me as your patron, you must decide now. I will not offer again.”
I looked at the crescent moon shining through my bedroom window. I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. “I’m not ready to vow myself to a patron. I want to make that choice when I am ready.”
She stood. “Then you will never serve me. And”—her voice softened—“I must admit, I’m disappointed. You showed great promise in the art of love.”
“Thank you. But I think there are other things I need to learn.”
Aphrodite nodded, but her smile looked forced. “Then I’ll take my leave.” She turned to go.
“Wait, please.” I hopped out of bed and crossed to my closet. I rummaged around for a minute before emerging with the mirror she had given me when I swore my Dedicancy. I held it out to her, hesitantly.
She looked at it for a moment, and then shook her head slightly. “You may have need of it in the future. And I am not in the habit of taking gifts back.” Her tone was acidic, but it was clear that she meant it.
I nodded, hoping I hadn’t offended her. “Thank you. For everything.”
When I looked up, the only other creature in the room was Xerxes.
That night, I had a vivid dream. The chanting was familiar, like I’d dreamed it before, but this time, the images became clear. Three women were leaning over a massive cauldron, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They were chanting and pacing around the cauldron in a wide circle while I stood nearby, watching. The woods surrounding us were thick and ancient, and the sounds of battle echoed through the trees.
Suddenly, a man burst into the clearing. He had a haunted expression, and the kilt he wore was stained with blood. Instead of looking at the women, he pointed his sword at me as he stalked across the clearing.
“One Red Witch in my land is one too many! I’ll not suffer you, too. Go back, if you value your skin!”
His sword flashed through the air, and the dream changed. A man with fire for hair crouched in the shadows before me. He held out his right hand, beckoning me forward. Confused, I dug in my heels and refused to move. The fire on top of his head flared, and a great snake of flame shot upwards, circling through the air and heading toward me. I turned and tried to run, but the king with his sword waited for me, slashing the blade in the air near my face. I woke up with a start.
I was covered in sweat and shaking from fear. I grabbed the notebook beside my bed and hurriedly jotted down the sensations and images I could remember from my nightmare. I crept out of bed into the bathroom, splashing water on my face and telling myself that it was just a dream. When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, however, I noticed an unmistakable well of blood across my cheek. Lifting my hand, I pressed the cut gently, and pain shot through my face. Dabbing peroxide on the strange wound, I thought back to the dream. It was like a scene straight out of a Shakespearean play. The women reminded me of the three Witches from Macbeth.
Macbeth.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Rushing back to my room, my wound forgotten, I pulled my old atlas off my shelf and flipped through it. I reached down to trace my finger along the northern coast of the British Isles.
“If there were Red Witches in Scotland before,” I said, “who’s to say there isn’t one still there?”
The images of my dream seemed to point to one thing: Scotland. The old king had warned me to stay out of his land. But I wasn’t afraid of the ghost of a man long dead. If there was another Red Witch in Scotland, I would find her.
There are so many amazing people who have helped me along my path to publication. I would like to offer my deepest thanks to these wonderful folks.
First, to all of my Twitter friends: thank you for keeping me infinitely entertained, and for squeeing with me whenever good things happen. To my students: past, present, and future. Thank you for inspiring me!
To Marietta, for selflessly sharing your knowledge and encouragement with me. To Josh, for pushing me to intensify the title. To Danielle, for invaluable feedback. To the SCBWI community; thank you for helping me grow and giving me the chance to learn!
To Kat, for believing in this book when it was still a baby.
To Georgia McBride and the entire Month9Books team; I am grateful every day to be a part of this wonderful family.
To Deanna, for reading early drafts and listening to me ramble over countless cups of coffee. To Amanda, Austin, Victoria, and Wanda. You are magical! To Boyce, for continued support and friendship. To Laura and Deb for reading and falling in love with Darlena’s quest. To Kara, for pushing me to submit that first poem all those years ago: thank you for always believing in me!
To the YA Valentines: Anne Blankman, Bethany Crandell, Lindsay Cummings, Bethany Hagen, Kristi Helvig, Sara B. Larson, Kristen Lippert-Martin, Lynne Matson, Sara Raasch, A. Lynden Rolland, Philip Siegel, and Paula Stokes. Thank you for making me laugh and letting me be a part of such an awesome group. Valentine love!
A huge box of chocolates and eternal love to Jaye Robin Brown: YA Valentine, CP extraordinaire, and wonderful friend.
Huge thanks to my family on both coasts for the never-ending support. What would I do without y’all? An extra big hug for Mom; I’m a writer because of you.
To Matt, now and always: thank you.
And finally, deepest gratitude
to you: thank you for reading!
Jen McConnel
Jen McConnel first began writing poetry as a child. Since then, her words have appeared in a variety of magazines and journals, including Sagewoman, PanGaia, and The Storyteller (where she won the people’s choice 3rd place award for her poem, “Luna”). She is also a former reviewer for Voice of Youth Advocates (VOYA), and proud member of SCBWI, NCWN, and SCWW. A Michigander by birth, she now lives and writes in the beautiful state of North Carolina. When she isn’t crafting worlds of fiction, she teaches college writing composition and yoga. Once upon a time, she was a middle school teacher, a librarian, and a bookseller, but those are stories for another time.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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