“Marta, being patched in is an honor, not a right. You have earned that place, and so tonight, we pair you with a protector,” Lilith said, bowing to kiss the back of my hand.
When she stood, I did the same to her, following the proper protocol of honoring the president of the Harlots and the high priestess of the coven. Lilith smiled and cupped my cheek, winking before breaking our connection and turning to the crowd.
“Our sister cannot stand alone,” the high priestess said. “Every witch requires a warrior. Who is called to this position?”
Shouts of “I” and “Me” came from the onlookers, all the various men who had come to witness my induction and bond themselves to my sacred power.
“Brave Marta, you have heard those who are called,” Lilith said as Circe came forward, holding the chalice. Lilith took her time pricking her finger with a ceremonial knife, holding it over the goblet so a drop fell inside. She handed the knife to me, and I held back a wince as I repeated the motion. Our combined blood sizzled as it handed inside, and I swallowed back my anticipation. The time had come, and now I would know.
“Place your hand over the cup and ask the ancestors for guidance,” Lilith said.
I did, closing my eyes and whispering a prayer to the universe that it provide me with someone capable and strong, worthy and loyal. Find me the right person. Mother, father, ancestors, help me.
The cup grew hot, burning under my touch, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I ripped my hand away and held it to my chest, grimacing through the pain.
A piece of paper flew out of the top, landing in Lilith’s outstretched hand. She opened it, read it, and furrowed her brows.
“Colt,” she murmured.
Colt?
No, that couldn’t be. There were only two Colts in attendance. My heart sank, and my overheated blood suddenly froze like I’d mainlined ice water. A shiver raced down my spine.
“A.W. Colt,” Lilith called, louder this time. She glanced around until her focus landed on the two men standing in the far corner. I couldn’t bear to look at them, too terrified of what I’d see.
Wait…
A.W?
Which one was that? Was that Atlas’s entire name? Were his initials A.W.?
“Atlas, Wesson, step forward,” Circe said, waving her hand in their direction.
Boots echoed on the earth, breaking twigs and stomping through grass, and I felt their presence on either side of me.
“Which Colt?” Wesson asked, and the sound of his deep baritone ricocheted down my spine.
Circe looked at Lilith, who crumpled the paper in her palm before closing her eyes and leaning her head back toward the sky.
I sensed it before she said it. The weight of the energy in the atmosphere settled around me, and my intuition picked it up as if it were flashing a bright neon sign.
Both of them, it said. Both of them.
“Atlas…and Wesson,” Lilith answered.
“Two warriors?” hissed someone close to me.
A chorus of murmurs repeated the surprise.
“I thought she was only supposed to get one?”
“Why two?”
“Both Colts?”
“That can’t be right.”
“Silence!” Lilith’s voice rang out into the night, booming and deafening. “There has never been a Harlot with two warriors, but we do not question the ancestors. We do not question the magic.”
