The bowl is placed in the center of the circle. The knife catches the light of the candles, and I feel horribly, painfully aware of second that passes, knowing it’s one second less that I have to get out of this situation.
Helena starts to chant. The words are old and laced with magic that makes the hair on my arms stand up. As she speaks, the mark on my arm throbs in time with every word.
I try to tune her out, focusing on anything else. Ash, chained up in the dungeon. Lucien and Soren, locked away after fighting like hell. Drake, maybe out there somewhere, if he can find his way back.
But mostly, I focus on staying upright.
I think of my mother. Of how she never wanted this for me. How she must have realized that this would be my inevitable end. Maybe it’s always been my destiny. My fate.
The chanting gets louder, with the witches joining in. The mark burns hotter, just as it did the day it was freshly seared into my skin.
Helena’s voice rises above the rest. She locks eyes with me, triumphant. “The Accord is mine. The power is mine. The source is mine.” She points her bony finger at me.
The witches close in around the circle, hands linked, pressing in. The knife gleams, ready for whatever sadistic ritual Helena has planned.
I look down at the bowl, at my own reflection warped in the polished silver. At the girl who never got to become what she was. I feel a brief moment of sadness for that girl. The supposedly powerful witch who never got to own her own power. I think of Soren, Lucien, and Drake and wonder if they’ll be okay. I think of Hank.
Helena steps forward, knife in hand. “Are you ready, Rose Smith?”
The candles flare, the witches chant, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.
“Go fuck yourself, Helena.”
Four
Rose
It all happens so fast, I almost miss it.
Helena circles, her black robe swirling. She’s got the knife, the bowl, and every eye in the Hall glued to us. The chanting rises, drowning out all other sounds in the room. The mark on my arm is burning, and I know that whatever comes next is not going to be pleasant.
She steps in, and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back so my throat is exposed. The only thought I have is disbelief that this is actually happening.
This is it.
This is how I die.
Helena leans in, her reeking breath making me want to hurl. “Any last words, Rose?”
“Yeah.” My voice is surprisingly even. “You should brush your teeth.”
She bares her teeth. If looks could kill, I’d already be a bloodstain on the floor.
The blade touches my skin right over my jugular. The bowl waits, ready to catch every drop, and all those witches watch with dead-eyed anticipation. A few look a little queasy, but none of them are stepping in.
Not one.
For a second, I think about all the things I never got to do: see Paris, have breakfast in bed, punch Ash in the face just once for fun. But mostly I think about my mom, and I wonder if I’ll see her again, assuming there’s anything for me beyond this mortal life.
Helena’s hand tightens in my hair. The knife presses harder.
I close my eyes.
The doors of the Great Hall explode open. I mean, the goddamn doors slam back with enough force to shake the fixtures and rattle the bones of every witch in the place. The entire room jumps. So does Helena, which is the only reason I don’t get an instant tracheotomy.
Every head whips toward the entrance as the chanting falters, then dies.
A woman stands framed in the doorway. She’s tall, taller than Helena, maybe even taller than Ash, with this wild silver hair that hangs down her back. Her eyes are a strange yellow, almost like an animal.
