“New York is making you mouthy. I’m not sure I like it.”
There it is again. The threat simmering beneath the smile.
Whatever. I’m not afraid of fucking khaki-wearingBrendan. A literal cult of serial killers is after me. Demons from the bowels of Hell could very well burst through the barrier and rip me and my sisters to shreds. I’ve got ghosts in the house, a box of ashes that used to be the mother who abandoned me, and twenty-six years of bottled-up trauma. Like, how did I ever let this little worm—andhislittle worm—get under my skin?
“Oh, fuck off, Brendan. Or I’ll call the partners and tell them how you need a smooth jazz playlist just to get it up. If you think I don’t have that shit on video, you’re dumber than I thought.”
That shuts him up. But only for a second.
Jabbing a finger into my face, he says, “I have the leverage here. Remember that.”
“Aww. I bet you say that to all the girls. Is that how you conned your housekeeper into sleeping with you? Does she know you only have a hard-on for Kenny G?”
Surprise flashes in his eyes. I’m about to get all smug about it too, but his energy shifts again, and this time it hits me like a tidal wave.
He wants tohurtme. Physically. But for whatever reason, he’s holding himself back.
He glares at me another second, and then he’s all fake smiles again. “Be seeing you around, Dizz. Take care.”
He heads for the stairs, but misses the first one and trips all the way down, windmilling like a champ before landing on his ass. I send a silent prayer of thanks to the house, slamming the door before he’s even on his feet again.
Victory.
It doesn’t last, though. Once I’m inside, alone in the quiet stillness, the cheap thrill sours, and all the earlier aches and pains swirl into a tempest of pure, white-hot rage.
No, Brendan didn’t lay a finger on me. But I know the pathetic truth. He hurt me anyway.
I think back to the days of the witch trials, the days when hunters were seen as heroes, and wonder… what the fuck has really changed?
They’re all the same. The vile men who killed Calista, trying to sacrifice her in some sick power play for magic they could never earn themselves. The men who killed my mother, very likely for the same reason. Nathan Killroy, sniffing around with dollar signs in his eyes, telling me how complicated grief can be, as if he’s the expert on my emotions. Fucking Brendan, constantly criticizing my lack of ambition, my so-called ditziness, never introducing me to his friends or taking me out on proper dates, stringing me along while carrying on with his housekeeper. The long, endless list of men who continue to hurt women every day—sometimes with violence, other times with a subtle grinding down of our confidence, our bodies, ourpower, our sense of self, our ability to take up space and breathe and fuckingexistwithout being harassed.
The world protects them because the world belongs to them, and it always has, probably since the very first dick-swinging cave man stomped out of his hole, pissed on the ground, and declared himself king.
They count on us to stay afraid. To stay silent.
But there’s one thing the men who rule the worldhaven’tcounted on, and right now, that little ember of truth gives me hope.
The Bonnivarde witches are back. And this time, we’renotfucking around.
seventeen
MERRICK
It was days before I was able to return to Graves Hollow, having spent the better part of the week investigating the looming demon incursion with Warren and Oliver, assessing the likeliness that the portal will collapse under this new, unanticipated strain. We’ve no plan for containment. Our only chance lies in prevention, which requires the Bonnivarde witches. One in particular.
Something shifted in my absence. We’ve only just reconvened for lessons, yet she seems even more committed, determined to master her magic and embrace her role as Guardian. Despite my mission to relieve her of that duty, my colleagues and I have determined she won’t escape it entirely; the chaos demons are growing stronger, more restless, more organized every day. It’s no longer a matter ofifthey make a move, but when, and it’s unlikely we’ll have time to transfer the guardianship before that happens. She needs to learn the skills to stabilize the portal and prevent the worst of an invasion. Then, and only then, can we divert energy into a transfer.
Without the grimoire, all of this becomes more difficult.
“How was that?” she asks me now, drawing my attention. She stands at the edge of the summoning portal, panting, her hair a tumble of frizzy blonde waves. Her eyes reflect the candlelight. The air smells of cinnamon and brimstone. Of magic.
And there, beneath the very last of my defenses, sits the uncomfortable truth. The one she accused me of on our second meeting. The one I’ve been trying desperately to deny ever since.
I actuallymissedthe little witch.
Naturally, to make up for lost time and/or my unexplained emotional imbalance, I’m working her extra hard today. Not that she seems the slightest bit daunted.
“Again,” I say firmly. “You need to become one with the energy barrier. Ferret out its weaknesses.”
