‘What about the motor cars?’ called Lio.
‘I’ve diverted them,’ said Theodora from outside on the street.
‘What if you’ve changed your mind? What if Acanthi take me?’
‘You have little recourse either way,’ said Theodora, raising her hands. Thick tendrils of smoke plumed from her palms, fillingthe street. This was essential to the deception. ‘You can step into the street like an adult, or I can drag you like a child.’
Lio took a hollow breath, glancing upwards at his audience in the living room. Half obscured by the smoke, he nodded as if in goodbye and stepped out from the protection of the tea shop and onto the rune-chalked street.
That was all it took.
Three violent shots of magic rang out as the witches of Acanthi descended on Ethel Avenue. The very moment they did, Dot heard a thump and a gasp behind them. Lio was now on the living room floor, panting, his white shirt stained with purple ink that read:You’re welcome.
‘Thank the Saints,’ said Lio, shaking. He pulled himself to the window beside Dot.
In between plumes of smoke, they watched Theodora deftly twirl and dodge spell after spell. Agytha’s magic was tart and flowery; Moira’s was dogged and grizzly; Cate’s was desperate, bloody and bold. Theodora’s, however, was something different altogether. She threw out one hand and a beam of golden light toppled Agytha. She threw out another, and Cate’s red threads turned to worms. Dot finally understood how the witch had built and balanced her empire: here was a woman radiant with magic.
‘Let us end this,’ cried Moira somewhere in the smoke. ‘You’ll hide from us no long—’
Theodora sent another shot of golden light at her. A strangled cry rang out; the spell must have landed. Out of the dark fog leaped a mutt who skittered off down the street.
‘Theodora’s many wards across the city help to amplify her magic,’ said Belchamber, grimacing. ‘But she is not invincible.’
‘She needs to hurry,’ said Lio.
Theodora sent a burst of light at Cate, who was thrown as if struck by a great gust of wind. Moira, still in dog form, leaped tobite Theodora but she too was slapped back with magic. Yet, as Theodora shot this spell, Agytha dove at her and seized her.
‘Theo,’ gasped Dot. ‘Belchamber, can’t you go down there?’
Uncharacteristically, the spirit did not answer her question. They all watched as vines, charmed by Agytha, wound up Theodora’s limbs.
‘Belchamber!’ cried Dot.
‘I must stay here, Miss Dorothy.’
Theodora yelped, and an explosion of magic burst from her. Agytha was thrown to the ground, her skull cracking against the cobbled street.
‘Quick,’ cried Dot.
Somewhere in the fog, Cate cried out for her fallen friend. Through the smoke, the living room audience glimpsed Agytha’s prone body and Theodora reaching down to collect her blood. The old woman stirred; she whispered something to Theodora, whose triumphant expression of moments earlier disappeared.
Theodora stared, gaunt, at the old woman. She placed her hand on Agytha’s shoulder. It was a small, consolatory moment, and then it was over. Theodora deftly broke the phial of Agytha’s blood against the rune. A sharp burst of magic shot out. Agytha disappeared.
‘Success!’ cried Belchamber. ‘She has been warded from the city!’
Theodora rose, ready for the final two witches, but as she waded through the fog and at last expelled it from the street, Catherine Weyer and Moira O’Cleary disappeared from Ethel Avenue.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Catherine Weyer did not cry as she buried her fallen sister. Agytha, who had always been the gentlest of them, had died in the night from no grand spell nor terrible hex, but from the injury sustained as her head had struck the street. Agytha, warded from the city of Alliaster, had been cast carelessly back to Caelin Forest, and Cate and Moira had followed. They pitched their tent once more between the bracken. They made Agytha tonics and cast their charms as best they could, but when they awoke, Agytha’s grey eyes were open and empty.
It was Agytha who’d had the talent for healing, not Cate nor Moira.
After all, Agytha had been the one to intervene that night, so many years ago.
The remaining witches of Acanthi dug the grave, placed the slain witch in a white shroud, lowered her and sprinkled the soil.
Moira now glared. ‘The ungrateful sow. I will have her head for this, Cate. Hers and Liutprand’s. All of our misfortune draws back to her. The coven. Do you remember our coven?’
