Page 225 of Bedeviled

Just nerves, I reassure myself.

“…wasn’t clear whether we’d reopen,” the high priestess carries on. “But we did, in no small part thanks to several generous donations from folks like you,” she says, gesturing to the crowd, “and the perseverance of these witches.” Her gaze returns to us, and I swear they linger on my own for a prolonged moment. “They made this happen, and I think that speaks to the heart of this student body.” She smiles at us, then turns to the crowd.

“And now they are about to leave here and embark on their greatest adventures yet. The world needs the power and grace witches have to offer, a power born of love, fealty, community, and passion …”

It’s a lovely speech, but I find my eyes drifting as I listen.

Along the treetops that surround the field, dozens of winged familiars sit perched, watching the events below. Among the bunch, I spot Sybil’s owl. My own familiar leans against my lower leg like he might be able to meld with it if he concentrates really heard. Nero has gotten particularly protective of me while I’ve been pregnant. So much so that he will in fact endure a graduation ceremony for my sake.

He really is a good boy, even if he will never, ever let me say so to his face.

I refocus on the high priestess just as she says, “…with that let’s give a round of applause to our graduating class!”

The seated crowd erupts in claps.

And then she begins to announce names. First it’s Tatiana Abbot, then Michaela Acosta, then an Addams, an Ahmad, an Ainsworth, then Aldridge, and then⁠—

“Sybil Andalucia!”

I clap and holler as my best friend crosses the stage and takes her diploma. It takes only a few more minutes to call out the last of the “A” surnames, the line ahead of me getting shorter and shorter until I’m standing on the edge of the stage.

“Selene Bowers!”

The name I wrote over and over again in my notebooks, in case one day my magic took the memory of it from me. The irony is that Selene Bowers isn’t my first true name. That one is lost to time. Nor is it my second name, the one that was given to me by a Roman woman whose memory isn’t worth lingering on. Then there’s Uvagukis Roxilana, the name Memnon gave me when I wanted something of my own.

But, for now, Selene Bowers—or Selene Uvagukis—is what I go by.

I’ve found, in the end, that my name isn’t nearly so important to me when I have recreated myself more than a few times. My existence stretches far into the past, and by all accounts, it will stretch far, far into the future.

My graduation gown swishes as Nero and I cross the stage. I clasp the high priestess’s hand and my ink-stained fingers take my diploma from her. During the time Henbane was closed, I started writing my first intentional grimoire, and since then I never really stopped.

It turns out, writing down my memories for all those years and transcribing an entire language in my past life are both really good skillsets for authoring magical books. So much so that one supernatural press has already published two of them: Sarmatian Phrases for Beginners and The Old Soul’s Spellbook.

The high priestess gives my hand a tight squeeze, and now I know I’m not imagining her keen attention on me.

She leans forward and whispers, “Well done, Selene,” as my parents and a few others clap and cheer. But then Memnon’s completely unhinged war cry cuts through it all. It’s such a ridiculous sound, considering the occasion, that I laugh as I release the high priestess’s hand and waddle off the stage with my familiar.

My gaze finds Memnon’s in the audience, and even across all this distance, I feel the searing heat of those burning eyes.

Well done, my queen. My skin pricks at how the soft words seem to stroke me from the inside.

I smile at him. Thank you, est vexsava.

My love.

I head to the empty seat waiting for me among the graduates. I’ve just settled into the rickety chair and Nero has curled up at my feet when another cramp tenses up my abdominal muscles.

My breath catches at the sensation, but it’s mild, and like the time before, after only a few seconds, it abates.

Slowly, the chairs around me fill up with my coven sisters, until, finally, the last witch receives her diploma and returns to her seat.

The high priestess clears her throat.

“May I present to you Henbane’s newest graduates. Congratulations, sisters!” A cry rises up from us and the rest of the audience.

My coven sisters and I reach under our chairs, grasping the brooms that’ve been stowed away there. I pull mine between my legs.

This is another way in which coven graduations differ from regular ones.