Page 9 of Our Covenant

I shove my books in my bag, reach for my phone, and head to class. The professor won’t bat an eye at Asher’s absence, especially if my legs spread open wide enough for him to look straight up my skirt. I don’t want Asher to be dismissed without repercussions. All four legacies deserved punishment for what their lineage did to mine, but next week, when Asher is hoping to copy notes from someone, I need to be the one he asks.

I didn’t grow up with their level of privilege. My single mother didn’t have the constant stream of wealth or means like the coven has provided for all of their members. Scraping by with half a dozen books that my ancestors passed down has gotten us this far. I will be taking those lessons, the advantage of good genes, and the door Alric has opened to have all four legacies where I want them. It’s taken months of being in the right places at the right times to gather the information I need for the next step in my plan.

My first attack? Well, that will be taken care of very soon.

Hawthorne Bishop

Still on for tonight?

Elsbeth

Can’t wait.

6

FOX

Mariana Nurse faces the dozen council members who all have the same unenthusiastic expression on their faces. The magic harvested is weaker still. While there’s no way of measurement or to conceptualize the volume, I visualize magic as a deep reservoir inside of me. One that fills and overflows after a harvest but becomes fretfully low after welcoming all those who need to fill their cups.

“Our needs will never outweigh our purpose.” Mariana’s sage voice commands the crowd. “In lean times such as these, we will conserve and work together to continue our resilience.”

There’s a mumble of agreement but it’s feeble. Mariana continues her mystical pep talk, but my mind flits elsewhere.

I hate council meetings. The room is hot and the collar of my shirt is too tight. But nevertheless, I’ve saved myself from having to endure another one of my great-grandmother’s tongue lashings about wearing a tie and proper slacks to every meeting to show my authority as one of the reigning heirs. As if being the mystical spigot isn’t special enough.

Tonight’s gathering is more grating than usual because Maddox and Thorne have other engagements after their internship hours—not that I envy either of their situations, but we should all be here.

Our high priestess stands with her golden-brown boney shoulders square and chin high. The long salt-and-pepper locks of her hair flow down her back. Her grounding presence demands attention.

“We are blessed to receive Fox and Asher to report their harvest into the council meeting notes.” Mariana steps aside, her long, tawny fingers spread across the middle of Asher’s back to signal it’s his time to speak, and the room stills.

The council members are comprised of the elders of each family and previous legacies. Each are champing at the bit to question how the four of us plan to protect and enrich the coven with the gifts we’ve harvested. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to stand here and give vague answers about how much magic we’ll have to distribute in the coming weeks. Being the conduit from our ancestors to those we protect is an honor I was born to bear, but every year, our coven grows and the gifts to bestow become thinner.

“It’s an honor to stand here before you.” Asher’s steady voice over the crowd has them calm, but that’ll be short-lived once it’s my turn to speak. He tugs at the collar of his Oxford and a peek of a hickey flashes. I clear my throat to stop myself from laughing, and he glances over his shoulder at me mid-speech.

“The sacred sacrifice was given by one of our most well-known members. Beatrice Nurse became the vessel in which our ancestors delivered this ritual’s wealth of magic upon us. It will be rationed and distributed to the leaders of your families as our coven mandates,” Asher finishes, taking a step back and allowing the other members to converse.

My family home has been the council meeting residence since I was a child, and once I ascend to the same status, I will be expected to welcome the coven to scrutinize my every choice. In reality, nothing will change but my address.

Traditionally speaking, my mother should be the one standing in Mariana’s place to bless the circle and commence the tortuous hour, but her body was returned to the soil twenty-three years ago. The hole she left in the coven she’d fought so hard to be accepted into has never been filled. Not by my father, who raised me with a broken heart and mountains of responsibility. Anita Proctor wasn’t of our coven. Nor was she chosen for my father by the high priestess or council—living or dead—to bare the next Proctor legacy. But when she was chosen to be the vessel after he introduced her to the coven, she wielded more magic than anyone expected.

My parents were supposed to be proof that the cooperation between covens across land and oceans could strengthen our power. Their love replenished the pool of magic for the entire coven and they built an empire that still sustains us monetarily to this day.

My conception being the product of such paramount love and magic should have made my time as the reigning Proctor legacy bountiful. That was, until my mother died in childbirth. The devastation of losing her caused a ripple of concern through every member here, but no one has suffered more than my father.

Her portrait over the fireplace looks down on me now, dredging up the memories of my father lecturing me every single day of my importance to the coven and her magical line. I wish he would have blamed me for her death or hated me for the life my entrance earthside took from him. Instead, I became a prophecy. The sole surviving proof that Anita Proctor had grown the future of the coven in her womb and used her dying breath to deliver my name from beyond the veil.

I study the brush strokes around her golden-brown eyes. Though I inherited my father’s green, the larger rounded shape came from her. I am the blending of magical blood, but Proctor features won out in the end. Hers was more vivid than my own, but our cheekbones carve our pointed features toward thick black hair. My father’s silhouette appears in my periphery, him likely arriving home from a shareholders meeting. As I’ve become more integral to our place in the coven, he’s withdrawn. Spending more time at work than with the community he strengthened for forty years.

“Fox?” Asher squeezes my shoulder to turn the meeting over to me.

I take a deep breath and step forward. Eyes from the crowd immediately turn to me. All of them seem convinced that I’ll bring them more good news. Each of them is wrong.

“While Asher, Maddox, Hawthorne, and I all have been revived by the gifts bestowed upon us, the limits we have experienced in the past have continued.” The crowd grumbles. “As the reigning legacies, it’s our duty to protect you the best we can with the power we are granted. But we can’t do that without your commitment to conserve your own gifts. No matter how small they may seem.”

I home in on my father near the back wall. His sharp green eyes meet my identical ones, and his chin dips in encouragement. He has refused the gifts of the harvest for the last year. I’m not sure if he’s doing it to conserve magic for families with greater needs or if he has grown too tired of the chaos and constant unease that the coven has been dealing with.

“We’ve angered the spirits.” A voice rises above the rest. “You have to win back their admiration.”