Page 25 of Autumn L.A.W

Magic pooled beneath Sahara’s feet. Her skin tingled. Her vision blurred… then a flash and a vision. Stone. Water. Glyphs glowing under the surface. A hand reaching through.

Sahara flinched.

Ezra was instantly there, steady, present. “Stay with me.”

Light snapped through the circle.

Lioness braced her.

Rayna chanted a spell to strengthen the barrier.

Joell added protection to the circle with additional salt.

The obelisk’s voice slithered into Sahara’s skull, whispering a name sounding almost like hers. Samira…

Ezra’s voice cut through it, fierce and low. “Remember who you are. Not what it wants you to be.”

Something tore free inside her, like a hook ripped from muscle. She gasped, and light exploded around her. Sahara pitched forward, and Ezra caught her fully this time, arms strong, breath even.

“You’re back,” he whispered.

Sahara swallowed. “Was I gone? Again?”

Ezra’s eyes softened. “Not in the physical sense.” He set her on her feet.

Lioness collapsed dramatically, spread-eagled and staring at the ceiling. “Well. That was awful.”

Rayna panted. “Seconded.”

Joell adjusted her glasses. “I think the house fainted.”

Sahara leaned into Ezra, just long enough to whisper, “Thank you.”

Ezra’s breath caught. “Always,” he said with a smile.

And the house, for once, didn’t object.

“So, what are we going to do about the obelisk?” Sahara asked. “I think we need to bind it and rebury it. Or find out where it came from and⁠—”

Rayna snapped to attention. “We? Oh, no, no, no… You aren’t going near that thing! The rest of us will figure it out.”

Ezra raised his hand. “I volunteer.”

Rayna cocked her head. “Why would you do that? This isn’t your assignment.”

“Because I don’t want whatever is imprisoned in that thing getting its greedy hands on the woman I l—like.”

Rayna folded her arms. After eyeing him for several seconds, she said. “Fine. I believe you want the same thing we do. Freedom for Sahara.”

“Freedom for Sahara,” he echoed and nodded once.

“Freedom for Sahara!” the witches chanted in unison, as if at a protest march.

CHAPTER 7

The dawn sky over Central Park was the color of pink leaking into blue-gray, pigeons half-awake, and joggers already starting their mornings. Cal Monroe should’ve been one of them.

He wasn’t in the mood today. He needed the next three days off after yesterday’s warehouse fire. So, he wandered the park with a paper cup of burnt coffee and the vague intention of remembering what “fresh air” felt like.