Page 23 of Trickery

Chapter Eight

The Sacred Circle took place in a glade in the middle of a forest, protected from mortal sight by a veil of spells. It was a somber, beautiful occasion, welcoming a new Sister into the fold. It was one of the few times they all came together—witches and warlocks—suppressing their natural tendency to clash. The glade had been lit with tiny lights glittering high in the boughs of the watching trees. The Brethren stood in a ring, all cloaked in black, with hoods dipping over their faces—all but the eligible warlocks.

These fellows, these strong, majestic warriors who had not yet been mated, stood in an arc inside the Circle. They were clothed in nothing but tight leggings. They had all taken the time and effort to enhance their allure, whether endowed by magic or natural gifts. They stood in a line, sizing each other up and primping.

And what a fine selection it was.

Willow peeped around the trunk of a tree to take in the scene. Her heart skipped. She was excited and frightened. Somewhere, out there, was her mate. One of the Sisters shifted to the side and she got a glimpse of the altar. She shivered. That was where her child would be conceived. Tonight.

All the auspices were good. Midea had read and reread the signs.

The object of her thoughts came up beside her and took her hand, tugged at her. “Come away, child. Don’t peek.”

“But I want to see them.”

“Not until it’s time. Come. We must prepare.”

Willow blew out a breath. She’d been preparing for this night forever, but she obediently followed the Great Mother Witch back to the smaller circle formed by her coven. Her family.

She took her place among them, standing out like a diamond in her white dress. Glancing around at the so-familiar faces, her heart lifted. Ardith and Circe and Danika and Maeve. And, of course, Skylar. The women who had found her and taken her in and taught her. Despaired of her at times.

Willow smiled at them, each and every one. They all smiled back, although Skylar’s smile was wobbly. Tears glistened on her lashes.

Midea stepped forward, a chalice in her hands, chanting the words of welcome. She lifted the cup high and implored Gaia and all the Gods of the Earth to protect her, bless her, inspire her in her works. She repeated the chant for Willow.

And then she passed the cup over. Willow took it with both hands, accepting it with a whole heart. She sipped.

The brew, potent and warm, trickled through her, danced along her veins. It flowed into her body, her soul, making her tingle from tip to toes. It settled in her womb, softening her, preparing her for what was to come.

Willow hadn’t expected the drowsy, somnambulant feeling that came with the potion. Her limbs were heavy, sleepy and slow. She walked on a fog, a mist as the Sisters led her through the forest and to the Sacred Circle. The Brethren opened ranks to welcome her in and the chant rose. It filled her, possessed her, made its home in her heart.

Azreal, the Great Warlock, approached. Though she’d never met him before, he seemed oddly familiar. It was probably the potion. She blinked in surprise as he offered her a tiny wink.

Then he took her elbow and led her to the other side of the clearing where the warlocks awaited her.

As she approached, they all stood taller, put their shoulders back. One even thrust out his chest, which made Willow’s lips twitch. The Great Warlock led her down the line, from one to the other, calling out each name in turn. Willow attentively listened. She inspected each man, as she’d been trained to do, looking for the flare of magic marking him as her mate. Some higher power crawled through her, prowling, watching and assessing as well.

Halfway through the line, she began to wonder if she was doing this wrong. Because none of them, not one of them, stirred a thing in her heart. She sighed and looked down the line of remaining postulants. They all looked pretty much the same. But she was an obedient girl—at least that was what Midea kept telling her—so she followed the Great Warlock on and on. And still, nothing happened. There was no magic. No magic at all.

They came to the last man and a bubble of panic rose. She studied him, desperately trying to see something, trying to feel something.

“This is Simon,” the Great Warlock intoned. Willow stared at Simon, and stared at him some more, hoping, praying to Gaia, to see that something there.

She didn’t.

He was just the kind of man she always found attractive, tall and dark with a hint of domination quirking his brow. And Gaia, he was handsome and braw. His muscles were thickly roped and oiled for her. His face was a dream.

But…nothing.

With a small whimper, she stepped back, a hard ache throbbing in her belly. Simon deflated and a gasp ricocheted through the Congregation. Willow could practically hear their thoughts, taste their dismay. How can this be? they wondered. All the auspices were good. How can this be?

Were none of the warlocks her True Mate? Were none of them even worthy?

And then, from behind the line of men, another warlock stepped forward. He appeared in the Circle with a shimmering, as though he’d just emerged from behind an enchanted curtain.

He was tall and dark and broad. His eyes were large and brown and his brows had a wicked slant. His hair was an unruly mop of curls so maddening her fingers twitched to smooth it. He smiled and her attention shifted to his lips and…oh. What beautiful lips.

Arousal shot through her womb. Midea’s potion had finally awoken. Willow stared at him, this warlock, this man. And she saw it. With her inner eye. She saw the eddies of magic, the brilliant whorls of iridescent light swirling around him.