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I know who it is. Of course, I do. I see her almost nightly in my dreams, although that’s changed since Willow has been sleeping in my bed.
This is Elizabeth Wildblood exactly as I see her, exactly as my imagination conjures her up. It’s uncanny.
Except here, it’s not hate in those eyes that look so much like Willow’s. Her expression is earnest, serious, but kind. Not as though she is looking at the face of her enemy but at her kin.
I wonder at the age of the portrait. Wonder if it’s been passed down through the centuries.
The candle in its glass flickers although there is no draft. I meet Elizabeth Wildblood’s eyes again. I’m not welcome here.
I set my jaw, put the frame back where I found it, and walk out of the room. I walk down the stairs, feeling irritable when I hear the murmur of voices coming from the sitting room. I observe the Wildblood sisters in a huddle almost, their faces serious, none of the laughter of earlier now. I wonder what they’re up to. I clear my throat to make my presence known.
They practically jump, and I don’t miss the panic in Willow’s eyes as she quickly tucks envelopes into a shirt she’s holding.
When she meets my eyes again, she’s flushed.
“Dinner is ready,” I say.
“Okay,” she nods.
My gaze rakes over her, lingering on the skin left exposed by her top.
“I just need to finish saying goodbye to my sisters,” she tells me. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
My cue to leave. I glance at the sisters, pausing for a moment on Raven. Have she and my brother met before tonight? Have they had any contact at all?
Willow clears her throat and I realize I’m hovering.
“Right. Don’t be too long.” I turn and walk away, hearing her usher her sisters out and saying a hasty goodbye before hurrying up the stairs.
When she returns, her hands are empty. I lead her into the dining room for dinner.
21
WILLOW
I wake with a jolt, breath heaving and skin flushed as my eyes dart around, taking in my surroundings. I’m in Azrael’s bed, but he’s not here. A glance at my phone confirms it’s three o’clock in the morning—the witching hour.
A cold chill moves over me as I try to shake off the nightmare that pulled me from sleep, but Elizabeth’s voice curls around my ear like a whisper of dread.
Careful, child.
Her warnings have increased lately, but it makes little difference if I can’t understand what she’s trying to protect me from. It could be any number of things. Salomé. This house. The fate that’s been written for me from the moment I was born a marked woman.
I’ve felt off balance, and no amount of energetic work has helped. There’s been a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach from the moment I saw the news articles Raven sent me. Two local witches had been tortured and mutilated, their bodies found dumped in the street like trash.
While it’s always possible it could have been a random act of violence, I can’t help thinking it has something to do with Caleb Church’s associations and the group that calls themselves The Disciples. Before they set their eyes upon our family, rumors had abounded for years that they were hunting women around New Orleans… women who were known to dabble in witchcraft.
When I met Caleb Church, I didn’t know about his affiliation with the group or their reputation for performing violent exorcisms and baptisms alike—if you could call nearly drowning those they wish to convert a baptism, that is.
A shudder moves over me as I recall that feeling of suffocation. The choking, burning, clawing as blackness dimmed my vision.
I was young and naive when Caleb snuck me into his place of worship. Foolishly, I had believed it was because he wanted a quiet moment together. A stolen kiss, maybe. He’d only ever been sweet. But instead, he stripped away the charming persona he had carried and showed me who he really was.
He told me he wanted to ‘get the Devil out of me,’ and in his mind, rape and murder were the only ways to absolve a sinner like me. If I hadn’t been wearing my ring that night, he would have succeeded.
That was the first time I truly felt the power of Elizabeth Wildblood in my veins. I’d channeled her strength somehow, and I survived. But I’ve never been the same since. The experience changed me, and not for the better.
I learned after that night that my parents' warnings about the evils of this world weren’t just talk. Now I feel those evils everywhere. The men and women who burned and hanged witches aren’t extinct. They just hide in the shadows, feeding their murderous appetites in the dark among their own kind.
For well over a decade, bodies have been turning up on the streets. Women who were mothers, sisters, daughters. Women who were members of the magic community.
