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“It is my necklace, after all,” the leader says, holding a bony hand out to Josephine, who reaches across the table and gives over the amulet without question.
“Lilian Beauchamp,” Sebastian mutters, almost to himself. “I knew I recognized you.”
I frown at Sebastian, my gaze following his, locked on the elder witch as she clasps the chain around her neck, the moonstone lying on her sun-spotted chest. I never met her personally, but Lilian Beauchamp was a casualty of the war twenty-five years ago. Among the four dozen or so witches who perished, Lilian was one of the most prominent.
Like the Dumonts, the Beauchamps are one of the original founding families of witches. The Beauchamp’s control over their magic and connection with the witch goddess Gaia is said to be unrivaled—or, at least it was.
The Beauchamp line of succession was supposed to have ended with Lilian. But if Sebastian is right, and that girl called her ‘Auntie’ earlier, then clearly we’re out of the loop.
“It took me a moment to recognize you,” Sebastian continues. “The last time we saw one another, you weren’t nearly as…weathered. Not nearly as cantankerous, either.”
“It is a privilege to experience the aging process as Mother Gaia intended.” Despite her words, the corner of Lilian’s mouth twitches. Sebastian is doing a fine job of getting under her—admittedly age-weathered—skin.
I shoot him a warning look. We still aren’t sure whether the Moon Witches are allies or enemies. At this point, I would settle for something between the two—a solid middle ground. Either way, it’s in our best interest not to insult them to their faces.
“Didn’t you die?” Rune asks, continuing to tip the needle further towards the ‘enemies’ side of things and making me long for a vacation.
“Obviously not. You vampires aren’t as swift as you are fast.” The child chuckles at her play on words, and I fight not to roll my eyes.
Kids these days.
The girl looks eleven or twelve years old, but the teenager sass in her tone is heavy. Rune sticks his tongue out at her, no more mature than a teenager himself.
“Faking my death was a necessary sacrifice to keep the moonstone amulet away from those who would abuse its power,” Lilian says, drawing us back to the point of our conversation.
Sebastian grunts. “More like you’ve been avoiding the consequences of your ritual.”
Lilian fixes him with a glare. “I am trying to make it right and protect my coven.”
“By hiding in the swamp for twenty-five years and leaving your coven to suffer under the oppression of the werewolves?”
“Enough.” Josephine’s voice booms with a commanding pulse of magic that quiets the room as effectively as if she had enthralled everyone to obey her. “Both sides have grievances against the other, but nothing will be solved by throwing insults at one another. Boys, either sit down and shut your mouth so we can have a civil discussion, or leave.”
Sebastian raises a dark brow, the heavy weight of his response hanging in the long stretch of a silent moment.
As much as I hate him continuing to pick on Josie, it’s better that Sebastian directs his attitude towards her, rather than continue to provoke Lilian. Every word out of his mouth aggravates her more and drives us further from our goal.
Except, it isn’t anger I sense from him now—it’s amusement.
Without another word, Sebastian raises his hands in surrender, then places himself at the edge of the room, sinking into the shadows next to the window with a single half-burnt candle flickering on the sill.
It’s too much to hope he’ll remain as unobtrusive while Lilian and her coven fill us in on what we need to know—but one can hope.
CHAPTER THREE
JOSIE
The ancient tree trunk the group of us sit around practically exudes magical energy. Maybe even as much as Lilian’s moonstone amulet, though it is a different kind of energy. I slide flat palms across the smooth surface and bask in the potent headiness of it.
It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to Mother Gaia, as if the thick roots snaking into the ground beneath my feet give me a direct connection to her.
It’s invigorating.
One of the younger Moon Witches at the table pours a dark, steaming tea into a cup for Rune. The delicate china is comical in his huge hands while he sips from the edge with a loud slurp.
Fintan shakes his head at his sire. “You can take the Viking out of the Middle Ages, but he’s still a Viking.” Finn accepts a matching blue and white teacup from the witch with a nod of thanks.
She reaches out to top mine off, filling my nose with the scent of clove and the slight woodiness of althea root as steam billows from my cup.
