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Wok . . . form . . . angling?
The handwriting on this note is a step down from chicken scratch. The paper tears at the edge while I twist it to see the words better in the moonlight.
I don’t understand why the High Witch felt the need to leave me a note. Jay and I are the only single people in the coven. Like every year, I assume we’ve been assigned to walk the perimeter and check the moonstones.
Because it’s fucking Valentine’s Day.
I hate Valentine’s Day. It’s nothing more than a commercialized, sanitized holiday meant to line retailer pockets and . . .
Deep breaths, Violet . . .
Anyway, thanks to being the only uncoupled witches, Jay and I are annually sentenced to walk the ward line of the coven’s protected property. I didn’t bother to ask if we’re assigned to patrol; I know we are.
The task isn’t difficult, per se. The worst I’ve ever come across is a stone that’s fizzled out.
The coven grounds sit on 17 mountainous, wooded acres. That’s wonderful for privacy. It is not wonderful for maintaining our protective circumference. We’d normally split into six pairs so it isn’t so cumbersome, but not tonight.
Because it’s Valentine’s Day. Gag.
My shoelace snags on the brush and comes undone. I pause to retie the bow.
And procrastinate a bit.
Standing, I set my hands on my hips and deeply inhale the cool night air. The moon’s just past full and still kicks off crisp, residual energy.
My feet slip on the muddy ground while I resume my climb. I’m wearing hiking boots—skies know I’ll need them tonight with the rain all afternoon—but I’d rather not destroy them before I’ve started. I dressed for the weather and exercise, in my stretch black jeans, “Get Lit” full moon tee, and zip up jacket. I’ve even plaited my thick, wavy hair into a complex braid to keep it off my face.
And to procrastinate some more, of course.
Although now I’m late.
It’s a miracle I found the note the High Witch left. I nearly skipped checking the box at the bottom of the mountain.
I may have, kind of, been procrastinating again.
And sincerely debated blowing it all off and hoping Jay doesn’t go nuclear.
Yeah right. If pettiness were a drink, Jay would be salt water—which is why I love him.
Nothing like a night of tedious exercise to emphasize where you are on the coven’s pecking order.
At 26, I’m also a “youngster witch.” I may have been casting and chanting since I could stand unassisted under the moon, but I don’t hold a candle to someone like High Witch Miri Sinzel.
The two-story cabin comes into view on the hilltop. We’re forbidden from driving anything with a motor past the ward line, so I’ve already been hiking through the woods for a solid 20 minutes.
Yes, that’s right—Jay and I will have the distinct displeasure of hiking part way down a fucking mountain and, when we’re exhausted in the middle of the night, slowly climbing up to the cabin.
The screen door hinges scream and the front door swings easily.
“Jay?” I call out. The expansive great room echoes my voice. It doubles as a meeting or party room for our 80-strong coven.
The door was unlocked. He has to be here.
Right?
No one can get past the ward line. It’s impossible. The protective circle has safeguarded our land for over 50 years and I’ve never heard of something getting in.
Except, we patrol it for a reason. It isn’t just the High Witch’s power trip.
