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“Not tonight,” Sonia cut her off, her eyes hard.
“If not tonight, then when?” Merle threw in. “You’re running out of time!”
“Let’s take a vote, then.” Susanne lifted her chin. “All in favor of discussing the validity of the Demon Lord’s rumor mill tonight, raise your hand.”
Corrosive anger coursing through her veins, Hazel lifted her hand, Merle doing the same next to her.
No one else joined them.
Hazel glanced at Shobha, Elaine, and Sarai, who didn’t meet her eyes, uncertainty set into the lines of their faces, the tension of their shoulders.
“Voted on and dismissed,” Susanne said with a sneer. “Sonia, please proceed with the ritual preparation.”
“This is unbelievable,” Merle whispered, rubbing her eyes. “It’s like watching a train wreck happening in slow motion.”
“I have a new, visceral understanding of Cassandra’s plight,” Hazel murmured back. The sheer helpless despair of warning of disasters to come, with no one taking her seriously. No wonder the mythical prophetess had fallen to madness.
“We are here,” Sonia intoned, “to witness the new head of the Callahan family join our ranks as an Elder. We will sit in vigil as she proves her strength and demonstrates the power necessary to act as a voting member of our community’s council of Elders. With magic and blood, we serve to protect.”
“With magic and blood,” the other witches repeated.
“May the Powers That Be bless your line.” Sonia nodded at Beth. “Begin.”
Beth inclined her head and rose from her seat. Taking chalk from a shelf in the corner, she drew a big pentagram on the floor, then grabbed a package of salt and poured a thin line in a circle around the five-pointed star, creating a pentacle. She placed a white candle on each of the five points and lit them with a match.
Gingerly, she stepped into the circle, drew a small dagger out of its sheath, and pricked her left thumb. With a quiet word, she touched her finger to the salt line, activating the protective circle. The soft buzz of the magic whispered over Hazel’s skin.
Beth sat down cross-legged in the middle of the pentacle, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “By the magic of my line,” she said, her voice grave, “I call upon the Powers That Be to grant me strength…”
The candlelight flickered over her face, a dance of shadows over her features. Beth began the chant that would draw magic around her in a mantle of energy—her own and that which she pulled from between the layers of the world—to be released in an unmistakable show of power, its display as individual as the witch who wielded it. No one knew which shape the demonstration of power would take beforehand, not even the witch herself.
It was the magic that chose its form.
For Merle, it had rained fire—thankfully not actually burning any of the Elders present. Sarai had made the walls bleed.
At Hazel’s initiation, a lightning storm had rattled the room, its thunder like the beat of a war drum.
Beth’s voice rose, her chant building to a crescendo. With her eyes still closed, she took hold of the dagger again and placed the sharp edge of the blade against her palm.
“Ostende!” she cried out and slid the dagger across her palm in a quick motion.
Hazel held her breath. The attention of everyone in the room collectively sharpened, quiet expectation charging the air.
Seconds ticked by.
Beth’s chest fell and rose with her quickened breath. Her eyes still closed, she swallowed, her brows drawing together.
A drop of her blood hit the floor in front of her, the only sound in the otherwise oppressively quiet room. More seconds passed. Someone shifted uncomfortably in a chair.
“Ostende!” Beth called out again.
But her plea for her power to manifest went unheeded. No magic stirred the air. No phenomenon dazzled the witches bearing witness.
Sonia cleared her throat. “Beth,” she said softly. “You may break the circle.”
Beth opened her eyes. Unshed tears shimmered in them. “Wait. I don’t understand.”
“You failed,” Patricia said, not unkindly. “The ritual didn’t work.”
