Page 103

I’m so absorbed in the strange, exhilarating sensation of being a part of a single larger unit that I don’t realize another woman is being led toward the circle, not until the priestess calls out, “Enter our circle and join in the night’s festivities. We offer our permission to cross our sacred power line.”

Down the circle, two witches awkwardly lift their joined hands, and two more individuals press in between them, crossing into the center of the circle.

I watch the two individuals, my eyes fixed on the larger of them. This person wears a black robe and a mask like the rest of us. It’s what lies beneath that mask that catches my eye. The skin of their neck is a smooth pale gray, the sheen of it somehow dull. As they prowl forward, their movements seem jerky and mechanical.

The darkness must be playing with my eyes.

I force myself to look down at that individual’s companion. The second newcomer also wears a mask, but that’s where the similarities end. Unlike the rest of us, she wears an almost-sheer white shift, one that makes her nipples and pubic hair blatantly visible. I can’t see what her expression is beneath her mask, but she leans heavily against the first companion, as though her legs aren’t doing so well keeping her upright.

Nothing about it sits right with me.

“What is going on?” I ask the green-eyed witch.

She gives me a look that plainly says toshut upbut says, “This is just part of the new moon spell circles.”

The woman in the shift stumbles a little, and when she rights herself, I notice how small her limbs are.

My heart seizes.

Not a woman but agirl. She can’t be more than sixteen, which is technically considered the age of adulthood for supernaturals, but comeon. She looks too young to be out here participating in a spell circle. And definitely not inebriated, which she looks to be.

For a moment, the skin of her forearms shifts, her arm hair elongating. Then it recedes back into her skin as though it were never there to begin with.

I suck in a startled breath.

She’s a lycanthrope?

Why is she being led into a witch’s spell circle?

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

All of this feels wrong.

The girl’s companion moves a hand to the back of her neck and guides her down to her knees.

For a moment I am paralyzed by fear, my horror seizing up my limbs.

What thefuckis going on?

My eyes move from witch to witch, but none of them look anxious or agitated.

Why do they not look worried?

“Join hands once more, sisters,” the priestess says, stepping into the circle with the two guests of honor.

My heart feels like it’s in my throat as I clasp the palms of the women around me, sealing the circle. Magic thickens in the air.

I must be misunderstanding something. Surely I am.

The priestess lifts her arms and speaks once more in Latin.“I call on the darkness and the old, hungry gods who will bear witness to my deeds.”

She drops her hands and reaches into her robe. From it she pulls a gleaming ceremonial blade.

As the priestess speaks, she lifts a ceremonial blade in one of her joined hands.

Holy fuck, who gave her a knife?

My gaze sweeps over the rest of the circle. Several witches are swaying, and the eyes I can make out in the dim room look a bit glazed, but not one of them appears surprised or uneasy.