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The two of us touch up each other’s makeup, and then we leave the house. Sybil and I cut across campus, past the massive glass conservatory on our right, which is still lit up, despite the late hour. Lampposts around the school bathe the rest of campus in pretty golden light, but the moment we hit the tree line, the shadows swallow us.

“This is a bad idea, Sybil,” I say, staring around us at the dark forms of trees. It doesn’t help that my familiar is off hunting tonight instead of at my side. There’s nothing like having a panther bodyguard to make a girl feel safe.

Sybil bends down and plucks a weed from the ground. Holding it in her palm, she whispers a spell. The plant shrivels and twists before our eyes. In its place grows a ball of pale green light. She blows on it, and it bobs ahead of us, lighting our way. Almost as an afterthought, she drops the dead weed from her hand.

I stare at her for a second longer. “You truly are extraordinary, you know.” I’m so proud of her, my friend who will one day change the world.

“Awww,” Sybil says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “So are you, Selene.”

I draw her words close and let myself believe them. When my memory loss feels overwhelming or when it prevents me from doing the sorts of things other witches take for granted, I can second-guess my abilities. This is my reminder to tell my insecurities to fuck off.

Sybil winds her arm through mine. “Isn’t it wild?” she says. “Just think of all those stories they tell about these woods.”

I give her a sharp look. “You mean the ones where witches are being murdered?” I say, my voice rising a little.

“Goddess,” Sybil says, exasperated, rolling her eyes at me. “The Everwoods has far more to its history than the recent murders.” She glances at me. “Have you heard about the witches claimed during the Sacred Seven?”

According to werewolves, the Sacred Seven are the seven days closest to the full moon, the time when their magic compels them to shift. Normally, packs keep to themselves during those days, usually to stop themselves from accidentally harming nonshifters.

“No,” I say. “What the hell do you mean there have been witches claimed during the Sacred Seven?”

Sybil lifts a shoulder. “Lycanthropes have been known to lay a claiming bite on witches out late in these woods—if, of course, the witch is unable or unwilling to stop them.”

“What?” I say, aghast. “That actually happens?” My eyes flick to the sky above us, searching for the moon. But of course it’s not there. Even if the trees and the clouds weren’t obscuring my view, tomorrow is the new moon, which means there’s not much to see in the sky right now.

“That’s how lycanthropes claim their mates.” Sybil gives me a sly smile. “Ask a shifter tonight how their parents met. Some of them have witch mothers.”

Witch mothers who might also shift intowolves, if what she’s saying is true.

“It’s not just lycanthropes either,” Sybil continues. “There are stories of fae who’ve snatched witches from these woods to be their brides.”

“Are these stories supposed to make me feel better? Because all I know now is that I should worry about murderers, werewolves,andfairies.”

“Don’t forget your vengeful mummy,” she says playfully, a smile spreading on her lips.

My mood darkens at the reminder. But before I can dwell on it too long, the distant thumping of music drifts through the woods.

We continue on a little ways, and then, ahead of us, the forest brightens, and through the trees, I catch sight of supernaturals dancing and mingling in a small clearing next to a cabin.

Sybil and I make it to the revelers, and Sybil’s orb floats up and joins dozens of others in the air above us, each emitting light the shade of the caster’s magic. It looks ethereal, and the sight of it reminds me of Sybil’s earlier words about the fae claiming brides on nights like tonight.

A shiver courses through me.

Next to me, Sybil murmurs, “Through sweat and salt and musky fear, send the cold away from here.”

The chill in the air disperses, leaving the night feeling a touch balmy.

“You’re welcome,” Sybil whispers.

I shake my head and smile. I keep forgetting how much fun it is to openly use magic. I’m still used to living among humans and concealing it.

Sybil and I head inside the cabin, where more shifters and witches are hanging out. I recognize a big group of witches from our house, and I join them while Sybil runs off to grab us drinks.

I listen as my coven sisters chat about how hard premed magic is and nod when appropriate, but I’m distracted by my own unease. This feels like a reenactment of Little Red Riding Hood, only the whole story is flipped on its head, and the wolves aren’t going to eat us—whatever is lurking out in these woods will.

In my mind’s eye, I see that murdered witch again, with her gaping chest cavity and missing organs—

“I saw Kane.”