Page 3 of Demon's Bane

One corner of Esme’s mouth quirks up, but it’s her only tell as she waves her hand again, with a bit more flourish this time. Between us, a steaming teapot and two cups, two saucers, two spoons, and a sugar dish clatter into being on the wooden tabletop.

I’m able to stifle my gasp of surprise, but barely.

It’s been years since I was around the easy, day-to-day use of even the small magicks I encountered every day growing uparound the coven. Embarrassing, frankly, to be staring like a mundane, non-magick twit at a bit of conjuring.

Silence stretches between us as we take turns preparing our tea, but Esme—perfectly polished and gracious—has the good manners to acknowledge the offering.

“It’s delicious,” she says, setting her cup down after taking a long sip. “I’d forgotten the peculiarity of your magick, so similar to—”

And just like that, the High Priestess isn’t so infallible.

She catches herself before she finishes that sentence, but I hear the name she doesn’t say.

Allie.

Her daughter. My best friend. The brand new queen of the demon realm.

It gives me the fortitude I need to re-arm myself, to sit back in my chair with my arms crossed over my chest and remember who I’m dealing with here.

This is the same Esme Hawthorn who passed up not only me, but her own daughter, for a spot in the coven’s precious academy because neither of our magicks passed muster. This is the Esme Hawthorn who left Allie ignorant about the true nature of the bargain between witches and demons, leaving her hanging out to dry when the Goddess chose her during the last Tithe and she was spirited away with her new demon king husband.

Not that Allie let it stop her. She made her own way through the mess her mother left her in and saved all our asses in the process. She showed just whatweakmagick is capable of, and I’ve never been so fiercely proud of anyone as I am of her.

So, in that spirit, I’m not going to let her mother steamroll me.

Not today, witch.

“What if I tell you I have no interest in helping you?”

Another cool quirk of her brow, a gentle scrape of metal on porcelain as she stirs her tea. “Before you’ve even heard what it is I’m asking for?”

“Does it matter what you’re asking for?”

“It might,” she says lightly, like this is any casual chat. “Or, if you’d rather us start with a different topic, we can talk about your standing with the coven.”

Esme’s words fall into absolute silence. My heart lurches into my throat and I swallow hard around it, no longer able to meet her eye as I turn my gaze back to my teacup.

“If I recall correctly,” she continues, “it’s been over four years since you’ve reported to the coven hall for duties, and at least that long since you’ve paid your yearly dues.”

All my arguments, all my brief bravado and courage, every bit of pride I’ve been standing on, topple over into a pile of rubble.

She’s… not wrong.

I stopped keeping up with my responsibilities to the coven right around the time I opened Celestial Blends. It had been my own form of silent protest, something I hadn’t even shared with Allie. At the time, the small rebellion lingered like a bitter aftertaste on the back of my tongue every time the year turned and that small black envelope appeared from nowhere on my doorstep. A summons. A reminder.

An ax hanging over my head.

I’ve always known I wouldn’t be able to run from it forever, but nor have I ever felt strong enough to step away completely. To turn away from my first family, my sister witches, and the bonds that tie us—as deep and twisted as they are—is nearly unthinkable.

Because even though I don’t hold much love for the coven, it’s… home. It’s safety and sisterhood at its core, at its best.Despite what Esme and the coven leaders who’ve come before might have made of it.

In all its tangled imperfection, the coven still represents the freedom for witches to be who we are, to commune and practice, and even all my years away haven’t made me completely forget that one simple fact.

The coven is home.

So, staring down the High Priestess of the Crescent Coven so many miles and years away from that home, I can’t make myself say the words that would end this conversation and cut those tangled bonds.

To say my feelings about belonging to the Crescent Coven are complicated would be the understatement of the Goddess-damned century.