Page 6

Slowly, I shake my head.

This ritual, more than almost any other we practice, is sacred. A command from the Goddess herself. No matter what might wait for me on the other side of the Veil, it can’t be undone. Not by anyone.

Unless I wither and weaken like Emilia did and have to be sent back.

No. Not helping.

“It’ll be ok,” I tell Joan, swallowing the fear. “I’llbe ok.”

Though she looks like she wants to argue, say more, she gives me one more brief hug before she turns to go. I swear I can feel my heart breaking in my chest. Will this be the last time I see my best friend?

As the last of the crowd disappears into the dark forest, it’s just my mother, Eren and myself standing there.

“Aren’t you leaving, too?” I ask her, well aware that whatever ritual takes place after the choosing is between demon and bride alone.

Not that I have any idea what it actually entails.

My mother must be aware of that fact too, looking nervously between Eren and me. “I… I know this isn’t… what was expected.”

Eren’s frown deepens. “Why? Why was it not expected?”

My mother is completely at a loss for how to answer, and the demon seems to grow more impatient by the second.

All of it feels like a ton of bricks bearing down on me. Isn’t it obvious?

With each passing, silent second, the implications of it all begin to choke me. The Veil. The bargain. The fate of the souls in this realm all resting on our ability to hold up our side of the deal and keep the demon realm supplied with magick.

All resting on me.

My breath comes in quick, shallow gasps as panic creeps in, and still my mother doesn’t answer. Maybe she can’t. Maybe the shame of having a powerless daughter—a daughter who’s now apparently bound to see this critical piece of protection between our realm and the next destroyed because of my shortcomings—has rendered her mute.

Unable to take a moment of terrible silence more, I speak up.

“Because I’m not powerful enough,” I say, meeting Eren’s crimson gaze. “I was never supposed to be chosen.”

Chapter 4

Eren

“Because I’m not powerful enough. I was never supposed to be chosen.”

Oh, but there’s power in my little witch’s voice.

Allie looks me full in the face with a courage I suspect costs her greatly. The scent of her fear persists, and she’s trembling slightly, even as she tightens one hand into a fist and tries to maintain control.

“There was never a reason for me to learn,” Allie continues, speaking more to herself now. “This must have been a mistake.”

No. No mistake. The Goddess has not chosen false.

Allison Hawthorn is mine, despite her disconcerting lack of power.

I couldn’t taste it before with so many other strands of magick around us, but now I’m easily able to sift past her mother’s steady iron pulse and find Allie’s spark.

Petrichor. Clean and heady, it’s a complement to her natural scent—minus the lingering fear—like raindrops on rose petals, a book read near an open window during a soft summer rain.

Delicious.

“Leave us,” I tell Allie’s mother, eyes never straying from my mate’s face. “Your assistance is no longer needed here.”