Page 33 of A Match Made in Coven (Paranormal Romance #2)
Chapter Thirty-two
LORCAN
Lysander Black’s tomb was a masterwork of craftsmanship, a stone sarcophagus carved in meticulous detail. Bathed in silvery moonlight, the weathered granite captured the folds of his robes but also the haunted expression on his face, as if he were asleep but having a nightmare.
The fine lines etched into his features and the sorrowful cast of his eyes shone with a haunting realism. Shadows played across the sculpted likeness, giving the tomb an eerie sense of presence, as though Lysander might awaken at any moment.
Lorcan had never been here, but as he noted the broken heart sculpted on his ancestor’s chest, he wondered how no one from his coven had ever questioned its meaning or reached the conclusion that Lysander had been heartbroken over the loss of his bride, his love.
He stared up at his mother’s displeased expression and shot her a look of disapproval right back.
He’d coaxed the elders from his coven to come to the old cemetery under threat of exposing their less savory dealings to the Department of Magical Justice. It hadn’t been pretty, but it had been effective.
He didn’t know what Sarah Michelle had to do to convince her elders, but they were here, too, including her grandmother, who’d been released from the hospital.
The Callidoras, however, were still outside the cemetery gates, about a hundred yards away, while the ghost of Mary Callidora hovered at a safe distance from both her coven and the gates.
On their reconnaissance mission earlier that day, when Sarah Michelle had tried to enter the plot, she’d first stumbled back as if pushed by invisible hands.
On her second attempt, she’d grimaced and shook her hand as if she’d received a nasty static shock.
The third time, she’d staggered back, gasping for air, proving that whatever curse his family had placed to guard this place was far more sinister than a cautionary tale to scare children off.
Now, after the initial shock of the two enemy covens coming face to face in a cemetery at midnight, Lorcan and Sarah Michelle explained what they’d uncovered.
They read the letters between Lysander and Mary to their families and revealed who had really killed Mary Callidora.
Protests and accusations surged from both sides.
But they eventually managed to shut everyone up and tell them this feud was ridiculous, that they were playing right into the hand of a psychopathic killer who had died over three hundred years ago, and that the madness was stopping now.
Lorcan’s mother stepped forward, her lips pursed into a thin line.
Her emerald eyes flashed as she raised her hand, silencing the murmurs of protest from the other Black coven members.
“We’ve always known Lysander was innocent, and now you expect us to, what?
Forgive centuries of false accusations and insults like it’s nothing? ”
Lorcan stared his mother down. “Precisely.”
From the other side of the gate, one of Sarah Michelle’s aunts pointed a finger in their direction. “You expect us to believe this nonsense? To throw away centuries of tradition based on some… love letters?”
“Hester,” Sarah Michelle scoffed on the woman’s right. “Mary’s ghost is standing literally in front of your nose, telling you Lysander was the man she loved and he didn’t kill her. What other proof do you need?”
Hester opened her mouth to protest further, but before she could utter a word, Sarah Michelle’s grandmother stepped forward, her cane tapping against the stone path that led into the cemetery. She raised a frail hand to silence her lot. “We believe you, Shelly.”
Elspeth Callidora stepped closer to the gate, her wizened eyes fixed on Lorcan’s mother. The moonlight caught the silver strands in her hair, giving her an aura of power. She leaned on her cane, but her voice rang out clear and strong.
“Cordelia Black,” she began, addressing Lorcan’s mother directly. “I owe you and your family an apology centuries overdue.”
The Callidora coven inhaled in stunned unison. Hester’s jaw dropped, and several other family members exchanged shocked glances.
Elspeth continued, undeterred, “Our ancestors acted out of grief and misplaced vengeance. We’ve perpetuated a lie for generations, and it’s time we made it right.”
Cordelia’s eyes narrowed, but Lorcan could see a flicker of something—perhaps acceptance—behind her stern facade. “And how do you propose we do that?”
Elspeth’s gaze remained unwavering, her frail fingers tightening around the cane. “To start, you must lift the curse that keeps my family out of the cemetery. It’s the only way we’ll be able to free Lysander.”
For a charged second, it looked like his mother might disagree.
But then Cordelia surprised him by simply nodding and taking a step forward.
She told the rest of their coven to stand back and closed her eyes, raising her hands to the sky.
The air shimmered, as a faint silvery green glow emanated from her fingertips.
As she started to move her lips, the wind picked up, whipping her black dress around her ankles and freeing her hair from its usual tight chignon.
The ground under their feet trembled. Lorcan stumbled, grabbing onto Lysander’s grave to steady himself. The tombstones in the cemetery rattled, and dead leaves swirled in spiraling vortexes around them.
As Cordelia’s incantation reached its crescendo, a wave of energy pulsed outward from her hands, rippling through the air like a shockwave, leaving everything in its wake stock still. And then the earth exhaled in a peaceful breeze.
Cordelia lowered her arms and nodded. “It’s done.”
Sarah Michelle stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the cemetery. When nothing happened, she smiled, at least until Mary Callidora flew straight through her in her haste to reach Lysander’s grave and left Sarah Michelle shivering.
Lorcan was by her side in a few quick strides, rubbing his hands up and down her arms to warm her. “Do you want a heating spell?”
She gave him a look back that couldn’t be more incandescent, and he chuckled. “We’re good in the heat department, noted.”
A soft wail drove their attention back to the grave. Mary was lying on top of Lysander’s stone likeness, caressing his face and gazing adoringly into those hollowed, granite eyes.
The thuds of Elspeth’s cane hitting stone alerted them to the matriarch’s approach.
Elspeth stopped before Cordelia. “Thank you. Now it’s our turn to right our wrongs.”
Instead of turning to the sky, Elspeth lowered herself—stiff and straining—to one knee, her joints creaking in protest. With a grimace of determination, she planted her palm on the cemetery ground.
The earth under her hand pulsed as if recognizing the touch of a Callidora after centuries of separation.
A soft hum emanated from the spot where Elspeth’s hand met the soil, growing in intensity until it vibrated through the air. The ground shimmered as a pearlescent light seeped outward from her fingertips like liquid moonlight.
As Elspeth chanted, the wind grew thick with magic. It swirled and danced, creating eddies of glossy energy that twisted and coiled around the assembled witches. Her voice grew louder, and the magical energy intensified, crackling like static electricity.
A beam of brilliant white light shot up from Lysander’s tomb, piercing the night sky. The stone effigy trembled, hairline fissures appearing across its surface. Mary Callidora hovered nearby, her translucent shape pulsing with anticipation. Until a deafening crack split the tomb in half.
A swirling mist poured out, coalescing into the spectral silhouette of a man. As the mist cleared, Lysander Black’s ghost stood before them, his eyes wide with confusion and wonder.
He bore a striking resemblance to Lorcan. The same chiseled jawline, the proud nose, and the broad shoulders that hinted at strength even in his incorporeal state.
Yet, Lysander’s gaze held the pain of centuries of suffering, his cheeks gaunt with unimaginable sorrow.
“Mary?” he whispered, his gaze locked on his lost bride.
Mary nodded. She moved her lips to respond, but no words came out, only the usual sinister wails. Lysander flew to her side and gathered her into his arms, unconcerned with her gruesome, bloodied appearance.
As Lysander and Mary embraced, an ethereal glow emanated from their spectral bodies.
Their lips met in a kiss that transcended time itself, a union of souls separated for centuries.
The temperature rose as a whirlwind of magic erupted around the ghostly couple, swirling with iridescent hues of blue, silver, and green.
The wind howled, whipping through the cemetery with such force that the living onlookers had to shield their eyes and brace themselves against nearby tombstones.
Within the magical storm, Lysander and Mary’s appearance changed. Mary’s gruesome throat wound knitted itself closed without even a scar left behind. Her tattered, bloodstained gown transformed into a flowing garment of pure white, embroidered with delicate silver threads that caught the moonlight.
Lysander’s gaunt features filled out, the centuries of sorrow melting away to reveal a handsome face alight with joy. His dusty clothes morphed into an elegant suit blacker than a starless sky.
When the vortex faded, Lysander and Mary stood before them, their hands clasped together, no longer two haunted figures wrecked by sorrow but young and lively—or at least as lively as two specters could appear.
A collective gasp rippled through both covens. Sarah Michelle squeezed his hand harder, her eyes wide with wonder.