Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(34)

A bell trills, marking the end of the class.

“Your instructor wants me to remind you all that your amulets will be due at the end of the week,” Mistress Gestalt calls out. “I myself will be looking them over. The witch who creates the most exquisite work will be offered a formal apprenticeship at my company, the Witch’s Mark.”

I gather my things alongside my classmates, my mind turning over the idea of an apprenticeship. Is that what I want? Eventually, I’ll have to specialize in some kind of magic. I wonder what a career that specializes in amulets would look like…

“Selene Bowers.”

I startle at the sound of Mistress Gestalt calling—and hell, simply knowing—my name. Of course, a name is easy enough to procure, if you’re a witch.

I glance over at her.

She gives me a soft smile, her light eyes a little vacant. “May I have a word?”

My gaze sweeps over the rest of the witches leaving the room. I don’t know what she could possibly want from me, unless it’s something I’ve forgotten.

After a moment, I nod. “Of course.” I make my way toward her.

“Good, good.” She grabs her notes from the podium and slips them into a bag at her feet.

My heart is picking up speed as I step up to her. I don’t even know why I’m nervous. I think it’s simply habit that makes me assume I’m being recognized for doing something wrong rather than, I don’t know, standing out for my amazing magical talent.

“It’s an odd form of witchcraft, yours,” Mistress Gestalt says as she zips up her bag.

I raise my eyebrows. She knows my brand of magic? I shouldn’t be surprised. Crones are especially sharp.

She straightens, and I catch sight of her unusual eyes.

“Incantatrix immemorata.” She overenunciates each word. “The unmentioned witch, whose magic devours her memories. Very peculiar. Very rare. I wonder why that is …”

My brows draw together; I’m taken aback by the fact she knows this about me. “That was just the way I was born.”

“Hmm…” Those light eyes scrutinize me, her body trembling a little. Though her magic is strong, her limbs seem light as a bird’s. “No, I don’t think it is.”

My gaze sharpens on hers. Now that I’m looking closely, I realize why her eyes look so unusual. There’s no pupil in either of them. Is she…blind?

“Who needs sight when the third eye sees all?” she says.

I recoil from her a bit.

Man, elderly witches are spooky. That really is when we come into our highest power.

“Selene, dear girl, you are being circled by vultures. Many eyes are on you. Some of them good, some of them bad, some a bit of both.”

“What?” I say, alarmed.

“Power is to be celebrated and feared. You have it in spades, but it is locked away. Find the key and use it. Don’t be a pawn when you’re a queen. No one commands a queen.”

I blink at her, and my hand twitches from the urge to write this all down before I can forget.

“I don’t…understand,” I say finally, tightening my hold on my bag.

She laughs, the sound wispy; it makes me think of corn husks for some odd reason.

“There is a lot you cannot remember, but do not fool yourself into thinking you do not understand, Selene Bowers.” She gives me a meaningful look with those all-seeing eyes of hers, and for a moment, I think she must know about Memnon.

“Make your amulet,” Mistress Gestalt says. “Protect yourself against harm.”

Harm?

“And Selene?” she says. “The villains are coming for you. Ready yourself.”





CHAPTER 16





Moldy toadstools.

I scrape the charred, flaky goop from the bottom of the cauldron, grimacing as I go.

I’ve been working on this freaking amulet all evening, and all I have to show for it is this sludge. My hair is singed, I smell like smoke, and the other witches who’ve entered and exited the spellcasting kitchen have kept their distance.

I was hoping that if I got started on an amulet for myself tonight, I’d manage to both finish my first big class project and wrangle some extra protection against the ominous threat Mistress Gestalt warned me about.

This kitchen has an old cast-iron stove as well as several cauldrons hanging over open flames, one of which is mine. On the opposite side of the room, there are shelves of jars holding all manner of rare ingredients.

I scoop the charred paste from the cauldron and place it into a bowl, ignoring the way Nero’s ears go back at the sight of it.

I set the bowl down on the kitchen’s butcher-block counter and make a face at my creation. My creation cannot be right. After moving over to my textbook, A Practitioner’s Guide to Apotropaic Magic, I read through the spell recipe once more.

“Where did I go wrong…?” I ask Nero.

Nero blinks at me, and I swear he’s saying, How am I supposed to know? You’re the witch.

But maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing my panther.

I turn back to my textbook. Could it have been the alyssum? The recipe called for a handful, but that’s such a loose measurement. Or maybe I need fresh mugwort and not the dried version.

But then, maybe it’s not the mugwort?