Bring Me Your Midnight(17)

Goose bumps rise along my arms, and I take another step back.

“No.” It’s all I can say.

“No?” he asks, quirking his brow and raising his hand again. The wind picks up, and I rush over and slam his arm down to his side.

“That magic is forbidden, and I will not have it on my island.”

“Our island,” he says. “And where I come from, it most definitely is not forbidden.”

Our island. What he’s saying doesn’t make any sense. I’ve lived here my whole life and have never once encountered a wielder of dark magic. If what he’s saying is true and he does use dark magic, then—

“You’re from the old coven,” I say, more to myself than to him, my voice barely audible. I can’t believe the words have left my mouth. A chill moves down my spine.

“Wolfe Hawthorne,” he says, holding the flower out once more. A large silver ring adorns his right hand, glinting in the moonlight. “And yes, I’m a member of the old coven.”

I stare at him, unable to speak.

“You know, it’s customary to reply to an introduction with one of your own,” he says.

“Tana,” I reply in a kind of trance. “Mortana Fairchild.”

“Well, Mortana, I can assure you this flower isn’t poisonous. Take it.”

I stare at the flower, feeling an undeniable pull toward it, a desire so strong I can’t ignore it. I’ve never felt anything like it, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m being compelled to take it, to reach for my own death. I can’t fight it. It feels as if I’m outside my body, watching myself from high above as I extend a shaking hand to accept the moonflower.

I take hold of it.

And nothing happens.

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t burn. My heart is still beating and my lungs are still breathing.

I slowly bring the flower to my face and inhale.

The petals brush my skin, and I remain unharmed. Every text I’ve read has described the pain as instant, followed quickly by death, but I feel normal. I’m trying to work through what I’m experiencing, knowing full well it’s impossible, but no explanation comes to mind. I’m at a complete loss.

“Did you put a spell on it?” I ask.

“How could I have done that if it’s poisonous to witches?”

I shake my head, staring at the bloom. I don’t understand, and I’m distraught that I don’t. Moonflower is the first plant I learned to identify because it’s so crucial to know what it looks like. So imperative to our survival. And here I am, holding one in my hand as if it’s a common lupine.

I scramble for anything that will make it make sense, that will tie up the threads unraveling in my mind, but I come up short.

A drop of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. Then, all at once, I come back to myself and realize what I’m doing and who I’m speaking with.

I drop the flower and jump back. My heart is beating so hard it feels as if it could crack my ribs.

“The old coven is gone,” I say.

“Now, how would you know that?” His voice is casual, taunting even, and heat rises to my face.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but this isn’t funny. The old coven doesn’t exist anymore.” This must be some kind of joke, some elaborate prank to humiliate me. But then I think back to the way the wind picked up, the way it felt on my face, and I know it’s real. I look at the flower on the ground and can’t stop the questions that cascade through my mind one after another. The loudest, most incessant one of all—the one that should be simplest to answer and yet feels as if it’s threatening everything I’ve ever known—repeats over and over again:

Why didn’t it hurt?

At that moment, a raw, guttural roar comes from the shoreline as the witches rush their magic in unison.

I whip around toward the sound. Dread moves through me in a slow, steady crawl.

No. This can’t be happening.

The sound gets more crazed the longer it goes on, and all I can do is stare in the direction of the sea, stunned. Then all at once, it stops.

The silence of the night takes over again, and my entire body begins to shake with terror.

I missed it.

I hear the waves of the ocean and the rustling of grass, the wind in the trees and the hoot of an owl. Then I remember the boy.

I slowly turn back around, but he’s gone.

My head falls into my hands, and I close my eyes, wishing with every part of me that I could go back in time to twenty minutes ago and ignore that damned light.

I can’t believe I missed it.

My legs finally react, and I run toward the shoreline and hide in the shrubs, watching as the witches wade out of the sea. The rush takes an enormous amount of energy, and they walk as if in slow motion.

No one can know I missed it. Not with my upcoming engagement and my mother’s place on the council. I wait until the eldest witches are past my hiding place, then run into the water and soak my gown. The fabric clings to my legs as I trudge up the shore. My parents are on the sidewalk, leaning into each other, and I slowly make my way to where they’re standing. We walk home together, but I can’t stop the shaking that has taken over my body.

The only person in recent memory who ever missed a rush was Lydia White almost twenty years ago.

She died ten days later from the excess magic building in her system.