My phone vibrates against my cleavage, which is being used in lieu of a purse.
I pull my phone out, checking the text from Sybil.
Are you here yet? Do you need me to come meet you? We’re just past the greenhouse.
I hurriedly respond.
I’m all good. On campus now. I should be there soon.
A gust of wind kicks up, sending a violent shiver through me.
I rub my bare arms and glance over at Nero. “Are you cold, buddy?”
Nero’s eyes flick to me just long enough to make me feel like I asked an inane question.
“Fine, fine, forget I asked.”
My heels crunch fallen pine needles, and the smell of woodsmoke grows stronger. For a witch, that smell stirs something deep in the bones. This is the magic we’re made of—midnight fires and fog-shrouded forests.
The woods open to a clearing filled with dozens and dozens of supernaturals chatting, dancing, drinking, and laughing around bundles of dried cornstalks. Most of the women, I recognize from the coven, but there are some unfamiliar witches, as well as several lycanthropes as well. I take in the mages—the male equivalent of a witch—and the other lycans. Magic shimmers in the air above them, glittering off the light from the bonfire and the enchanted lanterns that float in the sky.
I’ve missed this.
I’ve spent the past year maneuvering the regular world filled with nonmagical humans and their nonmagical lives. I forgot how a gathering of supernaturals can make my blood thrum.
I hear a squeal, and then Sybil is running over to me, her drink sloshing in her hand, while her owl, Merlin, lifts off her shoulder where he’s been perched.
“There you are!” she calls, her long dark hair swaying behind her. “I was worried you wouldn’t show—” Sybil stops short, her eyes landing on Nero. “What in the Tiger King hell is that thing?” she says, staring at him. Her own familiar glares at the panther; Merlin looks as put out as an owl can look.
Did I not tell her?
“This is my familiar, Nero.” I place a hand on Nero’s head, ruffling my panther’s fur perhaps a tad more aggressively than I need to.
In response, my familiar growls, probably because he’s aware I’m being an ass.
He and I have a love-hate relationship.
“That is your familiar?” she says, edging back a little. “I thought you said he was a cat.”
Nero gives me a long look, like I’ve disappointed him. But you know what? He’s the one who licks his own butt, so he has no grounds to be judgmental.
“He is a cat,” I say defensively. “He’s just a really, really big one.”
“You think?” Sybil says. Her owl flaps his wings in agitation, clearly uncomfortable being this close to a panther. My friend looks equally uncomfortable, like she’s fighting her own instincts to flee from such a large predator. Not that she needs to worry about that. Familiars are fairly safe to be around. As an animal extension of myself, Nero will only attack another human if I command it or if it’s in defense of my life. Short of that, he’ll act in line with my values, and those don’t include maiming best friends.
After a moment, Sybil’s expression brightens. “Well, hey, there’s no way Henbane Coven can deny you now, not when you have a familiar like that.”
Among witches, it’s commonly thought that the stronger the witch, the bigger and more powerful the familiar. And I am flattered and proud, and I feel redeemed for all the struggles I’ve faced. But as I glance down at Nero, I bite the corner of my lip. Talking about this has unlocked a whole new worry—that I may have more familiar than I can handle.
Nero certainly seems to think so.
After a moment, Sybil collects herself and links her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”
I let her drag me across the clearing, past the sparking bonfire and a fiddler playing some upbeat tune. Next to him is a harpist, though she’s currently leaning back on the fallen log she sits on, a drink in her hand, talking to a mage wearing the crest of Bladderwrack Grove, which is the local magical association for mages.
When the fiddler catches sight of Nero, he halts his song, watching my panther with wide eyes. And a nearby group of what must be shifters sniff the air as we pass them. The moment they trace the scent back to Nero, they go preternaturally still, their eyes turning luminous as their wolves peek out.
In fact, little by little, the party goes quiet. I’ve never had so much attention fixed on me at once. Though, technically, it’s not me everyone is looking at. Their eyes are trained on my panther.