Another witch with wiry hair and a sharp nose sits down, dropping a massive leather journal on the table. “I want to know what her final words were,” the witch says.
My gaze moves to her shoulder, where a—is that a newt?—sits perched.
“What’s that?” Raquel nods at the book.
“It’s my own Ledger of Last Words.”
“Olga,” Sybil chastises. “Now is really not the time.”
“Actually, now is exactly the time.” Olga’s eyes get a fanatical shine to them. “And I’m in the process of getting approval to pull Kate’s final words. It could help catch the killer.”
“That’s still disturbing as shit,” says the witch at the table whose name I still don’t know.
Olga lifts a shoulder. “Never said I wasn’t disturbed.” She laughs, and some of the women at the table laugh with her until it dies away. In its wake is a tense silence, one only punctuated by the scrape of silverware.
Charlotte leans forward in her seat.
“Who do you think did it?” she whispers.
My fears expand in my chest.
It may be my fault. I released an ancient evil, and he may be preying on young witches.
I catch Sybil’s eye before I swallow my nerves and shake my head.
“No clue,” I say to Charlotte.
No one else at the table has a better answer.
It’s only after dinner, when Sybil and I go to her room to work on our first assignments, that I decide to unburden myself.
I try to not let my chin tremble as I sit there on her floor, one of my textbooks open in front of me, while my friend moves about the room, watering dozens of potted plants crammed on shelves or hanging from the ceiling.
Now that a witch is dead—a witch who lived down the hall from me—I can’t help the terror seeping into my veins.
“He found me,” I say softly, jiggling one of my legs in agitation.
Sybil pauses. “Hmm?” she says, pausing to glance over her shoulder at me.
“Memnon,” I say. “He found me.”
“Wait.” Sybil sets down her watering pail. “What?” Her shrill tone has her owl ruffling his feathers before he resettles on his perch.
“Yesterday, when I was getting ready to head back here, he found me. He was lurking in the woods around the coven.”
“Are you okay?” she says, alarmed. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you?”
I swallow and shake my head. “I’m fine. No, he didn’t hurt me. Yes, he threatened me,” I answer.
“He threatened you?” Sybil’s voice has gone shriller. “Screw the Law of Three and its consequences, I will find a curse so potent, it will shrivel his dick off.”
I laugh a little at the thought.
Sybil sits in front of me, pushing my textbook aside. “Tell me everything about what happened.”
So I do.
By the end of it, Sybil has paled. “So this guy actually thinks you’re his wife?”
I nod miserably.
“And he followed you all the way here to Henbane?”
Another nod.
I twist my hands together, chewing on my lower lip. “And now a witch is dead,” I say softly.
Realization fills Sybil’s eyes. “You think he did it.”
I scrub my face. “I don’t know. It seems awfully likely though, right? He shows up, and the next day, a witch is dead.”
Sybil shakes her head. “That…definitely doesn’t look good,” she agrees. “But it could still be a coincidence.”
I want to believe that. I really do. Otherwise, that witch’s death is on my conscience.
Sybil frowns, furrowing her brow. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, babe.”
I take a deep breath. “I promise.”
The coven buzzes with activity as classes come into full swing, and even with the recent murder still fresh, life resettles. Despite all the supernatural aspects of a witch’s life, it’s the mundane routines that move the days here.
I glance out the window from my wards class. Outside, another class is sitting on the coven’s front lawn, growing massive beanstalks in a matter of minutes.
“…the easiest and most durable of wards come in the form of amulets.”
I turn my attention back to the front of my class, where Mistress Gestalt, a guest speaker, is giving the lecture. I take in the elderly witch as she leans on the podium. She’s what the fairy tales not so lovingly refer to as a hag.
Only, the stories didn’t get a lot of things right. For instance, hags don’t need to have warts and sinister features. This one, in particular, is more of a HAG—a Hot-Ass Grandma.