I press the rim of it to my mouth and tip it back just enough for the liquid to brush my lips. After a couple of seconds, I lower the chalice and pass it along. Only once the attention has moved down the line do I discretely reach under my mask and wipe my mouth.
Already, on the far side of the room, I see some witches swaying. Whatever was in that drink, it must be strong to have such an effect.
Once the chalice makes it fully around the circle, the priestess sets it aside.
“Let’s join hands.”
I clasp the palms of the women on either side of me, and my skin tingles where my power presses against theirs.
The priestess makes a low, guttural noise, then speaks in another tongue, one I understand.
Latin.
“I call on old magic and the darkness from deep beneath our feet. Lend us your power for tonight’s spellcasting. From earth to feet, foot to hand, and witch to witch, our circle calls forth your magic.”
Power flares across the group, rising from the marble floors and into the soles of our feet. It flows up our legs and torsos before funneling down our arms, moving around and around the group until our powers blend, and it feels as though we are a single unit.
I’m so absorbed in the strange, exhilarating sensation of being a part of a single larger unit that I don’t realize another woman is being led toward the circle, not until the priestess calls out, “Enter our circle and join in the night’s festivities. We offer our permission to cross our sacred power line.”
Down the circle, two witches awkwardly lift their joined hands, and two more individuals press in between them, crossing into the center of the circle.
I watch the two individuals, my eyes fixed on the larger of them. This person wears a black robe and a mask like the rest of us. It’s what lies beneath that mask that catches my eye. The skin of their neck is a smooth pale gray, the sheen of it somehow dull. As they prowl forward, their movements seem jerky and mechanical.
The darkness must be playing with my eyes.
I force myself to look down at that individual’s companion. The second newcomer also wears a mask, but that’s where the similarities end. Unlike the rest of us, she wears an almost-sheer white shift, one that makes her nipples and pubic hair blatantly visible. I can’t see what her expression is beneath her mask, but she leans heavily against the first companion, as though her legs aren’t doing so well keeping her upright.
Nothing about it sits right with me.
“What is going on?” I ask the green-eyed witch.
She gives me a look that plainly says to shut up but says, “This is just part of the new moon spell circles.”
The woman in the shift stumbles a little, and when she rights herself, I notice how small her limbs are.
My heart seizes.
Not a woman but a girl. She can’t be more than sixteen, which is technically considered the age of adulthood for supernaturals, but come on. She looks too young to be out here participating in a spell circle. And definitely not inebriated, which she looks to be.
For a moment, the skin of her forearms shifts, her arm hair elongating. Then it recedes back into her skin as though it were never there to begin with.
I suck in a startled breath.
She’s a lycanthrope?
Why is she being led into a witch’s spell circle?
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
All of this feels wrong.
The girl’s companion moves a hand to the back of her neck and guides her down to her knees.
For a moment I am paralyzed by fear, my horror seizing up my limbs.
What the fuck is going on?
My eyes move from witch to witch, but none of them look anxious or agitated.
Why do they not look worried?
“Join hands once more, sisters,” the priestess says, stepping into the circle with the two guests of honor.
My heart feels like it’s in my throat as I clasp the palms of the women around me, sealing the circle. Magic thickens in the air.
I must be misunderstanding something. Surely I am.
The priestess lifts her arms and speaks once more in Latin. “I call on the darkness and the old, hungry gods who will bear witness to my deeds.”
She drops her hands and reaches into her robe. From it she pulls a gleaming ceremonial blade.
As the priestess speaks, she lifts a ceremonial blade in one of her joined hands.
Holy fuck, who gave her a knife?
My gaze sweeps over the rest of the circle. Several witches are swaying, and the eyes I can make out in the dim room look a bit glazed, but not one of them appears surprised or uneasy.
Why is no one else freaking out?
Pulling the collar of her robe down, the priestess brings the blade to her sternum. And then she drags it down. I see skin split, hear cloth tear, and when the first drops of it hit the marble floor inside the circle, my magic senses it, rising in my veins like a leviathan, eager to draw on the fluid. And that smell, that earlier smell that’s plagued me, I recognize it now—