Joy of Witchcraft (28 page)

“You can’t do this!” I fought against the amethyst disk, struggling to close the distance between Pitt and me. I didn’t care if I didn’t have my magic at my disposal. I’d sink my fingers into his fleshy throat and throttle him to death.

“Witch!” thundered the Court. “You have been warned!”

“Ask him what else he did!” I shouted. “Ask him about Cassandra Finch! Ask him how he planted an agent inside my magicarium, how he summoned a satyr to our Samhain working! He sent an orthros to kill us on the beach! That bastard conjured up a harpy to destroy my home and everything I—”

A bolt of power jolted through my body, snapping my jaws closed. It crackled through the top of my skull, burning as it paralyzed me. In a heartbeat, I was wrapped inside a violet cloud. I could not see, could not hear, could not even smell the acrid stench of Pitt’s sweat.

Had they done this to David? Was this how the Court had broken him, sent him back to me cowed and meek?

I continued to fight, because I had no other choice. I tried to shout Pitt’s crimes, and when I could not make myself heard, I resorted to
thinking
all my accusations, repeating them in order, in painstaking detail. I was determined to catalog every one of Pitt’s sins, even if the Court never heard a word.

It might have been an hour before they freed me. It might have been ten. I’d lost all sense of time, of space, all perspective of up and down, of right and wrong. But in the end, the purple fog dissipated as quickly as it had snared me.

All nine members of the Court were standing before their thrones. Pitt was positioned in the precise center of the half-circle. The torches flickered, flared, then settled into a brighter light.

The same anonymous voice that had welcomed me into this farce of a courtroom intoned: “Let it be recorded that Hecate’s Court opened this proceeding on the first day of the new year, hearing charges that Head Clerk Norville Pitt did abuse his position of trust. And let it be recorded that Warder David Montrose did steal documents from this Court to lay such claims against Pitt. Three times three times three witnesses did offer testimony about those charges, including Montrose’s own witch, Jane Madison. Montrose did not refute those charges. Madison did not refute those charges, nor did she cast off Montrose when she learned the nature of his crimes. Now, therefore, to the glory of Hecate this court holds that Pitt cannot be held guilty when the proof of his crimes is built upon a foundation of stolen documents.”

My belly sank through my toes. Pitt chortled, actually clapping his hands together in glee. But the Court wasn’t done yet.

“For their roles in perpetuating a sham of justice before this body, Montrose and Madison are hereby cast out from Hecate’s Court. No coven shall give them shelter. No magicarium shall offer them enlightenment. No witch or warder shall befriend them, offering counsel or succor, and no familiar shall be bound to their service from this day forward. Any who aid them shall be likewise cast from Hecate’s grace, lest the true community of witches be corrupted ever more. So mote it be!”

There was a flash of darkness. The circle, the thrones, Pitt, and the torches—all of it disappeared. I felt the same wrench of
nothing
I associated with warder’s magic, with David transporting me from one point to another.

And when I opened my eyes, I stood alone on the steps of Blanton House.

Alone.

I was truly, utterly alone, standing in the darkness of a DC city street. If I entered Blanton House, I would condemn my students to my own sentence. I would sign their magical death warrants, banish them from their covens, bar them from the communities that had nurtured them since they were children. I couldn’t even reach out to Neko, lest he be torn from the mysterious network of familiars forever.

My head pounded and my throat ached; my eyes felt like they’d been rolled in sand. I tried to swallow, but the jasper collar had shifted until it was crushing my larynx. I tugged at the stone, scraping it from my neck and tossing it into the bushes behind me.

A swarm of bees attacked my palms. White-hot acid flooded up my arms and down my spine, through my legs to my toes. This was the agony I’d felt in the courtroom, the jagged pain of the jasper draining away my powers.

But no, this attack was different. In its wake, my senses were
restored
. Everything shone more brightly. Every sound echoed in my ears. The cold December night was suddenly awash in fragrance—earth beneath my feet, crumpled leaves in the gutter.

I’d placed my powers on the line in that forsaken courtroom, taking an oath to tell the truth. And I
had
told the truth, every bitter word. I’d recited facts that doomed me, that doomed David. I might be cast out from the society of witches forever, but the Court—or Hecate herself—still upheld one tiny corner of its bargain.

My magic was restored.

Eyes brimming, I looked up at the lighted windows of Blanton House. Everyone was gathered in the parlor of the first townhouse—my students, their warders, their familiars. Neko stood beside Tony. Gran and Clara sat next to each other, their own familiars gathered close.

I couldn’t hear them, of course, but the entire group was talking earnestly. My heart clenched as I measured each familiar gesture. I knew who would answer whom. I was certain who would look to others for approval, who would press forward without hesitation. I understood the bonds between all of them, the friendships, the trust.

They were my magical family. We were all bound together through the nucleus of the Jane Madison Academy, even as they remained individual people, separate tentacles of workmates, friends, lovers. They were the crazy NWTA Clara had proclaimed weeks before—not the thieving vortex of the Coven Mothers, but the good NWTA, the community that nurtured, that gave, that supported every individual member.

And they were lost to me forever, now that I’d been excommunicated by the Court.

But no. I wasn’t alone, not completely. Because David had been cast out too.

He likely didn’t know it yet, still bound in his day’s service to Teresa. But he would learn his fate soon enough. And I had to be there when he learned just how much his life had changed.

Blindly, I dug in my purse, extracting my keys with numb fingers. Without my giving conscious commands, my feet began to shuffle—down the sidewalk, around the corner, and into the dimly lit alley.

The garage door slid easily on its well-oiled chains but I still cringed, glancing at the rear of the house. I couldn’t let my students see me now, couldn’t let them talk to me. I had no idea what the Court would consider “counsel or succor.” A simple greeting might be enough to doom them forever.

David’s Lexus hulked in the shadows. I eased open the driver’s door, wincing as the dome light glowed. “If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly,” I muttered. I imagined Melissa’s wry voice quoting
Macbeth
.

Melissa. The Court couldn’t steal her human friendship. When tonight was finally over, she would remain my friend.

Heartened a little, I started the car and eased out of the garage.

There was traffic, of course. There was always traffic in the city. But I made good time as I cut across town to the Key Bridge. It was easy enough to pick up the George Washington Parkway, and then I glided through the darkness, pulled forward by the car’s powerful headlights. I knew the route, even though I’d never driven there myself.

I left the parkway, following narrower and narrower streets. The houses out here were set on acres; each had its own winding lane that spidered off the main road.

My palms were sweating as I turned into my destination. As always, the wrought-iron gate hung open, made for mundane show instead of magical protection. The driveway stretched beneath the oak trees. The house crowned its ridge, stone and wood seeming to grow organically out of the earth.

I slipped the massive car into Park and tugged the key from the ignition. I made my way toward the house. There was no warder lurking in the shadows, no gleaming sword forbidding me entrance. I felt only a whisper of dissipated power as I stepped across the remnants of an old magical circle, complete with its five-pointed star of protection.

Steeling myself, I took the slate path that led around the outside of the house. I knew the way; I had walked it once before. Teresa had reveled in the power of a new safehold for her coven, a refuge for her sisters to practice their magic. She’d used me to secure that base, to set the magical protections over the centerstone.

The path was exactly as I remembered it, and everything was different. Then, I had recited spells inside my head, jumbling words together in my excitement to offer myself up to the Washington Coven, to give and give and give so I might belong to that group for all the rest of my magical days.

Now, I was here to take.

I paused at the top of the garden, taking in the complete scene before me. The centerstone was set in a clearing at the far edge of the yard, in a circle of winter-dry grass framed by a creek that edged Teresa’s property. The estate was secluded enough that no one was likely to stumble on any arcane events, but tall beech trees provided additional protection.

Nine robed figures, witches, stood within a circle of bleached stone, gathered close to a block of marble. Beside each crouched a dark body, a familiar lending strength to whatever working they employed. Squinting, I recognized Connie, Teresa’s cowering familiar. It only took me a heartbeat longer to locate Tupa. Cassie’s familiar looked lost inside that circle, dazed and alone, even though he was surrounded by others.

An iridescent shimmer capped the gathering, and I knew I’d find a powerful magical cordon in place if I stretched out my powers. Sure enough, eight warders stood watch, two at each cardinal point. One of each pair looked inward, toward the magical working in the circle, and the other looked out, toward any approaching threat. Toward me.

But that was not the only protection for the witches, for there were two more figures, standing in the clearing between the path and the cordon. One was clad in an elegant navy suit, so dark that the fabric would have disappeared in the night, if not for the pinstripes that caught the moonlight. That was Ethan, of course, Teresa’s warder at his finest.

The other wore jeans and a T-shirt.

Those clothes weren’t enough to keep David warm on this bitter winter night. They offered no protection, no barrier against the sharp breeze that had picked up from the north. I narrowed my eyes, certain Ethan must be playing with the elements, using his warder’s magic to drive home his superiority.

He stood ten feet behind David. Both men had their feet planted solidly on the ground. Both held an unsheathed sword by the quillons, a wordless warning as I approached. Nevertheless, I came within a few yards of David before I stopped. I resented the fact that I needed to clear my throat before I could proclaim to David and Ethan both, “Let me pass, for I am Witch Jane Madison.”

Witch—that was the only title I had left to me. I could not be magistrix of the Jane Madison Academy, because no sane student would ever commit to studying with me again.

I was staring at David, but I caught Ethan’s motion out of the corner of my eye. Teresa’s warder shifted his grip on his sword, easing his fingers around to grasp above the hilt. As he moved, David followed suit, matching each tiny motion, tightening his forefinger, stroking his thumb against the pommel.

The bonded action was obscene.

Ethan moved with the leisurely ease of a grooming cat; he had clearly raised his sword in defense of his witch a thousand times. But David’s parroting of the motion was anything but easy. Every tendon in his hand stood out. His knuckles blazed as white as bone. His wrist shuddered with the force of his grasp, as if he were desperate to throw the sword away.

“You may not pass, Witch,” Ethan said. His voice was smooth, seasoned with just enough of a gloat that I was certain he understood the single title I had claimed. He knew I’d lost the battle at the inquest. He made sure David knew when he added, “You are outcast, Witch, you and yours. Be gone from our safehold.”

“I’ve come to take back what is mine,” I said, braving a step closer. I extended one hand, using more magic than I cared to admit to keep my fingers from shaking. “Come, David. Return to me.”

I reinforced the command with a strand of power, a golden rope that I cast around the grip of David’s sword. His eyes flared, but in the starlight, I could not tell if he was proud of my daring or if he was warning me away. I pushed energy into our bond, reminding him of all the strength I had at my disposal, of all the magic he had taught me to work.

Ethan’s voice cut through the night. “David Montrose is sworn to another, Witch. He is not yours till midnight. For now, he wards the working of Teresa Alison Sidney.”

Even though I knew Ethan intended me to do so, I had to look past him to Teresa’s circle. All nine witches had pushed back the hoods on their jet-black cloaks. They were joined in a circle around the centerstone, fingertips resting in each other’s palms. The cordon cut off sound from their working, but I saw Teresa’s lips move, saw her throat work as she chanted something. It didn’t take a witch to read the response from her acolytes: “So mote it be.”

That was what the Court had taken from me. I would never again feel a surge of magic pass from another witch’s fingers into mine. I would never share my powers, never feel the shimmering release as the arcane world became concrete, in glorious reification of Hecate.

A fog coalesced over Teresa’s centerstone. The Coven Mother threw back her head, clearly reveling in the power she harvested from her sisters. The cords of her neck tightened, and she chanted more words. Her fingers stiffened, focusing all attention on the centerstone, and the assembled witches answered again: “So mote it be.”

The vapor grew thicker, so dense I could not see the witches on the far side of the circle. Teresa raised her arms above her head as she shouted out another incantation. Eight pairs of lips moved in response. Eight witches allowed their own energy to be scraped into the Coven Mother’s magic: “So mote it be.”