Page 140 of Summer of Sacrifice

Seleste pushed all thoughts of Cal aside, and ticked through several summoning spells in her mind, considering each of them carefully. None seemed quite right, not with an inanimate object and the spirit of someone involved.

“Grimm,” she said, everyone turning in her direction. “That’s how. It will take all of us and the prince.”

“Choppity-chop then, reaper.” Sorscha rotated her wrists as if stretching would aid her in releasing magic.

“You could say please, you know,” Grimm sniped.

“Pretty please with a damned cherry on top, Marchand de Mort.” Sorscha’s words dripped with sarcasm as thick as honey, and Seleste nearly smiled.

“I’d almost forgotten you’re not actually named reapers,” she mused.

Agatha snorted and stepped forward, Winnie following her lead—on both counts.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Grimm drawled.

Sorscha’s vibrantly crimson magic danced forward hastily, hovering over the journals. Winnie, fancy as always, let hers descend as falling snow and silver sparkles.

Aggie and Seleste traded bemused grins at their Sisters’ showmanship, combining their magic. Aggie’s magic wove into a black lace that draped delicately over Seleste’s golden sunburst.

“Very good, witches,” Grimm droned sardonically. “We can all make pretty things.” He stepped forward, hands still in his pockets, as a tendril of smoke and shadow spun and dove, a show in acrobatics.

“Show off,” Sorscha muttered, just before the vine of night fanned out, blanketing the rose gold of the Sisters’ combined magic.

Grimm’s power coalesced with the Sisters’ magic and began to spin. A whirlwind of colour and smoke, until Seleste had to shield her face, Winnie shrieking something about her hair stinging her face.

The wind stopped as suddenly as it had come, and Seleste knew they were not alone. Not anymore.

She lowered her arm from her face, and couldn’t help the gasp that escaped. Four ethereal witches stood before them.

In front of Winnie, a young woman full of poise and dignity, with strawberry waves and violet eyes. Talan.

Before Sorscha was a raven-haired beauty with blue eyes and mirth dancing around the edges of her mouth, her eyes, her very essence. Hissa.

The youngest of them stood before Aggie, her spitting image as a child, save for a dimple on her cheek as she smiled at her mother. Belfry.

Dark auburn hair swaying, the young witch in front of Seleste was a combination of all three of her Sisters—of her parents. Monarch.

A sob ripped from Aggie’s lips and she launched forward, crushing Talan, Hissa, Monarch, and Belfry in a stumbling embrace. Seleste tore her gaze from the emotional scene to find tears streaming down Grimm’s cheeks.

His daughters.

Goddess, what he and Aggie had been through, that none of them could understand, save for possibly Winnie. Just as Seleste had the thought, Winnie sniffled and stepped to Grimm’s side, taking his arm in both of hers and giving it a firm, understanding squeeze.

“Most don’t get this chance, reaper,” she whispered. “Don’t just stand here.”

He swiped at his face, nodding repeatedly.

One of the Sisters untangled from Aggie, her eyes glistening as she caught Grimm’s eyes. The youngest. Belfry.

“Hi, Papa,” she whispered.

Grimm’s eyes closed with the impact of her words and he tipped his head back for only a breath before he strode forward and enveloped Belfry in a crushing embrace. One by one, he repeated the moment with Monarch, Hissa, and finally Talan, stopping to hold each of their faces in his hands.

All in attendance were weeping, and Seleste thought she might burst. Might die right there of heartbreak and joy all at once.

Sorscha slung one arm around Winnie’s waist and the other around Seleste’s, sniffling and crying. “Goddess,” she cursed, “I can’t fucking watch this.” She let go of Winnie and buried her face in Seleste’s shoulder.

They all watched as Talan approached Winnie. “Sister Winter,” she said, her voice like the snowy wind, “remember that you are never too old for hearthtales.”

---