Page 87 of Vampire's Hearth

“Wolves,” Aiden commanded.

By the time they rose from around their seats, I was already gone.

Aurora’s face flashed in my mind. I had already been away for far too long.

The wind rushed past me as I sped through the streets. Aiden could bask in his delusions for now. My path was clear—find the Cure, protect Aurora, and end this nightmare before it consumed us both.

Aurora

For days, my tears had fallen, but now those tears I couldn’t shed caused the world around me to blur. I stood in the center of the clearing alone, though hundreds who had come out to grieve Amara’s passing focused on me. I kept my eyes on the candles at the edge of the clearing. Their dim light flickered in the setting sun, which threw reds and oranges across the sky. It was a beauty I couldn’t feel, grief numbing me.

Even the trees surrounding the clearing appeared to mourn, their branches hanging low. I had blessed the circle earlier, my voice firm as I wove protection spells into the perimeter. It was an act of vigilance that I could not afford to skip. Yet again, I cursed that Aunt Amara hadn’t done the same before performing the spell that had led to her death.

Why hadn’t she protected herself? I clenched my fists, trying to stave off the rising anger. In the aftermath, Willow explained how she had begged Amara to cast a perimeter, but Amara refused. The location spell had needed to be open, uncontained, and free to reach beyond any barriers we could set. And now she was gone because of it.

I blinked again; the tears refused to fall as I scanned the crowd. To them, she was a loved and respected member of the community. My eyes fell upon the coven, kneeling around her casket. To us, she was the High Priestess Regent—our guide and our strength.

My heart ripped as I tried not to think. Amara had been a mother when mine passed before she expected, a mentor in a world where the legacy often felt too heavy to carry. And now she was gone. I was alone. In front of me, Aunt Amara’s oak casket, hewn from a tree from the plantation, lay still. Candlelight from the altar flickered over the polished wood in a strange, eerie dance as if some trace of life remained within.

Every word I had spoken today as part of the ceremony felt like a thread connecting me to the women who had come before me—a legacy that I hadn’t fully embraced, but now I had no choice but to carry it. “I call upon the spirits of the ancestors,” I began, my voice unwavering despite the knot in my chest. “Guide Amara Silverstorm to your side. Protect her in death as she protected us in life. May her journey be peaceful, and may her spirit find rest as she continues to guide us from the other side.”

The words were ancient and passed down through generations. I was just days old when Amara spoke the words for my mother, and I now said them for her, although I have heard them since. Together, the voices of my sister witches mingled with mine as we whispered the ending lines in unison, each word sending Amara to the land of our ancestors.

Lyra kneeled at the foot of her mother’s casket, her shoulders shaking with unrelenting sobs. I took a step toward her, my hands trembling, but as I did, Valentina moved to Lyra’s side, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“Lyra,” Valentina whispered. “We must carry her now.”

Lyra shook her head, pressing her forehead against the wood of the casket, her fingers clutching at the edges as if holding on for dear life. “Please,” she breathed. “Not yet.”

I wanted to go to her, tell her I understood, and tell her I didn’t want to let go either, but I knew I couldn’t delay what needed to be done. The ceremony was nearing its end, and Amara had to be laid to rest. The coven couldn’t wait on my grief.

Valentina stood, her eyes meeting mine for a moment before she returned her attention to Lyra. “It’s time,” she whispered, laying her fingers on Lyra’s shoulder.

Lyra nodded, the movement barely perceptible, and with trembling hands, she stood. I watched her take a step back, her face pale and streaked with tears, as Valentina and the others took their positions around the casket.

The air felt thick as they lifted their burden, walking with it toward the edge of the clearing. It was a short walk to the plantation’s cemetery, with a mausoleum as the final resting place for our family. A rustle sounded behind me as everyone stood to see us off. Only the coven would journey with Amara to the end. I felt my breath catch as I followed across the soft grass.

The mausoleum came into view, cold and unyielding. My mother and grandmother rested there, and now, so would Amara. The door stood open, beckoning us into the candlelit interior. As we marched toward it, a knot of uncertainty formed in my chest.

I followed my sister witches through the threshold, Amara’s coffin between us. I was the last one in and, in silence, closed the heavy door behind me. Tears streamed down my face as Istood confronted by the tombs of my mother and grandmother. The blank slab above my mother screamed at me—all too soon, my final destination if I didn’t break my curse. Amara’s crypt beside my grandmother, opposite my mother, was open, and the marble face lay to the side, waiting.

I gazed at the flowers arranged on top of the casket—Amara’s favorites—magnolias mixed with lavender. Amara’s pendant, the symbol of her power, was draped among the highest. Valentina, who had walked alongside my aunt on her journey, retrieved it, her hands trembling in reverence.

The crone placed a tender hand on Lyra’s shoulder, guiding her aside. “Please, Mama, no,” Lyra whimpered, her voice breaking. Valentina grasped her fingers, giving her the comfort she needed, though nothing could ease the grief as Valentina gave a slight nod to the coven.

Jade and Ruby stepped forward, standing nearest to the crypt. Together, they raised the foot of the coffin with tender precision and guided it into the crypt as though entrusting a sacred memory to eternity’s embrace before stepping aside. Two by two, the remaining witches stepped forward, each giving a final push, ensuring Amara’s coffin rested in its rightful place. The slab was then hoisted back onto the tomb, sealing it with a weight that matched the one in my chest.

Lyra’s shoulders shook as her sobs intensified, and I struggled to hold myself together. It was all I could do not to break down in front of everyone. I had to remain composed—to be the High Priestess. But the truth was, I didn’t know how to face this. I felt incomplete, and I wasn’t sure I ever would be complete again. A sob caught in my throat, and I bit down hard to keep it from escaping.

Valentina approached me. Without a word, she placed Amara’s pendant around my neck. She bowed her head in silent respect and stepped back to join the witches. They recited theclosing words of the ceremony. I joined them, my voice steady, but my heart shattered. “May her spirit find peace, and may the love she gave return to her, now and forever.”

A stillness engulfed the room as the last words faded into the air. I stood rooted in place as Valentina shuffled forward and the coven recessed. In an echo of the ritual that had started this journey, each woman offered a silent nod or a soft touch as they filed past. The pendant, the tangible sign of my role, burned against my chest as the last witch left.

I turned to the marble wall, my eyes locked on my mother’s crypt. My heart ached for Mac in ways I hadn’t acknowledged until now. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had something to do with Amara’s death, but I pushed the thought aside. I wanted him to be beside me.

I stepped forward and traced my mother’s name and death date etched in the marble. Her death date was my birth date.

“Mama, how am I going to handle this?” I whispered.

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