Page 2 of Demon's Bride

Shaking off the thought, I glance at the surrounding crowd. Now isn’t the time for self-pity. One of these women is about to be chosen, sent in to see if they can succeed where Emilia failed.

Another whisper of wind ruffles the new leaves on the trees above us, and somewhere in the distance the singing of frogs and crickets echoes through the night like a chorus. It’s a peaceful evening, strained circumstances aside, in a realm that one of them is about to leave behind for good.

My eyes land on Josephine Delacroix with her deep brown skin and incredible psychic gifts, on Marianne Barnes with her crown of ruby curls and the unsettling ability to summon fire, on Sylvie Martinez whose blazing amber eyes hint at the rumors about her ability to hex with devastating precision.

Any of them are likely candidates. The witch who’s chosen is always powerful. She’s always confident and fierce and has abilities strong enough to renew the magick that flows between realms. It always happens on Tithe night, always at the discretion of the Goddess and her whims.

No matter who’s chosen, I know one thing for certain: it won’t be me.

I could never hope to wield that kind of power.

Biting back a fresh wave of disappointment and shame, I try to focus. It’s a lost cause. As much as I want to stay grounded in the present, my mind starts to wander like it always does when I’m compelled to attend coven functions.

I used to love the ceremony of it all, the magick and ritual. I used to dream about standing on the dais behind my mother, ascending to the power that should have been my birthright.

How quickly those dreams died.

Even as the witches around me shift and fidget, and even as part of me does ache for Emilia’s fate and for whoever is selected to travel through the Veil tonight, I feel completely removed from it. Standing away from the crowd under the wide-spread leaves of an old oak, I let my mind wander to my more pressing concerns, to Beech Bay Middle School and the narrow-minded administrators who want to see the library budget cut.

School will be out for summer in a week, and I already miss my students. I’m only a librarian, but without fail, there are a handful of students each year that reach out and tug at my heartstrings. Blaine, with his love of scifi and manga, who’s worked so hard to accommodate his dyslexia. Raina, with her attachment to fae romances and Gothic horror, who’s finally talkative again after her parents’ messy split last fall. Sav, who loves reading about ancient Greece and Rome, and who comes to sit with me during lunch because they don’t feel safe and comfortable in the cafeteria.

My mind is almost entirely occupied with worries for the kids who will lose one of their safe spaces when the school year is over. Any bit of extra mental space is tied up with irritation for the battle I’m going to have to wage this summer over budget dollars and priorities, and how I can advocate for those students and the ones who’ll come after to keep the resources they need.

“A pleasant night for a Tithe,” says a light, wry voice from beside me.

Pulled back to the present, I look down and smile at the petite, raven-haired woman who’s just come to stand beside me. Joan has about as much chance of being chosen tonight as I do, and I’m thankful she’s here. It makes me feel less alone.

“Who do you think it’ll be?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “Any chance the demon realm needs some word magick?”

It’s the best way I can describe my meager gifts. The odd ability toknowthings about a book by touching it, the ease with which I’ve always been able to study languages. Once upon a time, I’d hoped the gifts would turn out to be more powerful than they are. I thought I’d grow into them, manifest the ability to know every word of a tome by touch alone, to translate without effort or study. Nowthosegifts would have been useful.

Instead, my gifts are slight and inconsistent. I can lay my hand on a book’s cover and know that its owner once pressed a lavender sprig between its pages, or that it contains a particularly interesting passage about stewing lacewing flies in chapter three, but sometimes I feel nothing at all. And languages? I learn them well, but it’s still not without study.

“Maybe,” Joan says. “Or maybe they’re in desperate need of a good cup of tea.”

I laugh quietly, drawing a reproachful glance from a nearby witch. I fight back the urge to roll my eyes at her and instead turn back to my friend.

Joan’s gifts are as random and mundane as mine, but have at least turned out to be lucrative. She runs a popular tea shop in Beech Bay and her blends, while not intrinsically magickal, do wondrous things for the soul all the same. She also reads tarot cards with no more than plain intuition that’s somehow always what I need to hear, knits socks, and makes me teach her the curse words in every new language I learn. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

“By the way,” Joan continues, “I have a book for you. One of my regulars brought it over, hoping you could have a look.”

“Oh? What kind of book?”

“Spells, I think. It looks like an old grimoire, but the language is—”

She doesn’t get to finish the thought, cut off by a wave of murmurs running through the crowd.

Before us, the Veil pulses with a deep, red light. Somewhere within, thunder cracks. The voices around us grow silent as every head in the crowd turns toward the portal.

At the same time, a small fire lights near the center of my soul, and an insistent, trembling energy pulses through my veins. It wells up within me from the bottom of my belly, warm and stirring and restless. It pulls and demands, and for a few moments it’s all I can do to hold myself from taking an unconscious step closer to the Veil.

What is this? Is it part of the Tithe? This didn’t happen last time.

I sneak a glance at Joan, and though she’s also looking toward the Veil, the calm, almost bored expression on her face hasn’t changed. She certainly doesn’t seem to be fighting any insane urge to move, or to throw herself into that glowing red light.

I take a few deep breaths to settle myself down.

It’s nothing more than magick, I have to remind myself, a sense of unexpected discomfort settling over me as I stand and watch and wait for some other witch to claim her place beside her demon.

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