Page 104 of The Whispering Night
“I’m going to get started,” she calls from inside the pit.
“Yes,” the man agrees. He flips up his burned, ruined hand. Then he vanishes, and half a breath later, static scuttles over Jenna.
She feels instant grief, instant shame. Thelegatumdoesn’t do magic anymore—that was the requirement if he moved to Hemlock Falls. And throughout this entire year that he has been helping Jenna, he hasneverbroken that promise.
Until tonight.
Focus,she tells herself. Then she opens her locket, the one she usually lets Grayson wear, and she inserts the expected message.Ready.
The locket frizzes.
She shoves it into her pocket.
It takes a while—much longer than she expects—for thecornixto finally arrive. So Jenna watches the sky while she waits. She watches the Lyrids fall, a meteor shower that has been observed and recorded longer than any other in human time.
A flash of shadow. A gust of wings. Then a smell like hot rubber, and the Crow materializes in a burst of mist. She wears her mask, as always.
Once upon a time, Jenna saw that mask as aspirational. She could become powerful as a Diana. She could work with the nightmares instead ofagainst them. All she had to do was keep learning. Keep absorbing power and building spells.
A lie. Just like the Luminaries. All of it eventually ends in violence.
“You are here early.” The Crow’s voice is modulated by her mask, and for once, she is not dressed in black armor, but a billowy, silvery gown that slithers around her like the forest mist.
“I’m sorry.” Jenna points to the sky. To Vega beaming bright. “I saw the stars, and I got worried about mixing up the time.”
The Crow’s mask tilts. The golden beak glisters. “Indeed.” Though her voice is made of only hisses and snarls, Jenna senses skepticism.
It makes her stomach flip. “Can…”Swallow. “Can I begin?”
“Not quite yet.” The Crow advances on the granite pit. Jenna cowers, although she hates herself for it. “I would remind you, Jenna, to consider who will suffer tonight if you do not do as you agreed.”
“I’m going to do as I agreed—”
The Crow cuts Jenna off with a wave. “Your sister is with that Wednesday girl right now, did you know that? And I have no qualms about eliminating both of them if I must. Do you understand?”
Oh yes, Jenna understands. She also understands Bryant won’t like this, since the Wednesday girl ishisdaughter. And she understands that this version of the Crow is the real one. Not the patient one who trained Jenna, but this threatening woman in rippling silver.
Jenna steps gingerly through detritus to the lip of the pit. Her feet are so cold. Her toes so numb. “I’m going to do as I agreed,” she repeats, pumping all the certainty she can into her words.
And the Crow nods. Her head is at least ten feet higher than Jenna’s, an obvious representation of her power. Of who between them will walk free and who between them is caged. In the dark sky behind her head, Lyrid meteorites shoot by.
“Good, Jenna Thursday. I am relieved to hear it.” The Crow raises an arm. “You all may come out now.” At these words, shapes melt into the clearing, undulating and solidifying as if hiding spells are shedding off of them.
Jenna’s breath catches. She counts six hounds, two more crows, and three sorts of witches she has heard of but never seen: three owls, two boars, and a lynx. Fifteen Dianas in total, all right here.
Suddenly her plan feels impossible. Suddenly, Jenna feels so, so tiny. So, so trapped. What was she thinking? Why did sheeverbelieve she could outsmart acornixand break free from this mistake?
“Now, Jenna,” the Crow murmurs, her voice less whispery, less modulated. As if she has given up trying to hide who she is since this child before her will die imminently. “Now you can begin.”
Jenna swallows. She has always known she would have an audience, even if she thought it would be an audience of one. The notes of her song are writ on her muscles at this point, and as she steps to the center of the pit, her pulse decelerates. Her breaths steady. This is just one more open mic night. One more concert for a Thursday clan dinner. Her audience of witches are like standing stones. The only movement is the breeze, twining through gowns and suits and pajamas and armor. Whoever these witches are, they come from all corners of Hemlock Falls—and possibly far beyond.
Overhead, the Lyrids fall in sharp lines. Arrows shot from a bow-shaped moon.
Jenna takes up a wide-legged stance on the frosted leaves. Gripping her source in her left hand, she pretends it is her guitar. Here are the frets, here are the strings. With her right hand she strums air. It would feel ridiculous if not for the intensity with which everyone watches her. Even the sleeping spirit seems to hold its breath.
Jenna inhales, letting her diaphragm pull in air and her soft palate rise. Then she sings the slippery words that are so hard for her brain to latch onto—or for anyone else’s brain. Because the words are anathema to logic. Anathema to self-preservation.This will kill you,her instincts tell her.This is how you and many others will die.
Mist swells around her, looking like bark peeling from a birch tree. Her source grows warmer against her sliding, squeezing, guitar-playing fingers.
