Page 105 of The Whispering Night
Distantly, she hears a whisper, which is her signal. This is what Bryant warned her of.
“When you hear the whispers—that’s when you change the first word, Jenna. All it takes is one syllable. Change it, and the spell will begin to unravel.”
“But they expect me to die. Thecornixwill see when I’m still alive at the end.”
“No, she won’t, Jenna. Because I will be there, and I will make sure she sees nothing at all.”
Jenna is to the main summons portion of the spell. The first requirement beyond her voice and her source, beyond the Lyrids and the granite. She knows what the wordsliterallymean, but she doesn’t know what will happen when she says them.Nightmare father, gone and slain. Lantern mother, spirit’s bane. Son of forest, son of pain.
It is on the first line that she is going to change a syllable.Incubois what she should say; what she will say instead isencuba.It should be so subtle none of these looming Dianas notice…
Except when the words arrive, when the spell’s magic rattles into her with its fiery force—as more mist spews and snakes around her—she doesn’t change the word at all. Shecan’t. Because suddenly she is not the only one singing. All the Dianas in the clearing have joined in the song, and the power oftheirwords crushes out Jenna’s resistance. Her song is nowtheirsong, and it has taken on a mind of its own. Their whispers are speaking through her. Horrifying layers that entangle her voice.
Jenna saysincubobecause that is what the whispers say.
And so, Jenna summons the Pure Heart.
She watches as it happens—sheseeswith eyes that are impossible to blink as the message of her summons goes shooting into the forest. It looks like a small sparrow made of mist—and in its beak it is holding something.A wolf’s jawbone,she thinks, although she has no idea why she would know this. The misted sparrow flies so fast, and it’s not as if she has ever seen a wolf’s jawbone before.
The words continue pouring out, Latin and unchanged. No, no—this isn’t supposed to happen. But she can’t change her tongue and mouth. She can’t stop her song. The mist swirls around her. It is pure fire, scalding brighter than the forest’s own mist.
Shewilldie here.
Of all the figures, the Crow stands closest. Her gown flips and flies around her as if she too is engulfed in this boiling mist. She is also the loudest, her beak rising, defiant and domineering.
Pure Heart. Trust the Pure Heart.
The spell was not supposed to get this far. Jenna wasneversupposed to reach these words. She was supposed to be running away by now. Bryantwas supposed to have jumped in to help her. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?
I am going to die.
Grayson will wait for no one.
Erica will never, ever see me again.
It is in that moment that something finally shifts. A flashing light that Jenna recognizes even as most of her brain and body are consumed by this spell still spewing from her throat in Latin.
Pure Heart.
Trust the Pure Heart.
The lights flash brighter. A host of blue fire carried on tiny, flittering wings. It is the nest of will-o’-wisps, and in their center is a mass vaguely human that Jenna’s gaze simply will not fix onto.Bryant and his hiding spell.
The will-o’-wisps attack the witches.
And the Dianas finally stop singing. They stir, they scream, they scatter. Golden arrows flash, clashing against the will-o’-wisps’ fury.
The Crow, however, keeps singing—and so Jenna does too. She smells her hair burning and sees flickers of shadow fire leap off her skin. She hears—far, far away—a voice that sounds like Bryant’s.Jenna,he shouts.Release it. Stop the spell now. Do not say the final words—
Bryant’s voice strangles off as if he has been discovered, defeated, destroyed. His help, his support… It vanishes like nightmares in the mist.
Jenna’s mouth continues to shape each vowel, each consonant of the final Latin phrases. The promise that every spell makes. The nail to close out the coffin. “Sumus”—no, no, no—“unus”—no, NO, NO—“in somno…”
A will-o’-wisp bursts from the spell’s mist before Jenna. Inches from her face, it is a beacon of blue fire and perfect light. A tiny skeleton wreathed in power and dreamed up by the sleeping spirit. So beautiful, so fragile. Its eyes—empty holes inside a bleached skull—stare at Jenna with a sentience she feels more than sees.
She has never been this close to a will-o’-wisp before.
She has never had one take her measure and assess what course it will choose next.Are you a danger to me? Do you deserve to die?
