Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Sixteen: First Summit

You could have heard a pin drop in the reception room of the Lodge when I walked through the door on Van's arm. Beneath warm wooden beams and warm electric chandeliers, eleven witches turned sharp gazes on me. I very nearly paused as they all slung testing spells at me, but I kept walking forward, pushing my ward in front of me. Two sharp darts hit me but I worked very hard not to tense from the small burst of pain on my arm and, more concernedly, right at my heart.

Two witches in this room I needed to worry about, and one had very good aim. One of them was most likely the Black Witch Ciara. But the other was an unknown, but not necessarily the less powerful of the two. She could be more powerful than the head witch, but just biding her time.

Evander hadn't steered me wrong in terms of apparel—they were all dressed to the nines, but their impressive fashion was not what attracted my attention. All eleven of them converged into a winglike formation with such unnatural haste that their movement wasn't quite human.

Some crouched slightly in defensive positions and some twisted their arms and hands into bizarre poses—because some witches worked spells with forms, whereas I found power with words. Two of the witches wrapped themselves around each other in a pseudo-sexual embrace. The entire effect of their weird, synchronized witch tangle creeped me out more than it scared me. I was not accustomed to the twisting of my natural magic into the macabre to benefit the greater good.

"Are they always so ghoulish?" I murmured to Evander as ushered me down the long paneled, furnished room toward them. . A massive old world, mirrored bar claimed the left wall, and that is where Darrow, Ace, and Geordie clamored to their feet as if to fall in behind us, but Evander gave a slight shake of the head, and they remained where they were, reclining at the ready, drinks in hand.

"No, you seem to have a considerable effect on them," he muttered back.

To our left, a wall of patio doors opened to the night, and the breeze that blew in chilled me, but I tried not to show it as we glided serenely to a stop before witches in defense formation. I had not retaliated with any testing spells of my own. It was much better not to give them any indication of my offensive magical strength.

"Oh, Sisters. I was so hoping we were all going to be friends," I drawled.

The lead witch—a pale, raven-haired woman in a black dress much like mine, who looked to be about thirty-five but with such beauty she could have passed for a vampire—spoke first. "What is this, Evander? A trap? Have you killed Orla and now brought us here for open confrontation? You've hired a mercenary to oppose us?"

Evander was perfectly cool as he addressed her. "No, Ciara. I wish for our alliance to remain. I have brought you here in sad but good faith so that we may discover what killed Orla together. Miss Cecilia Dunne is no mercenary. She is my fiancée of nearly three years. I have kept away because I did not want to bring the woman I love to my home for this very reason—she is a witch, and I feared a disruption of our alliance. But now, Celie has not only agreed to be my wife, but she's also agreed to become my eternal blood mate. She'll not be a witch but a vampire, so there's no conflict to our treaty, except in the very short term, which I hope you'll overlook."

All of the witches hissed, except Ciara, whose expression changed to disgust and redirected to me. "You plan to relinquish your beautiful, natural power, take on the world's worst curse, and do it by giving over your will to a vampire who hates witches worse than any creature I have ever met?"

Hmmm. This "giving up my power" was brand new information to me, but since I wasn't really marrying Evander, and I wasn't really becoming a vampire, I guessed it didn't matter.

"Giving up my power is a fair price for the experience of eternal love with Evander," I lied, hoping my aura was locked down well. I turned to look at him and aimed for a determined but tender expression. He gave me a glittering dark smile, and reached for my hand, bringing it to his cool lips.