“On my mark,” Laurel calls, her voice ringing with authority. “We pull the rift closed and seal it. All at once.”
The chanting intensifies. Latin phrases I don’t fully understand pour from the lips of witches I’ve never met, but the meaning resonates in my bones.
Repair. Restore. Renew.
Jane’s flames roar higher, plumes of orange and red lighting up the night sky. Stuart’s roots thicken, becoming iron-strong. The other witches pour everything they have into the collective working.
And I feel the moment when individual power becomes something greater. Our powers synergize, and my cells vibrate with the resonance of the power that creates.Wow, is this what coven magic is like?
No wonder it’s preferred over singular spellcasting. It’s incredible.
It’s also highly effective.
The magic of the Wiccan circle snaps into alignment, and energy flows from witch to witch. The connection creates a circuit of magic so potent the air itself crackles.
My spirit magic surges, feeding into Wylder’s plant magic, which feeds into Mica’s metal magic, which feeds into Jane’s fire. And so it goes around the circle until it feeds back into Laurel’s raw, concentrated will.
“Now!” Laurel shouts. “Pull!”
We pull, and the rift screams.
It’s not an audible sound—not really—but I feel it in the vibration of my teeth, in my chest, and in the marrow of my bones. The tear resists—or perhaps it’s the demon spellwork that shredded it in the first place—fighting us like a living thing, thrashing against the combined force of more than a dozen witches who refuse to leave it torn and broken.
My arms shake. Sweat trickles down my ass crack. Laurel’s demand on our magic pulls more and more, threatening to empty reserves I didn’t even know I had.
“Hold,” Laurel commands.
And so, I hold. I brace myself against the draining of my essence, wondering too late what happens if a witch gives too much. Would Laurel do that? Could she take so much that she harms a witch in her circle?
The thought terrifies me.
I glance sideways. Wylder’s pursed lips and furrowed brow clarify I’m not the only one suffering.
The edges of the tear begin to weave back together.
Slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, purple-black energy writhes and spits. The lattice of roots and flames and shadow and spirit forces it back together, mending it, healing it.
“Almost there,” Jane grits out, her voice strained.
The tear shrinks to the size of a doorway. Then a window. Then a crack.
“Seal it!” Laurel’s voice cracks like thunder.
Every witch in the circle slams their power forward in unison.
The veil knits itself shut with a sound like fabric tearing in reverse, a sharpsnickthat reverberates through the clearing.
And then it’s gone.
The purple-black energy dissipates, and the wrongness in the air fades. The ground solidifies beneath my feet.
I stagger, my legs suddenly unable to hold my weight.
Wylder catches my elbow and pulls me against his side to keep me upright. “Easy.”
Asher rushes over and pulls a chocolate bar out of his pocket, quickly breaking squares off. “Here, baby girl. Eat this. You look white as a sheet.”
I take a square of chocolate, thankful for my best friend. Everyone needs an Asher in their life.
