I slide back a heavy chair and do as I’m told. The binding mark on my neck makes its presence felt with a persistent throb.
“I’ve been in two minds about this, Cosmo,” my father says, “and I am not a man given to indecision.”
I don’t react to his words.
“But, in the end, I remind myself that you have no choice but to bend the knee, and once you’ve, shall we say, ascended, then all your weak traits and petty loyalties will melt away. I’ll finally have a son worthy of me.”
“That seems unlikely, Father. I can’t imagine I will ever have your…standards.”
“You will not show me disrespect.”
Pain sizzles along my jaw and down to my collarbone as the binding mark punishes me. I really should know better than to speak out. “Apologies, Father.”
For a moment, he’s silent, just looking at me like he’s trying to read my mind. Very glad he doesn’t have Theodora’s little trick. Finally, Tyrus Drakeward waves a hand. “It doesn't matter. Your rebellious nature has barely minutes to remain.”
That sounds truly worrying. What the fuck is he planning?
“Father?”
He gives a reptilian smile and presses a button on the desk.
On command, a side door opens, and two people walk in: the twins' parents. Between them is a small child.
What the fuck? Who is this poor kid?
“Good afternoon, Cosmo. It’s been a while.” Joyce Hart is a statuesque woman, broad-shouldered, imposing and a cold-hearted bitch.
“Not long enough,” I mutter to myself, not bothering to stand and greet them. I’ll probably pay for this, but fuck it. Donovan and Wes also got dealt a crap hand when it came to parents.
Their father, Jonquil Hart, hisses between his teeth. “Rudeness.”
I ignore him. My eyes are fixed on the little girl. She must be drugged; her eyes are barely open, and she’s shuffling on her feet, hardly able to stand.
But it’s worse than that.
Under the harsh lights, her skin is alarmingly pale, almost translucent. Looking closer, I see faint, shadowy movement beneath the surface of her arms, like smoke trapped under ice. A pulse of energy rolls off her, but it’s not the bright, clean spark of a child. It feels heavy.
Cold.
“Who’s the little witch?” I ask, my voice tight. “What have you done to her?”
“Silence,” Father commands.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. The sigil on my neck burns white-hot, and my vocal cords instantly lock. I try to speak, to demand an answer, but my mouth snaps shut against my will.
“She is the vessel,” Joyce says, ignoring my struggle. She looks at the child with zero empathy. “And she is ready.”
Father stands up. “There is a new world order, Cosmo. As of tomorrow, the WMO council will be entirely filled with Conclave members. The new government of the United Statesof Havengard. But the Conclave is no longer a gathering of witches.”
He walks around the table, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism. “That word is too small. Too weak. We are now The Magi.”
The Magi?
“We are a species so far beyond a mere witch that those lower lifeforms will now and forever be servants to our wishes. To sit in the Conclave is to be a Magus. To be anything less is to be nothing. And today, Cosmo, you take your place.”
I try to shake my head. I try to stand up.
“Don’t move,” Father says.
