Beautiful ink illustrated the scene from the stained glass across the yellowed page.
At the bottom fields sprawled, only interrupted by the gray building in the corner with a steeple, much like a church for Erlik. And then in gradient blues, the sky stretched above. The focal point, however, was the most arresting: an angel—a seraph, I corrected myself—Falling, black wings folded painfully and a hand desperately reaching for the sky.
Castiel sucked in a breath beside me.
Unthinking, I reached for him, putting a hand on his forearm. How strange, even painful, this must be for him. His muscles under my fingers tensed, then slowly relaxed.
We stared at the image, not speaking.
Beneath the image, in faded ink, someone had scrawled: The angel Judith loved.
“Who’s Judith?” I finally asked.
“I was going to ask you.” Castiel shifted his weight, but didn’t move his arm away from my hand.
I glanced at the opposite page, hoping for more details.
Unique artwork found in the Hawkstone Cove of Emmas, around 150 years old. An excellent example of artist depictions of myth and legend. The angel Falls from the heavens, his face in anguish, one hand reaching for salvation. His black wings are useless. When asked, the Priestess did not know why the wings were depicted in black ink when religious myth tells us Erlik’s messengers have white wings.
The wellspring of the Hawstone Coven’s magic is a closely guarded secret—more so than most covens. The area is lush with magic, evident by the fertile fields, the robust religious devotion to Goddess Emmas, and the number of artisans who study their crafts at the coven as part of their training.
“But who is Judith?” I muttered, turning the page a little too harshly. “A worshipper of Emmas? One of their witches?” I shook my head in frustration. “Since when did people write so confidently of magic?”
Castiel glanced at me in surprise. I caught the movement in the corner of my eyes but didn’t face him. “What do you mean, write about magic?”
“Magic doesn’t exist. Covens of Emmas nearly don’t exist anymore,” I said impatiently.
He hesitated. “Magic is absolutely real. Even in this world. I can sense it, even if I can’t use it.”
I shook my head again. “No, magic used to exist, but it faded from the world. And we don’t need it because we have Erlik.” I halted, my lips snapping shut as I contemplated what I’d said. Who taught me that?
“Lily,” Castiel said slowly.
I held up a hand, anger spiking inside me. “I suppose I should reconsider those claims, since they’re made by the same people who cast my sister out into the cold and let me assume Jo was dead for years.” Bitterness coated my tongue. I had trusted my parents, the elders, the whole community—and they’d lied to me. What else had they lied about? Magic?
I felt like someone was flipping my world upside down, and I didn’t know which way to stand, which ground I could trust to hold me. My vision wavered.
Now it was Castiel’s turn to set a hand on my shoulder. “Lilith, you are an incredibly intelligent woman. I imagine learning you’ve been lied to your whole life is…well, I’d take my sword and cut them all down for you, if you like. I’d be sorely tempted to do that if I was in your place. But I also have no doubt you can sort through it and pick out the truths from the lies.”
“Magic still lives in my world?” I asked calmly, finally looking up at him.
Castiel nodded, eyes solemn. “But not nearly to the extent it does in mine.”
“And covens for Emmas have not died out?”
He hesitated. “They are not as plentiful as they used to be, but yes, there are several in this country that are alive and well.”
I sighed. “But of course.”
Castiel turned to face me now, his thumb rubbing soothing circling on my shoulder. “Lilith, you will push through this. You are young and you are fierce—you could remake the entire cult if you wished to.”
That wasn’t true, but I appreciated the sentiment. I forced myself to smile. “Thank you, Castiel.” I cupped his cheek with one hand, and warm tenderness rushed over me. This was his moment, his discovery. One step closer to getting his people home.
And yet he was comforting me. Because I was too stupid to see the lies in my upbringing. I should’ve guessed at least some of it—especially when Absalom had been made an elder. He had been used as the reverend’s bulldog, snarling and threatening punishment at anyone who dared ask a question. But I had buried my doubts and carried on like normal.
Maybe I was a fragile cirra, like Castiel had said.
Yet last night…when he called me that, it didn’t sound like an insult. It sounded like an endearment. A thrill went down my spine when I remembered last night—both the look in his eyes and the way I’d given myself pleasure two more times when I was in my bed afterward and unable to sleep.
