I can at least find out who she is.
Even if I never see her again, even if she wants nothing to do with me, I can find out who she is.
Perhaps that’s all I’ll ever get, all I’ll deserve. Standing here, alone, with the weight of the last hour and the knowledge of how very little I have to offer my mate bearing down on me, perhaps it’s for the best.
But it doesn’t stop me from wanting.
A name. Just a name. Something to hold on to if I never have anything else.
And I know a place where I can start searching for that name. I know where I can find other witches who might know her.
5
Seren
The Veil spits me out flat on my ass back in the human realm.
In the middle of a familiar forest clearing, with the night sky a tapestry of stars above and the Veil’s ether still roiling, I sprawl out in an undignified heap.
“In a mood tonight, aren’t you?” I mutter, standing and brushing dried leaves and dirt off the seat of my pants.
The ether flashes blazing crimson for a few heartbeats before fading into its usual pearly white.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Message received loud and clear.”
It’s probably not a great idea to be cheeky with the Goddess. But hey, she started it.
I’ve never had a Veil crossing like that—so turbulent, like I was being tossed around in a rip current—and I try not to let it rattle me as I get steady on my feet and survey my surroundings.
I pull my phone from my satchel and turn it on. It’s basically useless in any realm but this one, and when it powers back up, it tells me the time is a little past three in the morning, which is perfect for my purposes.
Nobody’s around this late. There are no watching eyes to see me and report back to the High Priestess, and no indignant Crescent witches who might take it upon themselves to stop me.
Not that they would succeed.
The wards guarding the Veil are cast to keep non-coven witches away, but that’s never been a problem for me.
In addition to seeking, I destroy.
Wards, locks, concealment enchantments. I haven’t met one yet that’s stood up against my magick if I’m determined to dismantle it.
That’s me, a human wrecking ball. A heat-seeking missile with no self-discipline and the impulse control of a gnat.
With one last look at the Veil—still white, no ominous crimson warnings from the Goddess—I head into the woods.
The first of the wards crackles against my skin, followed by another, and another, but I brush them all easily aside. A combination of the spellbreaking theory and practice I studied during my decade-and-a-half education with the Crescent Coven, mixed with my own personal flair. Instinctual and easy, the webbing of all those protective spells is clear as day in my mind’s eye as I unravel them.
Whoever fixes them in the morning will no doubt know I was here, but that’s not my problem. Hopefully they’ll put them back together in a way that’ll be more of a challenge next time.
When I reach the end of the wards, the coven hall comes into sight. Distant, but shining like a beacon at the top of a nearby hill.
My chest aches.
Not willingly, and certainly not in a way that tempts me in the slightest or would ever make me go back, but it still aches.
I turn away and head off in the other direction.
A winding gravel road leads out of coven lands and back to the mundane world, and at this time of night, I’m free to walk it alone.
