It’s the same path I took in the middle of another night, never once bothering to look back when I left the Crescent Coven behind.
Goddess, it felt good.
At least at the time.
I’d never known relief like that, the deep breath of freedom I took when those massive wooden doors swung shut behind me for the last time. I was flush with it, drunk with it, ready to make a life and a future for myself beyond the one the coven had laid out for me since my magick first presented itself.
Only, it turns out there aren’t a lot of viable career paths for wayward witches who learned how to find the unfindable and break the most powerful wards and enchantments the High Priestess could throw at me, but never developed any skills that might make money in the real world.
Leaving the coven was a high like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
It was exhilarating—sticking it to Esme, throwing her offer to stay and keep training, to be protected and cosseted and cared for as a coven darling, right back in her hypocritical face.
Ending up all alone in the mundane world? Less exhilarating.
Sure, there are plenty of witches and wielders out in the world. There are plenty who’ve struck out on their own and landed on their feet, and plenty more who’ve had no choice but to land on their feet when the coven decided they didn’t pass muster, that their magick wasn’t valuable enough to keep them around.
My friend Joan is a prime example of that. Queen Allie, too, before the demon king scooped her up and took her back to his realm.
But me?
Not so much.
Life since I left the coven has been a series of fuck-ups and following my whims, crashing on friends’ couches and imposingon my parents, flailing for direction and not knowing where I actually belong.
Not that I’d ever go back. Not in a million years.
When I reach my car where I left it parked and warded on some back road turnoff just beyond the boundary of coven lands, I do one last sweep of my surroundings.
Every single fine hair on my body stands on-end, every sense attuned to the forest around me. My breath is tight in my lungs, and adrenaline floods through my veins at every small sound.
I’m not usually this easily rattled.
Not even alone in the woods in the dead of night.
Not even when I’m sneaking through coven lands, leaving trails of broken wards and security enchantments in my wake.
But there’s no one here—no witches, no demons, no one pursuing me—so I try to shake off all those nerves and climb into my old, rusted-out hatchback.
I don’t turn the ignition though, not right away.
Instead, I lean forward and rest my head against the steering wheel. I breathe deep, close my eyes, and try to ignore the slight tremor in my hands.
Try not to remember Callum’s face when I stepped into the Veil.
Try—and fail—not to think about any of it.
The demon.
The bounty.
The coven.
I shake my head, settle back into my seat, and start the car.
With every mile that passes between me and the Veil, my discomfort grows. The same uncanny, prickling whisper that I should go back, that I never should have left.
The same annoying tug just beneath my breastbone.
