Page 2 of Our Covenant

The three men laugh, their united front against Damian shifting with a new threat in their midst. Damian relishes the change and his mood lightens. “You’ll have to torment him outside of term papers and impossible exams.”

“So impossible that every member of the coven who has taken my class has passed, save for one?” I smirk and greedily bask in his shame.

Edmund and Clayton erupt with haughty laughter until Damian tilts his nose to the high ceiling and walks off the injury to his ego.

“Callous bastard,” Clayton says. “Isn’t he your half cousin, three times removed or something, Alric? Shouldn’t piss off the family you have left. You never know when Mariana will get sick of you darkening the coven’s doorway.”

“As if Mariana gives him a second thought,” Edmund rebuffs.

The muscle in my cheek twitches, and both men should thank whatever ancestor is watching over them. While the rest of the coven has been using their magic stores, my wealth overflows silently.

Victoria Elwell approaches, her ceremonial robe cinching her full waist and clinging to the sweat-damp skin it’s hiding. “Clayton, it’s time.” After she passes along her message, both men follow her away without glancing back.

Edmund and Clayton have always been close, long before they took up the mantel of legacy. I sat by and watched as they grew from infants to boys, all the while being predicted to be the most powerful cycle of legacies the coven has seen in hundreds of years. But, it has become popular over the last century for duties to be performed as quickly as possible to mask that the curse looming over us still holds.

It was Maxwell Bishop who produced the first heir only two years after being received in the very same ceremony his son is leading in the basement of the legacy manor. Hawthorne Bishop, my “nephew”—an insignificant title to keep me docile and human, though our blood is thin—will be the first to be crowned with a wreath of iris and bay. A symbol of the coven’s loyalty, devotion, and protection to and of the next generation of legacies. He’ll then be welcomed into the blessing circle to receive the honor that was stripped from me so many years ago.

Hawthorne will lead the sons of Emilie Morey, Victoria Elwell, and the late Anita Proctor as the reigning legacies. Their sole purpose will be to serve their sacrifices, appease the old gods, honor our ancestors, and replenish the magical stores of the coven before they are inevitably rushed into unfit marriages and must live out the rest of their lives in misery, all for the cycle to continue.

How lucky for them that I have much more disastrous plans that will relieve them of their duties.

2

MADDOX

Our ancestors’ rituals didn’t include an anal hook . . . but times change.

The woman bound and gagged to the raw stone table whines in anticipation. A circle of flickering candlelight surrounding us illuminates her creamy white flesh, and the smell of burning wax mixes with the blood-damp dungeon floor. It’s a scene that would be considered unholy in polite society, but for us there is no sight more ecclesiastical than Beatrice Nurse trussed and presented as a gift.

Her arms are behind her back, bound with red rope. The intricate knots are partially hidden by her thick black braid attached to one end of a steel hook firmly planted in her ass.

Two of my fellow legacies watch with me from the dais as Asher stands at her side, stroking his thumb over her wet slit and speaking the incantation to bless our circle with the dark magic to which we prescribe. His dulcet voice echoes off the earthen walls as ancient as our coven. There is a shift just beyond the veil as he works through the spell. Like every ritual we’ve done in the past, there is an eagerness that transcends time and the eerie presence that lurks in the folds between planes. It beckons the five of us to open the passage and allow it to spill over into our world.

Beatrice’s body is the vessel that will facilitate our communion to the old gods and satisfy their demand for a willing sacrifice. Our generation is led by Hawthorne—Thorne to those of us closest to him—from the Bishop line. Of the five thrones that sit at the edge of the ritual circle, his is centered. To Thorne’s right sits Fox—the last of the Proctor line. The empty seat next to Fox is reserved for Asher Morey. To Thorne’s left are two contrasting thrones. Mine has been polished and maintained by the Elwell men who fought to keep it. But my flank is barren. The cold, decaying seat was once occupied by the Hales’ legacy, long before the Salem Witch Trials that separated our coven 400 years ago.

“Brothers,” Asher’s wary voice croaks. “It’s time.”

It’s been too long since our magic has been fully renewed. The demand on our abilities to keep our coven hidden and safe takes more and more each harvest ritual. Sex, blood, and tithing to our ancestors is the only way to regain what we’ve poured into those we shelter. Asher and I will partake first, followed by Fox, and finally Thorne’s contribution will solidify the spell. Only after our bodies are weak and empty will we be filled with magic from beyond the veil.

Asher pushes his sweatpants down, leaving him bare as he gets to his knees and buries his face in Beatrice’s cunt. She moans and my cock stiffens. Asher’s tongue laps at her clit and she pulls at her restraints, the hook stretching her tight, firm hole.

I get to my feet and step down from the dais to enter the circle of protection that Asher has created and stand at her head. Her eyes eat me up with a plea for more or help. She will get neither from me, not yet. Her immense pleasure is integral to the success of the harvest.

While no pain will come to her, without fail, once all four of us descend on the sacrifice as a combined force, there is always a flash of panic and regret in their eyes. Recognizing it makes me rock-hard.

The pink pillow of her bottom lip is drawn tight around the ball between her teeth. This scene was her choice, and who are we to deny her what she’s always desired? I take her chin with my fingers and kneed the tortured flesh with the pad of my thumb, spreading her drool over her glossy lips.

“Are you ready?” I ask, knowing full well that if she answers, she’ll tug at the rigging. The smile on my lips pulls a bit tighter at the conflict of pain versus pleasure on her face.

I reach for the buckle at her cheek and loosen the strap. The gag isn’t necessary for anything but fulfilling her fantasy. Something that was discussed at length days ago while we readied the basement to receive her and the blessings from beyond. Bea opens her mouth wide and her tongue pushes the silicone ball out. It bounces away, but instead of giving her jaw reprieve, she sticks her tongue out and looks up at me expectantly.

“Eager for me, pet?” I ask, and she pants harder.

My sight travels down the knots at her back to Asher’s head bobbing, then back to Beatrice’s wild gaze. I bend low to whisper in her ear, “You can’t have any of us until you come.”

Her groan ends with an intelligible sound of desperation.

“Asher,” I call, but don’t break eye contact with our pretty little sacrifice. Asher only answers with a sloppy sound of acknowledgment. “How does she taste?”