Page 53 of Rituals & Rivalry

Of course, we should have reached out to Rowan before this. A new star witch came into town, and now she’s doing a big event. Some witches would take it as a personal slight, but I’ve always known Rowan to be mature.

Still, burning those bridges is a bad idea.

“I will keep that in mind.” I withdraw my wallet and take out my cash as he finishes up our drinks. “Thank you.”

“Just let me know. Rowan is too polite to say anything, but I have a feeling she’s a little sad no one thought to ask her.”

My expression drops. The last thing I want is to make the witches who have been here all along feel less special than the new ones. I don’t think Aurora would want that either.

“I’ll be in touch,” I say, with a promise behind my words. “Thanks for the drinks.” I pay him and drop a large tip into the jar. “And don’t share that with Farrah. I know she’s late.”

“She’s not that late.”

“Liar.”

I chuckle as I leave, and behind me, Seth is laughing as well.

I don’t make it more than a few steps away from the building before Ryan, the witch from our coven whom I mentor, runs up to meet me. His green eyes are wide, reminding me so much of Farrah and Val.

“What is it?” I ask before he has a chance to speak, my expression stony.

“I—I—it’s a bird. Antoni said you would be here, and I came as fast as I could, but I don’t know if we’re fast enough.”

I don’t have to ask what he means. He’s a hedge witch, and like many with his skill, it’s natural to want to control life and death. But I’m not the one to go to about that. He should know better.

There isn’t much I won’t do to help the youths in our coven, though.

“Show me,” I whisper.

And he does, though each of my steps is feebler than the last, and I can barely think by the time he leads me to the bird. A gorgeous bluebird—the Eastern bluebird with a yellow belly and beady, black eyes. She’s still alive. Each breath, every draw of life force. Her lifeline flickers.

“She can’t fly,” he says. “D’you think I can heal her wing?”

I should tell him not to. To let nature run its course.

But that’s not what I do. This may be a lesson for the young witch, whether or not we have the desired outcome.

I nod and kneel next to the bird, setting the coffees in the dirt. “Collect sticks. I know just the spell.”

It’s not a spell I would trust myself to do, nor is it in my dominion, but I can instruct Ryan. This is what I’ll have to do as coven leader, and it’s what I want to do now. To be better. To be a leader.

Ryan kneels at my side, holding twigs in his large, clumsy, teenage hands. “What do I do?” he asks, his voice squeaking.

“Create a square around her. Stick them right in the dirt.”

He does as I say, and I desperately try to recall the spell from the latest book I’ve been reading. It wasn’t many words, but they were all in Latin, which Ryan knows better than I do.

“Rub your hands together,” I say. “And repeat after me.”

He rubs his hands so hard, we’re lucky they don’t catch on fire.

“Labor ad conandum,” I say clumsily, and Ryan echoes without the same struggles. “Mors vitae. Fac ut voluntas mea ita sit hac nocte.”

My words are powerless. Ryan’s aren’t. As he speaks, golden light wraps around the bird, and that cord of life—the one so few can sense—strengthens. The sticks fall back to earth, and the bird flutters her broken wing once, twist…

She lifts into the sky.

Tears drip down Ryan’s face, and more shocking than anything else, I mirror him. We smile, shed a few tears, and hug.