Page 2 of Night of Death and Flowers

“It’s really here,” Ari whispers, her jaw slacking. “The Night Market.”

I white-knuckle my coin purse, then whisper, “Stay close to me.”

She nods, but anticipation threading her eyes is enhanced by the current of excitement charging into the air as the first night of festivities unfolds.

“You hear that?” I ask as we push our way through the bustling crowds.

At first, the music is faint, but as we near the center of the market, the melody grows louder. Blue light spills through the aisles as a quartet of musicians perform like songbirds, their harmonies echoing through the air. A man’s hand glides across a silver, enchanted harp, and two women in flowing black robes complement the harp’s melodic sound with their flutes.

My gaze snaps to a gangly man as he walks in front of us. He snips the ties of another man’s leather coin pouch into his nimble fingers, before disappearing seamlessly into the crowd.

“Don’t let your coin out of your sight,” I warn Ari.

The darkness whispers secrets wherever we walk, offering glimpses into the depravity hidden underneath the performances. Because no matter how they dress it up, this is a celebration of the upcoming slaughter of eleven people—one of whom may be my best friend. He, along with my sister and I, must volunteer for The Harvest. Our mother has assured us we will not be chosen, because our father is an elder. But, unlike us, Drake does not have anyone other than me to protect him.

Arabella catches hold of my hand as I push my way through crowds of witches, many of whom have traveled from the various provinces of Dahryst to our town.

Ari pulls on my arm, her fingers gripping around my elbow. “I’ve never seen so many people.”

I grimace as I cast my eyes around the newcomers clad in crimson robes, to signify the upcoming Harvest. Dressing up like sacrifices is one thing, but some even have red paint slathered over their shoulders and faces, representing the blood that will be spilled.

“A travesty,” I state.

“It’s also quite beautiful,” Ari counters.

The people are as eccentric as the items on their tables, many wearing masks fashioned from clay or plaster, decorated with silver leaves, crow feathers, and the flowers of the Night Evedelain plant. I wonder if they realize the rose heads they have torn from their stems induce insanity when properly crushed. They are beautifully arranged around the mask’s edges, the layers of blood-red petals slowly turning black the closer they get to the midpoint.

Located in the center of the square, where we normally barter with local farmers and bakers, stand tall, pointed tents decorated with paints depicting the scales of the shadow viper, and the sigil of the God of Death.

He is everywhere—his symbol embroidered into people’s tunics, and painted on their bare arms, his likeness forged in stone effigies, and depicted on canvases. He is ethereal, with flowing silver hair, and predatorial eyes glistening like stars. Even those who are not in his coven worship him this week.

Not me. I grimace as his essence surrounds me, surfacing a painful reminder of the magic I harbor. Arabella’s hand tightens around mine, her grip conveying a silent comfort as I am transported back to the night that changed my life forever.

Even now, seven years after the incident, I can still feel the icy tendrils of death as I remember that night—the pointless fighting and panic as I was dragged into the forest by the deadliest creature of them all: a Phovus. I shudder, recalling the shapeshifting shadow creature and how it first appeared in human form, its wide, yellow eyes resembling those of a cat. Then it morphed into a serpentine shape, made of darkness and mist, as if it were crafted from the essence of the night itself.

The sound of my bones snapping under the Phovus’ tight hold will forever be imprinted into my mind along with the relentless agony that followed and made me wish it would hurry and kill me. But I wasn’t so lucky.

As the creature’s final squeeze brought me to the brink of death, it was my best friend, Drake, who saved me. An illusion, born from his powers from the Goddess of Dreams, bathed the forest in a bright light, distracting the creature.

I’d waited sixteen years to find out which of the Goddess of Creation’s powers I would possess. When my magic presented itself for the first time, and the Phovus crumbled, falling like ash between my fingers, I realized I instead harbored one of the most dangerous powers possessed by the God of Death himself. Magic, that if discovered, will see me at the end of a rope.

The gods gifted witches many powers, but never their ethereal magic, and for Azkiel, his decay magic gives him the ability to kill anything with one touch.

My fingers pulse, as if my magic can sense my dark thoughts, and I quickly pull my hand from my sister’s.

“Get your hands on the Choosing’s list of volunteers,” a man’s voice rings out into the crowd, with a cart filled with rolled-up papers.

I grimace, shooting the man daggers through the crowd. My glare penetrates his aura enough that his eyes lift to meet mine.

“Don’t,” Ari warns as I step forward, gritting my teeth. Her hand lands on my arm, and she swings me toward a small booth.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” I whisper as we stop in front of Eren’s table.

She shoots me an incredulous glare, and I smile.

Eren watches me as I lean over the stall. Her hands slam on the table between us, her over-shaped face etched with wrinkles, each a reminder of the irritation and stress from having witnessed seven Harvests.

“I’m not selling to ya,” she says, and sweeps her long, silver braid hanging below her stomach, over her shoulder.

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