Page 117 of Big Little Spells

I don’t care about me at all.

“It is simple,” the very first Praeceptor tells the crowd, his voice still thundering and no doubt rippling out across the witching world. “The Joywood have power because they claimed it. A long time ago, they discovered how they could make that power too big, too vast, to be challenged. But in order to wield that power, they would need immortality.”

“You’re the immortal,” someone from the crowd shouts. Likely that damn Gus Howe again.

“Therefore I would know,” Nicholas replies, sounding bored. I want to laugh, but I can’t do anything. I can’t do anything at all but stand here and witness this. “Understand that I am telling the truth because I have no reason to lie. What do I care if the Joywood kill you all? I have seen more witches die than many of you will ever know in your puny lifetimes. But these are facts. The Joywood seek immortality, but immortality requires a set of steps. All must be completed. And with each step, they draw closer.”

“I think we all know what this is really about, Nicholas,” Carol says firmly, with that titter of hers that makes it seem like she’s embarrassed for him. “It’s not much of a secret, is it? Your highly inappropriate relationship with the Wilde girls?”

Not for the first time, I have to admire how effective the pettiness is. Here I am, spellbound and held in place, while my lover inches ever closer to a noble act that will kill him and eight innocent kids lie about in an agony that I’m about to be blamed for. Death hangs heavy in the air.

But all I can focus on for a breathless moment is that horrible woman insinuating that Nicholas is sleeping with me and Emerson. And that even if he was, it would be inappropriate or any of her business.

Gods, she’s good.

“The Joywood have planned a careful course to achieve their goals,” Nicholas continues as though Carol hasn’t spoken at all. As if he’s merely giving one of his lectures. “They will seek even now to confuse you, shame you, scare you. In the end, they will betray you.”

“Are we really going to listen to some disgruntled immortal traitor?” Felicia all but screeches. “He’s only angry we wouldn’t let his brand of evil into our righteous, good, honorable coven.”

Still, Nicholas shows no anger. He doesn’t react at all.

He looks out into the crowd. “I have vowed in blood that I will never speak aloud the true aim of covens that take these steps, for I was a part of one. It is the shame I live with, but that cannot change the oath. It cannot change what I have done. Just as nothing can change what the Joywood have done, or will do if you do not stop them. I am bound to be struck down by the very oaths I made to live outside time if I speak the next.” He takes a breath. And then he finds me in the crowd and looks at me at last. And breaks my heart with all that dark blue resolve. “If they succeed, they will be immortal. And you will all be slaves. You are already halfway there.”

On the last word, the sky cracks open and lightning flares, fire and electricity sending Nicholas to his knees. He doesn’t cry out, or writhe like the teenagers on stage, but I can feel the screaming pain inside him just the same.

I can feel it in me too.

It’s not the Joywood doing this to him. I remember all the things he’s said about being unable to give us information. Blood oaths. The kind that end in painful death if you break them. And even breaking them requires significant power and spellwork. So much so, most people don’t believe it’s possible.

But I know anything is possible with Nicholas.

I can’t speak or move. Nicholas burns. The kids on the stage are vomiting. Some lie perilously still.

Carol stands at the podium, looking smug.

“The righteous win at last, witches of St. Cyprian,” she intones from on high. “We have had a deep, unfortunate scar here among us. I don’t like to say it, but we’ve let ourselves be corrupted.” She points at Nicholas, who slumps to the stage floor as if he has no bones. “It ends now.”

I try to break the spell around me, I try to reach out to Emerson, to Ellowyn, even to my mother. But I am stuck. Blocked.

And Nicholas is dying. He’s dying. I can feel it like it’s happening to me.

I can’t let this be the end. For him. For us. We were supposed to work together, but they’ve separated us. I can’t reach anyone. I’m alone again—

But I’m not alone. You’re never alone. My grandmother said she’s always there. Even when I can’t feel her.

I call out for her without thinking, with everything I am. It’s Ellowyn’s magic that calls on spirits, but I call on my own. Grandma. Aunt Zelda. Please. Help. I need your help.

Something shimmers and shakes, but I seem to be the only one who sees it. Sees them as they bloom into being on either side of me—and then into the aisle.

My grandmother. Aunt Zelda. Women I don’t recognize but have my grandmother’s eyes or my mother’s nose. The ancestresses. My ancestresses, who I’ve long asked to haunt me at will. These are the women who came before. Every woman who had a hand in making me and Emerson and the world we live in.

The world that’s falling apart in front of us, though all I can see is Nicholas.

Help me, I beg.

They circle me, spirits and orbs, birds and butterflies, energy and signs. They chant.

And while they do, I push all the hot pulsing power inside of me against the bonds that hold me frozen and still.

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