Page 98 of Truly Madly Magically

He laughs as I pull his mouth to mine. As he lifts me up, then puts me down again, but comes with me this time.

Until we’re wrapped up with each other, deep inside and out, lit up with the ways we love each other and always have.

Because we’re exactly where we belong.

24

IF WE THOUGHT waiting for the second trial was long, the wait for the third and final trial feels like an eternity. No amount of meetings filled with Emerson’s endless optimism and pep talks, no amount of living our normal lives and running our businesses, no amount of nights with Zander that end, always, in the simple I love yous that still feel like gifts can ease the slow, anxious tick of time.

All we do is wait. Then wait some more.

Any time Jacob is free, we go over the plans for the ritual that will take my blood—carefully and with good, clean magic—to be used in a cure that will keep the rest of the Summoners in the world from dying the way Zelda and too many others already did.

Any time Rebekah and I are together, we work at trying to magic our way into the future, or back into the past, looking for a hint at when the Undine will strike next. We congratulate ourselves on having two members of the same coven with these gifts, as no other coven can. That makes us powerful because it’s safer this way, with both of us to find our way along these sometimes murky pathways forward and back.

Like it should have always been like this.

But no amount of searching gives us those answers. Because the options are infinite. So many paths, twisting this way and that way and back again, that we can’t sort through them all.

Even if we could, I’m beginning to realize it wouldn’t matter.

The choice must be ours. In the moment.

More, of the moment.

I find that frustrating, but this time around, the frustration makes me want to dig in and keep trying.

Now it’s only a few short days before Samhain. I’m part of the group headed to Frost House to search the immortal library for books on old ascensions, dragons, crows, princesses, blood magic wards, or whatever else we think might help.

Or that’s what Georgie and Frost are doing. Rebekah and I are along for the ride to try reaching into the past for lessons from old ascensions. We decide to walk because it’s a crisp, pretty day, and maybe we all also want the opportunity to get outside and breathe the air.

With Samhain nearly upon us, it’s a simple pleasure none of us can take for granted.

Even beneath a deceptively warm late-October sun, St. Cyprian looks suitably ready for Samhain. The Halloween madness spills out everywhere. Cornstalks are tied to lampposts, and jack-o’-lanterns, gourds, and decorations of witches, zombies, and vampires fill just about every storefront. There are crowds all over the sidewalks. Tea & No Sympathy boasts an impressive display of spiderwebs and—special for this year—ghost decorations everywhere. Some creepy old dolls and daguerreotype photos that I told Elizabeth reminded me of her.

She was unamused.

I should get excited for Samhain the way I usually do any second now, but as we walk toward Frost House, the coming holiday only looms like a shadow.

A threat.

Rebekah and I spent hours perfecting the glamour for my new eyes, because there’s no need to advertise that sort of thing to the Joywood. I stopped bothering with the pregnancy glamour. Everyone already knows that.

The four of us walk to the end of Main Street toward the hill that rises up at the end, cresting to a high bluff over the river. The stairs carved into the hillside lead directly to the towering mansion Frost keeps glamoured to look like a dilapidated old house. With enough charms to keep even thrill-seeking humans far away.

The stairs are long and steep, and I’m almost six months pregnant. Or anyway, I tell myself my pregnancy is the reason I’m out of breath, and not the fact I’ve done nothing but eat too much Redbrick pizza and have entirely too much mind-blowing sex most of this month.

At the top, we all slow down to look out at the gleaming rivers. We let the breeze play over our faces, and listen to the song it carries, made of magic and power from the heart of the confluence in the distance. I feel a pang of sorrow for humans, who see two rivers and don’t feel the power of things the way we do. Who see the charming bustle of St. Cyprian down below, but have no idea what it means. What this particular river town stands for, from brick to belfry and back again.

As if a mutual decision was made, we all turn to the house at the same time, but Frost stops, turning immediately and obviously wary.

It says something that I wasn’t aware that his usual aloofness is...him relaxed.

“Something is wrong,” he says quietly. Coronis caws his agreement from above the old Victorian.

“What is it?” Rebekah asks, her hand finding Frost’s automatically.

“I don’t quite know,” he says in that same quiet way, ripe with menace. He scans the house, and it’s clear he’s not just looking. He’s using his magic too. “Every ward and protection is as it should be and yet...” He frowns. “Something isn’t right.”

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