Page 54 of Truly Madly Magically

Then he hesitates.

There is no time for that. I grab his hand and press his palm to my stomach. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, looking down. As something deep inside flutters.

Not something.

Her.

She’s moving. It’s not that kick at the meeting, like she was jumping into the fight. This is something gentler. More like a settling in.

Like family, I think.

I wonder if Zander hears that, because his eyes glow with magic as he whispers the words of the glamour for me. When his gaze meets mine, everything is bright silver and potent, leaving me breathless—but not in a scary way.

There’s nothing scary about this. It’s just...us.

All the ways we’re tangled together, and always have been, like our own messy little confluence, hums there between us.

The crowd is still moving, still compelled. I can feel the need to move inside me, like a physical need all my own when I know it’s not. I know it’s outside me, outside all of us. I know it comes from the same place as that great tolling from before. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

There are so many witches, flocking down the sidewalks and taking over the street, abandoned at this hour of the night. It’s like a festival night, only I’ve never seen one so crowded.

Zander is right beside me, and he never lets me go as we leave Main Street behind and stream over the grass, down toward the river.

“The countdown will begin,” that voice booms again, seeming to come from the sky above me, the ground below me, and my own bones within me too.

It’s too loud. Thunder and an earthquake rolled into one, yet not as terrifying as I’d think either one of those would be. People start hurrying now as that same voice begins an actual, literal countdown. Ten, nine, eight.

Witches begin magicking themselves along to hurry through the crowd, until everyone is doing it—seized by the same urgency. Zander has to give me a boost so we don’t fall behind, and he keeps that hand on me while he does it, bringing us straight to Emerson’s elbow.

She nods as we arrive and as the rest of our coven finds each other. All around us, witches from all over the world convene on the St. Cyprian riverfront.

Emerson is focused on the former immortal brooding there behind her sister, murmuring the odd greeting in one language or another to the witches who catch sight of him.

“Frost. What do you know?” Emerson demands. “Did you know about this?”

Because it’s a moving target, what Nicholas Frost remembers or doesn’t remember.

He rubs a finger along his temple. There’s pain, clearly, though he doesn’t let it come out in his voice. “The ascension trials have been triggered. The Undine will lay out the rules. For all who must participate, and all of witchkind.”

“The statue,” Zander says, like he can’t quite believe it. I can’t either.

Frost slides one of his dark looks Zander’s way but must be in pain because he doesn’t get snide. Next to him, Rebekah has her arm around his waist and is murmuring spell words beneath her breath.

“She is only sometimes a statue,” Frost says. “She is more properly a spell in stasis, an enchantment waiting to be invoked. A sentient being and yet not, not exactly. She has no feelings. No emotions of any sort. She is the embodiment of right and wrong and is here for only one reason—to ensure that the ascension rules are followed, or woe betide us all.”

“Sounds like a real party girl,” Zander mutters, and I know it shouldn’t make me laugh, but it does.

“You could have warned us,” Emerson says, frowning.

“I had forgotten about her,” he mutters, irritated. “No doubt by their hand.”

Before we can discuss that further, the countdown ends on a loud, long one.

As it sounds, another toll rings out. Like the entire earth is the clapper in a universal bell. Shaking, vibrating, and making all of us ring along with it.

The summoned witches have gathered on the riverbank, surrounding what is usually a beautiful statue of a lovely woman. She doesn’t look much different now...except she’s moving.

Her eyes glow like the moon has taken up residence there. Hair once frozen in stone waves in the breeze. The folds of the dress she wears move as she breathes—or appears to breathe—there beneath the stars. The arms that are normally high over her head in a kind of reverence to the water are held wide, almost welcoming.

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