Page 2 of Court of Heathens

Like now, facing down Hagatha—Agatha, oh my goddess!

I duck my head in shame but also to hide my moving lips. “Go away right now or I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Liar.” He chuckles in my ear. “You’d be lonely without me. Admit it, little witch, you like my company and my naughty whispers, daring you to do things you want without repercussions on your soul.”

“Well?” Agatha demands for the third time, her impatience evident in her voice.

I lift my head, my veil of black hair falling over my shoulders with the movement. Usually, it’s tied back since it’s so long and thick, but my hairbands keep magically disappearing. It’s the demon, I think, since he seems to love playing with my hair. More than once, I’ve woken up to my locks in braids so intricate, I cannot unravel them.Once, he even made them into horns on my head, and I had to hide for days as I worked to undo them.

“What do you have to say for yourself, child?” Agatha booms, tired of waiting for me to repent.

She leads our coven as the matriarch. She is the strongest witch within our ranks and also the oldest. You do not cross her unless you want to be turned into a toad or worse.

Rest in peace, Toad Angelina.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur through the magic weaving around the room. We are inside her shop, one that sells some of the most powerful spells in the entire world, and I can taste the raw magic and talent. It calls to me, overpowering my senses like a fragrance.

As always, my eyes catch on the mask locked in the glass in the back. I swear I have heard it sing to me once or twice, so I quickly look away. Objects hold power and memories, and some can be filled with evil that can possess you. I have my theories on the mask, but Agatha will never tell.

“Sorry? Child, you blew up the water plant!” She sighs, rubbing her tired face. “I cannot keep protecting you, Freya. You have to stop making mistakes. Just because you lost your family, it does not give you the right to act out. You know better than this. You could be such a good witch if you tried, but it’s like you are determined to sink into the darkness you wear like a cloak.” Her eyes see too much. They always have.

When I was born, Agatha told anyone who would listen that I had a forked path before me.

Good and evil.

It was up to me to choose.

Most didn’t know what she meant, but I did, since evil is my companion in the form of a demon. One day, I will either give into him and go completely mad, being as bad as any witch can, or I will free myself from him.

My hands move behind my back, weaving a spell as I twist my fingers, and then I fling it at the demon only I can see. I hear his grunt as he’s tossed through the door and the wall. The glowing gold net willpin him beyond our borders, but not for long. It used to last months, weeks, then days, but now it only takes hours for him to free himself from my magic.

Hours of peace without him is not worth the cost of my magic, but sometimes, like now, I’m desperate.

“I am sorry, Guardian Mother,” I tell her respectfully, lowering my head once more.

Her sigh fills the air, and spells breathe to life with it. Where I am darkness, Agatha is light. She is happiness and love and nature. I wish I had that ability. Instead, I am drawn to the dark and mystical things that hide within. Most witches land somewhere on the scale, but me? I’m off the other end, and I hate it.

I also hate that I gave into the demon’s taunts that I couldn’t summon a troll and accidentally blew up the water plant when I sent it back. He laughed his ass off, holding popcorn the entire time.

Evil bastard.

“You are always sorry. I thought you would have outgrown this by now. You are not a teenager anymore, Freya. You must do better. This coven relies on every member.”

“If one cog is broken, then the whole system is broken,” I repeat. It’s something I have heard since before I could speak. “I know, and I truly am sorry. I will do better.”

“I hope you will. The coven is getting restless. They grow tired of your mistakes.” My head rises at that, my eyes widening in fear.

Being exiled and cast aside by your coven is a death sentence.

No witch can live alone; it drives you mad.

“Guardian Mother,” I whisper.

She waves me on. “Think on it. Now go, I have some guests arriving soon who ought not see you.”

I frown at that but nod, grateful she hasn’t exiled me or worse, and then I hurry from the shop. The looks I receive once I’m out on the cobbled street have my cheeks heating, so I pull my hood up to hide my face. It won’t do much, since I am recognisable even here. My raven-coloured hair is as black as night, while most others’ locks are bright, and my lips are as red as blood.

It seems I was born to be bad, but I fight it every single day.

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