Page 122 of A Resistance of Witches

Ursula was on all fours, dazed. She moaned, examining the blood on her fingers. Together, Henry and Miriam reached down and lifted Ursula to her feet. She kicked and fought, but she was no match for Henry’s strength and size, nor Miriam’s deep, maternal fury. She spat spells and shrieked curses, but each one fell flat. Miriam shook Ursula hard, howling in her face, and Henry stepped away, surrendering control.

And then, when the last drop of air in her lungs ran out and the howling ceased, Miriam fell silent and quietly, easily, tossed Ursula onto the rocks below.

•••

Lydia was perspiringin her gown despite the cold draft that cut through the ceremonial chamber. Her hand had been bandaged, and the ceremonial cup replaced with a glass of champagne. The bone-handled knife sat heavy on her hip. All around her, witches spoke in low tones, darting occasional glances at the west-facing windows and the swiftly setting sun.

“Ursula should be back by now,” said Sybil. “What on earth could be keeping her?”

“Ursula is very capable. I’m sure she’s fine.” For a moment, Lydia allowed her imagination to run wild—perhaps Rebecca and Henry had escaped after all, leading Ursula on a wild chase and causing her to lose track of the time. Perhaps she’d been disarmed somehow, or even killed.

Or perhaps she had successfully hunted down her prey, and was even at this very moment exacting her terrible revenge for the death of herfriend. This last thought came with a flood of gruesome visions that felt to Lydia like a waking nightmare.

“Without her we don’t have a full coven for the ritual,” Sybil said, almost to herself. She looked to Lydia, her brow furrowed. “We may need to postpone.”

Lydia nearly shoutedNo!but managed to stop herself. “Whatever you think is best, Grand Mistress. It’s only…” Sybil looked at her expectantly. Lydia sighed. “Everything has been so fraught. This is my chance to earn the coven’s trust.” She took Sybil’s hand in hers. “Please, let me try.”

Lydia could see that Sybil was pleased, more certain than ever of Lydia’s loyalty and devotion. Her cheeks flushed pink as she squeezed Lydia’s uninjured hand.

“All right,” she said.

Lydia squeezed back. “All right.”

•••

Henry felt a rushof blood and heat as Miriam left his body, and he fell to the ground, gasping. Rebecca reached out to him, her hand warm and solid in his. She felt like a rope, he thought dimly, pulling him back to shore. They lay there at the edge of the falls, both catching their breath, the crashing of water below them the only sound. Finally, Rebecca released her hold, crawled toward the edge of the falls, and peered over.

“Is she dead?” Henry asked.

“I can’t tell.”

Henry turned onto his side and looked around for Miriam, but saw only trees. Slowly, he sat up and looked over the edge of the falls, to where Ursula lay sprawled on the rocks below, one leg dangling in the churning water. She was on her back, blond hair obscuring her face, blood seeping through the silver strands where the gray woman hadstruck her with the rock. Sickly green foam bubbled at the base of the waterfall and gathered at the edge of her black trousers. Henry watched her, trying to see the rise and fall of her chest, but his vision was swimming, and the light was fading fast. Rebecca stood.

“What now?” She reached out a hand, and he took it, both of them groaning as she pulled him to his feet. Henry looked up and saw the castle, just visible through a break in the trees, silhouetted against the purple sky. He thought he saw the flicker of firelight somewhere inside. The Witches of the Third Reich would be gathering for their spell by now. No one else would be hunting them tonight.

“Now, we go back for Lydia.”

•••

Lydia stood in the perfectsilence of the ceremonial chamber. Through the window she could see the shimmering pink of the winter sky fading into shades of purple and indigo as the sun slipped behind the snowcapped mountains. In her hands, theGrimorium Bellumfelt like a coiled snake, quiet for now but primed to rain down chaos at the slightest provocation. All around her, the coven stood in silent anticipation, awaiting her instruction.

She had never led a formal ceremony before. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the way Isadora could capture a room. Her straightforward intensity, her grace.

“Sisters.” Her voice felt like a thunderclap in the stillness of the chamber. “Tonight, we gather to bring about the beginning of the end of this war. By the power of theGrimorium Bellum, let us purge the world of the darkness that has plagued it for too long. Let us raise up our voices as one coven to exterminate a great enemy.” Lydia felt her voice rising, filling the chamber. “Let us usher in the golden age of the witch!” Across from her, Sybil beamed. “In the name of the Great Mother, blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” they replied.

The silence fell back into place like a curtain. Lydia stood for a moment, feeling her heart beating inside of her. Taking one last moment for herself.

She knelt on the cold floor and placed theGrimorium Bellumbefore her. The book seemed to thrill under her touch. She wondered if, in its own way, it knew what was about to happen.

She opened the book and placed her fingers on the final page.

The words began to flow immediately. Humming, moaning, sounds like insects swarming, like things being born, like things dying. The words sucked the air from her lungs, and from the vacuum emerged still more words, flowing through her so fast she was sure she would go insane. She could feel the book crawling inside of her, exactly the way it had felt at the château—a hot, evil sludge inside her veins.

Panic struck her heart like a mallet. The last casting had nearly killed her, but this—The Unmaking—was a spell so enormous, so evil, it threatened to tear her apart from the inside out, even as the words spilled from her mouth like poison. She felt the air leaving her, her lungs empty and burning, and still, somehow, she spoke. She was suffocating, choking to death, and still the words poured forth like vomit. She was sure she would fall dead at any moment, and that when she did, the words would continue to flow, long after her body had grown cold. She was a vessel now, nothing more. She was a sacrifice.

But then, cutting through the madness, a second voice called out, echoing Lydia’s own. At first, she thought the voice came from her. Only after a third and then a fourth voice joined the chorus did she begin to understand. The Witches of the Third Reich were joining her in the ritual. The book was ensnaring them, taking hold of their tongues, and as it did, the burden on Lydia seemed to grow lighter, the words rolling from her lips in time with her breath. The magic took hold of Ingrid, and Eva, and then Sybil, until the full coven was caughtin the grip of the same dark magic, and the air was filled with the feral chattering of theGrimorium Bellum.

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