Page 104 of Which Witch is Willing?
Moira opened the final trunk and took out the robe, a shimmering confection of every conceivable color of sky, from stormy gray to blue threaded through with shots of silver and white. Aerin shucked it on with her help and gasped as something scraped at her arm in the billowing sleeves.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Just so, so,sorelieved she hadn’t been left out. Disconnecting it from the sleeve she looked down into something like ancient cardstock upon which was scrawled semi-neat lettering. She read, “I was once one with the darkness. A demon born for destruction. I was sent to end Malcolm de Moray, and I fell in love with him instead. I saved his life and he saved my soul, and together we bought the world a thousand years. You can change what is written in the sky. So that he can touch the world. Signed, Vian.”
Beneath it a hasty line was scrawled that Aerin read silently.Forgive me, I have no care for rhymes.
Aerin didn’t realize she was crying until she laughed.
Vian. A demon and a kindred spirit. She’d have to ponder that later.
She turned to her sisters and realized they were standing in a circle, each a point of the direction they’d been assigned by their elements.
“We leave the familiars this time,” Claire said sagely. “Someone has to look out for things in case…”
She didn’t have to finish her sentence.
Aerin glanced around at them, marveling at how resplendent they were in their robes. How their crowns had transformed them into something regal. Symbolic.
And powerful.
It was Tierra who turned to the portal first, taking a deep breath before she stepped through. Moira followed, then Claire and Aerin gripped her wand tightly as she brought up the rear.
It was time to save the world.
Or end it.
49
Until this moment, Aerin hadn’t known it was possible to be seized by both marvel and terror simultaneously. The sight before her both moved her deeply and caused her heart to plunge into her belly as if to hide from the enormity of what was about to happen.
The cliff known as Siren’s Cry loomed skyscraper tall above Discovery Bay, a handful of miles outside of Port Townsend proper. The de Morays had stepped through the portal to several standing stones adorning the pinnacle like a jagged crown, the stones replaced with a flick of Tierra’s wand.
Below them, a churning sea barraged the cliffs. And before them, acres of verdant meadow unspooled down the gentle slope that would have been called a Moor in a more ancient land. It was besieged by dense forests of both evergreen and deciduous trees.
This meadow made for a perfect battlefield.
The armies had assembled and were, even now, facing each other like players on a chessboard.
Lucifer levitated in a cloud of writhing black mist in front of an army thousands strong of wrathful wraiths and the undead. They stretched back into the trees and disappeared beneath the shadows. Bodies under complete control, whose souls she lusted after.
Souls they would fight to save today.
Aerin had never truly understood what the wordhordemeant before now, but the numbers of hissing, screaming, cackling cadavers were incalculable.
And fucking creepy.
Melody stood at the Devil’s side, the apparent general of the dark-clad witches who arced out behind her. Each chanted and taunted in equal measure. Calling their powers to lend to the darkness. It was odd to see several of the witch hunters join their ranks, but times like these often created unlikely bedfellows.
Against the onslaught, creating a protective arc around the stones, the coven of witches stood like infantry behind four magnificent figures mounted on their famously colored horses.
Conquest astride his white horse, draped in a suit of armor that might have done any Roman legionnaire proud, managed to look both civilized and brutal as he held his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked between two strong fingers.
War had painted his red steed with various symbols and adorned it with the same dark armor plating he wore. He gleamed like the edge of his frightening blade, as the horse danced beneath him in anticipation of the coming violence.
Pestilence eschewed ornamentations, donning only a long black hooded robe that draped majestically over Archimedes. He sat tall and proud, cultured but merciless, brandishing his scales like a banner. In his offhand he held an onyx-tipped spear Aerin hadn’t been aware he knew how to wield.
Death had stowed his wings in favor of his pale horse, but he wore only simple black leather across his wide chest. His wicked scythe glinted in the dying sun, and Aerin could see the blood moon reflected in the devilish blade.
It wasn’t the sight of the horsemen, awe-inspiring as they were, that pricked Aerin’s eyes with tears.
