Page 54 of Which Witch is Willing?
Moira brought her hands to her navel. No longer cold and clammy, but vibrating with heat as she repeated her portion of the spell.
By the power of earth, air, fire, and sea, let the Ceann Dorcha be born of me.
25
Dread roiled in Nick’s gut as he listened to the murmured voices from the room next door, where, presumably, Moira’s sisters prepared her to sacrifice herself to their shared fate.
And he had no doubt that’s what this was. Moira had made it exceedingly clear that she had about as much interest in soul-bonding herself to him as she did setting herself on fire and throwing herself in front of a sixteen wheeler.
Which, he supposed, was a pretty good metaphor for what she had decided to do.
Nick thought of the look of strange, steely determination he’d seen in her oceanic eyes when she’d come down from the roof. He’d been overcome by an impulse to go to her, to tell her that she didn’t have to do this. That they didn’t have to do this.
They could let the world burn. He would hold her in the flames.
But they hadn’t even had a chance to make eye contact before her sisters whisked her away.
He, Killian, and Dru had taken up residence in the room next door, waiting to be called into battle. Julian had made himself scarce, insisting that there was something else he needed to research.
They’d sat in stifling silence for what seemed like for-fucking-ever before the door opened and Pestilence entered, a glass of mud colored sludge in one gloved hand and a book in the other.
“Shall we proceed?” he asked, setting both down on the antique table nearest the door.
“Proceed with what?” Dru asked, combat boots propped up on the steamer trunk in front of the chair he slouched in. “Nick’s the one who’s got spawn to shoot.”
Julian reached into the pocket of his blazer and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment, which he set next to the glass. He flicked a glance to Killian, who seemed to be summoning shadows to his dark, hulking form.
“We have a ritual to do too,” Bane rumbled. “To improve your chances of…success.”
“Come the fuck again?” Nick asked, incredulous.
“Precisely,” Julian said. “The ritual and concoction are meant to ensure your virility.”
“My virility is just fucking fine, I assure you.”
“It isn’t me that needs assuring.” Julian passed a hand over his neat, dark queue, his icy blue eyes skating once again to Bane.
“Give me a break,” Nick said, hands contracting into fists at his sides. “You knock up the earth witch first time you bust a nut and all of the sudden you think you’re fucking Johnny Apple Cock?”
“All I’m saying is, you banged the water witch like a screen door how many times with nothing to show for it?” Bane challenged. “Tierra said that we can’t afford to take any chances.”
So, the glass full of ass had been the earth witch’s idea.
Crossing her meant crossing Death, and, perhaps for the first time in his unnaturally long life, Nick couldn’t seem to muster the desire to argue.
How fucking weird was that?
“What is it exactly that we’re supposed to do?” Nick asked, his face growing longer and his stomach heavier by the second.
Julian cleared his throat and picked up the parchment. “We are each to recite a phrase which will allow us to imbue the concoction with our respective abilities so that they may serve you in your endeavor.”
“She made him a baby batter shake?” Dru whooped out a laugh.
“Not exactly.” Julian paused, a fine crease appearing between his dark brows.
In the millennia of their acquaintance, Nick had gotten pretty good at interpreting the fine and subtle shifts in Julian’s facial expressions. What he read there now was enough to send a white-hot bolt of panic shooting through him. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
Julian plucked nervously at the ornately embroidered cuff of his dress shirt. “A shake would imply that this is intended to be ingested orally, which, alas, is not the case.”
