Chapter Five

“ARE YOU PAYING attention?”

Storm snapped his gaze from where Ithen was building the fire, to focus on Gregory. As the eldest of Gladys’s grandchildren, Gregory took a central role in tonight’s ceremony. He was closer to Storm’s age at twenty-four, but this was important enough to forego the snark. “Sorry. I banged my head earlier,” he said, rubbing the sore spot.

Gregory walked behind him and parted his hair. He tutted and poked around, ignoring the hiss of breath and Storm’s instinctive bob to avoid contact. “If I can still see the bump, it must have been a hell of a hit. You seem okay, other than being distracted,” he said, walking around to face Storm with appraising eyes. “Do magic for me to make sure you’re ready for this. I can’t send you to the abyss if you can’t find your way back.”

The compassion was unexpected. Gregory was the golden grandchild, the one the Glades thought could do no wrong. Married and settled into a secure job, living locally and learning to become the head of the coven whenever Gladys passed on, he was the quintessential white witch.

The overload of perfection made Storm’s teeth itch.

“Hey!” Fingers snapped in front of his face, focusing his attention back on Gregory. “Do a simple spell. Lift the leaves off the ground and place them in my open hands. Say…six. Three to each hand.”

Storm didn’t bother arguing; this was something he could do in his sleep. Looking at the ground, he picked the best leaves for the task, mentally sent his magic into their cells and offered a jolt of magic to communicate his intentions.

Too many witches used the earth without thought, tearing leaves and adding them to potions or carelessly practising dangerous crafts in the woods. They didn’t understand the pain and panic they caused, but Storm knew. The wind, the trees and the earth communicated with one another, whispering their fears, wondering if he would hurt them.

I’ll lift you and place you on his hands. I promise I won’t do anything else. He sent the words through the magical connection and waited patiently. The fear lessened and the cells responded, opening and welcoming his magic, accepting their role in this non-threatening task.

The leaves drifted lazily through the air to land on Gregory’s palms. He nodded his approval, then turned his hands to let the leaves fall to the ground. Storm withdrew his magic, removing the brief consciousness he’d given the leaves before Gregory carelessly stepped on them.

“You seem ready.” Offering a rare smile, Gregory glanced at the fire Ithen had built and the gathering coven. “Check in with Gladys and make sure there’s nothing else you need to do to prepare,” he suggested, walking away before Storm had the chance to respond.

Storm stepped away but hesitated to approach Gladys. He’d been avoiding her all day and didn’t want to tell her about what happened until he had answers, which meant talking to Rowan.

He stopped by the fire, watching Ithen’s muscles ripple invitingly under his white tank top as he added more wood. At twenty-eight, Ithen was his senior by ten years, the most academic of the Deontay coven. No one was better prepared for this ceremony than Ithen, who had offered to be Storm’s mentor and guide, to help him navigate his new powers.

Ithen had studied everything he could find about the Tera coven, necromancy, and dark magic over the last ten years. He’d devoted his adult years to fulfilling the prophecy he claimed would save magic from destruction. Ithen should have trained to become a shaman, like his father, but his coven had died out long before his parents—the last surviving members—died in a tragic accident. Now he was a white witch, with a talent for commanding fire and water.

The only thing that worried Storm was the lack of first-hand, practical experience. He was the last Tera in this part of the world and Gladys insisted that his mum’s family—those with the greatest power and knowledge to help him—wanted nothing to do with him.

That was their choice, but Storm was left with little guidance for his ceremony. He didn’t have his parents to tell him what was expected, and the other covens would never dare practice dark magic just to prepare him to fulfil a prophecy only half of them believed in. Not when they didn’t understand what would spark this final war Storm was supposed to fight and win.

The covens chose not to believe in the prophecy, because they could safely put their heads in the sand and pretend the war would never happen, but Storm believed in every word. He could feel his fate in his bones, hear it in the wind, feel the omens when the rain fell, in the current between the trees around his home, in the darkness that crept under his door and seeped into his dreams.

The danger was real and was coming whether anyone believed or not.

*

STANDING ON A platform in the centre of the circle of fire, in the middle of three standing stones, Storm looked over those gathered for his ascension.

Regardless of what he’d seen today, Denver and Foley still cared enough about him to support this massive step into adulthood. To the side, Gladys talked quietly with Gregory, who was minutes away from performing the spell to send Storm on his journey. Ithen stood tall and proud, directly in front of Storm, on the other side of the fire. He’d dressed for the occasion, the only one here tonight who looked like a witch.

While the males of the Glade coven had ordinary clothes, short well-groomed hair and looked like every other man on the street, Ithen stood tall, with a black waistcoat over his sleeveless white shirt and black trousers leading to black shoes. His six-foot height was accentuated by the outfit, his muscled arms bare, his thick, wavy black hair tamed into a ponytail. Everything about Ithen’s choices were more subdued than would be expected of Storm’s ancestors in New Orleans or his mother’s side of the family, the brujería, Mexican witches who embraced the dark arts along with the light. According to Gladys, the combination of practices made Storm stronger than anyone she’d ever met, the two practices embracing and accepting the unity of dark and light, death and life, this life and the next.

Gladys walked to Ithen’s side and dusted imaginary lint from his shoulder. “We may begin.”

Shoring his courage, Storm was about to speak when a faint breeze tussled his hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as he listened.

Believe, said the wind.

Beware the demons, the trees whispered.

Mint drifted past his nose, something he couldn’t place as part of the ceremony, but reminding him of Rowan. He would often walk the Tera property and stop to watch from a distance as Rowan sat on the other side of the fence and spoke to the flowers, weaving magic with dextrous fingers. The scent stirred Storm’s magic and sang softly beneath his skin, reacting to the support of the elements.

Storm created sparks of fire in his palm as he opened his eyes and watched the flames dance, swirling and weaving amongst one another. In gratitude, he offered the magic to the elements, a promise they would understand better than the confused coven.

Ready for this immense step toward his fate, Storm kept his eyes open and mind alert as he spoke the words of the ritual, first in Latin and then his mother tongue, so all aspects of who he was took part. “The Fates have named me the Chosen One, the Dark One, necromancer and mage. The gods have named me seer, light wielder and storm chaser. The demons call me master, life-giver, guardian of the lost and hopeless…for I am Storm Tera, last surviving Tera mage, commander of the dead,” he called out into the night sky, gazing at the blood moon that marked his birthday, his birth rite: November second, the day of the dead.

*

DEJA VU ENCAPSULATED Storm as he stood within the standing stones and a storm rolled overhead. Ithen’s face morphed from watchful and prepared to concerned, and Gladys grabbed his arm, visibly afraid and unsure. The ceremony was supposed to start with Storm stating his intentions, revealing his true nature and waiting for the dark gods to welcome him to the abyss. A light breeze would sweep out the fire; he would disappear into the smoke to pass through the abyss, where the full strength of his power would be released from the depths within; then he’d step from the circle unscathed.

This onslaught was unexpected, and if the prickle of his power was any judge, unnatural. Dark magic had summoned the storm, but not his.

Closing his eyes, Storm focused his mind. This ceremony hadn’t been performed since his dad turned eighteen twenty years ago, and he hadn’t been friends with Gladys back then. Cesa Copry was the only coven leader Storm knew of who had been there the night of his dad’s ascension.

Magic swirled beneath Storm’s skin, visible lines of smoky black coursing through his veins in response to the storm. The temperature dropped so low his breath misted, the wind cut through him, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Instinct made him gaze beyond the boundaries of the land backing into Copry fields. He was startled to find Rowan standing at the barrier.

Knowing Rowan was there was important.

The wind whispered warnings he couldn’t hear above the sound of the thunder cracking the sky open to unleash a torrent of lightning. The sense of familiarity was strong, and he wondered if this had happened before. Lightning cracked to the ground two feet from the standing stone to Storm’s right, forcing the coven members who had gathered to move away to avoid being hit. Another whiplash of light struck the centre cairn, leaving the ancient stone with a brutal black marred line twisting down the natural grooves of the stone.

Gladys cried out Latin words that sounded vaguely protective, while Ithen rushed around the circle, ushering people toward the most open area of the field. Once they were safe, he walked a circle around them, building a magical protection. Gladys stayed by the cairns, screaming into the wind to be heard by the Fates.

Storm felt helpless, trapped by the circle of fire and the necessities of the ceremony. While the others were safe from the repercussions of the storm, Rowan was standing by an electric fence, surrounded by trees. Extending an arm toward the fence, which Rowan had backed away from in panic, Storm sent tendrils of black magic swirling to his fingers. With his other hand, he encased Gladys in a protective bubble. Ithen could keep the others safe, but these two fools were more worried about him than themselves and would get killed.

As a bolt of lightning struck the electrical fence, sending a visible reaction of electric blue light sparking off every inch of the wire into the ground, Storm’s vision turned hazy, darkened by gathering shadows. Fighting the loss of clear vision, worried he was passing out from the stress, a head wound and the overuse of magic during a ceremony that had clearly gone wrong, Storm could only pray that his protective spells kept Gladys and Rowan safe or he might wake up to find his world had changed irreparably.

*

“THAT WAS NEW.”

Storm flinched and spun to find that he was in the stark darkness of the abyss, arms outstretched from his use of magic. Heaving a sigh of relief, he dropped his hands and turned in circles to find the source of the voice. He’d passed whatever test the storm had been, but there wasn’t supposed to be anyone or anything with him in the abyss. Was this another test or something he didn’t know to expect from his ceremony?

“What was new?” He never normally encouraged demons to keep talking, but he was curious about the words and their meaning. Only those of the darkness could pass through the abyss without being tempted or coerced by the voices or creatures hiding within. The one consolation of being a necromancer was that life and death were much the same and none of the dark creatures would hurt him.

A long talon slid over his bare forearm, the sleeve of his cable jumper pushed to his elbow for the ceremony. Storm shivered at the contact, familiar from years ago but unexpected in the darkness. Now he knew what he was dealing with: definitely a demon, the long nails marking them a lower demon. Higher demons possessed wings and shorter nails more suited to intricate tasks.

The demon responded lazily, “I said, this is new. So much has changed: the storm, your decision to protect Rowan, even his presence. He certainly didn’t attend your ceremony the first time. I imagine your encounter this afternoon intrigued him.” The voice was close enough now that Storm could make out their indistinct shape in the darkness.

Androgynous features denoted a lower demon drawn to the dark shadows: a whisperer, an influencer, who enjoyed toying with humans but had power and talent for death, both giving and taking. They were the perfect match for a necromancer, which left Storm wondering if the demon had sought him out or if his magic had searched for a suitable match amongst the demons he had encountered throughout his life.

“What a risk. Your magic positively sizzled for him,” the demon hissed with the word, a smile lighting their face with glee and intrigue. This demon thought his magic had responded to Rowan’s presence, but Storm wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or to worry. Either way, he would evaluate that problem later, when he wasn’t buzzing with magic and confused from his head injury.

“What did you mean by ‘the first time’?” Storm asked, grateful for the laws of the abyss that dictated the rules for encounters like this. A demon could be trusted to always tell the truth, though they tended to speak in riddles and temptations. Rowan? He wasn’t sure what side Rowan had chosen yet, or if Rowan even knew he’d chosen a side.

“When you first completed your ceremony,” the demon replied, continuing the slow, curious walk around Storm, a talon occasionally testing boundaries and trailing over skin. “The storm never raged the first time, and Rowan wasn’t there. I believe the two are connected…though I don’t know why.”

The demon passed Storm’s right side to flash a smile and catch his eye. The red mist swirling in their eyes told Storm this demon wanted him not for any depraved reason but for magic. His powers were a mystery to them. If he ever bonded with a demon, they would be the only demon in the whole of the abyss to know the true extent of Storm’s power. That wouldn’t happen for a few years, because Storm had to be in full control of his power first, but demons lived for knowledge, and bonding a necromancer was their version of winning the lottery.

“As you know, we demons detest a mystery,” the demon continued. “You have become one, for this is the third time you have passed through my domain but never found what you seek.”

“I haven’t been here before.”

The demon sighed, deflating like a disappointed puppy. “But you have.” Leaning close, they sniffed at the collar of his jumper, darted their tongue out to trail the tip over his cheek and hummed at whatever they discovered. “This time you have purpose: to gain your powers, to become a man worthy of your prophecy. You intrigue me, youngling. You are missing a piece of the puzzle that is in your mind, yet you walk willingly into the abyss, knowing the risk to you if you are not whole.”

The meaning behind the words made Storm’s skin prickle with awareness. He was in danger here; not from the demon but from his own ignorance and whatever his recent head wound had done to his memories. “I’m not…whole?”

The demon scraped a red-tipped talon—nail varnish, he thought—across the tip of their tongue. With another hum, part frustration and part curiosity, they replied, “You are seeking something buried in your mind. I can fetch it for you…for a price.”

Storm bit his tongue to keep from promising anything for answers. This was what demons did, and their twisty way with words often led young mages and witches into trouble they couldn’t get out of. Demons offered what the mage wanted most, which would explain why the demon had licked him to read his sweat and decipher Storm’s intentions and hopes. “Why would I make a deal with you?”

“Because what you seek was left in another life, not past or present but the future. You left your purpose in the future.”