Page 122 of Bedeviled

My familiar’s tail flicks as he stares back at me, but he follows when I begin to cross the main lawn toward the gathered crowd.

The woman who’d been speaking just moments ago now exits the makeshift stage, but the audience doesn’t disperse.

I move to the edge of the crowd, my eyes drifting every so often to the Politia officers who walk to and from the Everwoods, some of them carting spelled boxes and others coated in thick layers of wards.

“They say they were taking bodies out of the field for hours,” I overhear a nearby witch say to her friend.

The other witch leans into her. “I heard it was…” The coven sister’s voice drops low, and I have to strain to hear, “demons.”

Just then, Henbane’s high priestess steps onto the makeshift stage. In a coven like ours, her role is, in many ways, equivalent to that of a university’s chancellor—if a chancellor had enormous amounts of magic at their disposal.

The high priestess wears her power like a cloak; even as far away as I am I can sense it. At her shoulder her white raven perches, its dark eyes blinking at the crowd.

Once she reaches the podium, the audience falls silent.

“Good tidings, students, parents, and the supernatural community at large,” she says, dipping her head. “It is not often that I get to speak so publicly on behalf of our beloved coven, and normally, I consider it a great privilege to do so. Today, however, if I’m honest with you, I wish I was anywhere but right here before you all.

“This school year has been marred by a string of horrific tragedies. Dark magic is forbidden for a reason, and yet many of our students here have been victim to it.

“Worse still, creatures from the deepest, cruelest depths of the Underworld have preyed on us, using our sacred land as their hunting grounds.”

Absolute silence has fallen over the crowd as they hang onto the high priestess’s every word.

“What happened last night is unprecedented. Demons, creatures of misery and violence, came to us on a sacred night, and they murdered our sisters and feasted on their flesh.”

The hairs along my arms rise.

Run, little witch, you smell like a feast. This is no place to be food for a beast.

“This will not go unpunished,” the high priestess vows. “I will make sure that every last demon is hunted down and sent back to the bowels of hell. I vow to you that true justice will be served.” Her eyes fall on mine and hold for several moments.

I can feel the magic beneath my skin stirring, rising in me as though she summoned it.

The high priestess’s eyes move away then, and the connection is broken. “In the meantime, however, certain measures must be taken to ensure the welfare of all our students. A witch’s coven is her family, her lifeline. Henbane should always be a place of the greatest protection. My heart is more broken than words can convey that our school has lost that most coveted safety, and that for too many in the last weeks, it has become a place of the deepest horror.

“And so, with the heaviest of hearts, I announce that Henbane will be closing its doors for the foreseeable future.”

The world seems to tilt as my worst fears are confirmed.

Henbane truly is closing.

The noise of the crowd rises as dozens voice their concerns, their questions, and their fears.

The high priestess lifts a hand, quelling the noise once more. “Witches will have until Friday evening of this week to move out. Extensions will be made available for those who are unable to do so within the given timeframe. Alumni, faculty, and staff who live on Henbane grounds will be allowed to remain at their own discretion…”

The rest of her words are drowned out by the screaming in my own mind. Despite bracing myself for this, I find it hard to accept.

I spent years trying to get into this coven. Then, once I did get in, I literally fought to remain here at the school. It can’t be shutting down. It can’t.

The high priestess’s voice drifts in. “…In times of trouble we come together—that is our way. And though we will close our halls in an official capacity, I urge every attending witch to keep meeting with your sisters⁠—”

A tug on my arm has me turning around dazedly. At my back is Olga, her bloody ledger under her arm.

“They’re looking for you,” Olga states.

“What?” I say numbly, my eyes drifting down to where she still grips me. Her fingers are ink stained.

Because of all the new entries in her ledger…