Page 96 of Bedeviled

“Sybil?” I say, immediately tense. “Is everything alright?”

“No.” Her hoarse voice breaks over the word, and a sob escapes her.

I clutch my phone hard. “What’s wrong?”

Over the phone I can hear the chattering of her teeth. “S-S-Sacred S-S-Seven.”

My stomach drops.

“C-can you come over here?” her voice roughens, and she sobs.

Hell’s spells.

No is the only appropriate answer, given the situation. There is a reason that during the Sacred Seven, the seven days closest to the full moon, lycanthropes keep to themselves. This is the week when shifters are closest to their animal form, and during it, their minds move more like wolves than people. Non-shifters risk getting hurt or turned if they cross paths with them during this time.

I close my eyes, clutching my phone tighter.

“Of course,” I say. “Where, exactly, are you?”

“Last Rites Cemetery.”

My eyebrows rise.

Bloody boils. I assumed Sybil was on shifter territory. That’s where she’s supposed to be. That she’s here, on Henbane’s property on the night of a full moon—and her first one as a shifter—means something is very, very wrong. I’m burning to ask her just that, but it’ll have to wait.

Instead I say, “I’ll be there in five.”

I tuck the phone in my pocket and head to the rear of the house, where our back patio sits empty. Usually at this time of night at least one or two witches are out here, but right now it’s entirely abandoned.

I’m trying not to think about what I’m actually doing because it doesn’t matter. This is my best friend, and I will always come to her aid, just as she’s come to mine.

Like the last time I stood on Ravensmeade’s back patio with Sybil, there are a couple of brooms casually leaning against dark, wooden wall. Looking at them causes my pulse to race.

Shrugging off my bag, on a whim, I pull out a small crossbody pouch full of basic spellcasting ingredients I carry with me and slide it over my neck.

My larger messenger bag I then lift close to my lips.

“To my room,” I command.

Soft orange magic envelops it, and it floats up from my hands, rising higher and higher into the air. From where I stand I can see the large oak tree outside my room and the bough that reaches like a limb toward my window. My bag drifts up, weaving between the branches, before then slipping through my open window high up on the third story. I hear a distant crash as it collides with something inside.

Damnit.

Whatever, a problem for another time.

I turn to the broom in front of me, my stomach clenching uncomfortably. Last time I rode one of these things, I fell from it like I was Humpty Dumpty. I can still feel the phantom ache of all those broken bones.

But Sybil’s panicked voice echoes in my mind, and it hardens my resolve.

Grasping the broom handle, I tuck it between my legs, then blow out a breath.

Here goes nothing.

“Fly me to Last Rites Cemetery,” I incant in Sarmatian, not bothering with rhymes. There’s no time for my shitty efforts.

The broom shoots forward.

“Oh fuck.” Only my viselike grip on the thing prevents me from careening off it.