Page 28 of Our Covenant

Pressing my ear to the thick door, I strain to hear what’s going on inside. She’s not screaming in panic and there are no sounds that indicate she’s putting up a fight. I hold my breath and try to hear what she’s saying. Every other word is drowned out by the old fire siren.

“What . . . you . . . doing . . . ? I told . . . this.” Her voice filters through the cracks.

Whoever is inside with her has too deep of a voice to make it through the thick wood. I’m only able to hear murmurs until she speaks again. “I . . . important. Don’t tell . . . trust . . .”

Another long, infuriating moment passes and there is silence.

My fist pounds on the door again and this time it flies open. Elsbeth’s death stare is aimed up at me with no surprise to be found on her red face. The siren over our heads finally stops and silence falls between us.

“What?” Her voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.

I look over her, but no one is there. Stepping into her and pushing the door flush to the wall, I can’t see who pulled her in or how they would have escaped. There are no other exit doors or windows, but I know I saw someone, heard her talking to someone. Didn’t I?

“I saw . . .” I look at her, trying to work out the puzzle of it in my head. “Are you okay? There was a⁠—”

Tears cling to her lashes, her face is red, but the concentration of it around her eyes finally registers. She’s crying . . . or was?

I look her over, but she’s wearing too many layers. The athletic jacket and leggings don’t give away if the person who grabbed her did more than just put their hands on her. The fire in my blood stokes to life when she wraps her arms around herself, tenderly touching her bicep as if it pains her. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m taking a step closer and reaching out for her. She jerks her arm away from my approaching fingers either out of instinct or muscle memory, and both scenarios make heat rise up the back of my neck.

Someone’s been hurting her and not just today.

“My bladder doesn’t know the difference between an emergency and test anxiety. I’m fine.” She pushes past me and I immediately hear the exit door buzz as she leaves.

My brain spins, taking my body with it. I turn around in a circle, trying to make any sense out of what the hell just happened. The two stalls are empty, their doors wide open. Whoever was here is long gone and now so is Elsbeth. I have to talk to Maddox. As much as I hate to admit it, Elsbeth is not who we think she is.

14

ALRIC

My concealment spell holds firm as my nephew spins around the small washroom aimlessly. His muscled physique and gym attire disprove any claim that he’s more than a dumb jock, like his father or grandfather. It’s unfathomable that he is in association with our brilliant lineage. He can’t sense my presence, and I can’t decide if it speaks to his arrogance or dim wit.

He’s more worried about the pretty little bomb I’ve placed in their path. Pathetically predictable. When I saw him chasing after her, I knew I had to twist the fates. By the bewildered anger on his face, my plan worked. And reminding Elsbeth who she’s bound to never hurts . . . me.

I watch as he hurls the door open and rushes out the exit around the corner. Now that all the legacies are aware of how close my little spy is to them, they’ll have to act. And when they do, she will have to be ready. Years of training and conditioning are finally coming to a head.

The time of the reigning legacies is coming to a close and I am ready.

15

MADDOX

I’ve been sick to my stomach all day. The clash of magic and anxiety kept me home from classes and locked in the study. Piles of books, archives, and family trees are splayed over the floor, couch, and desk. They don’t believe me, but they have to. There’s something about Elsbeth that feels too familiar. Something about the magic she used tastes—smells—akin to ours.

The other covens around the world emit their own individual signatures. The ancestors we all connect to tap into different aspects of the universe and what it provides. Which is why the legacies each manifest such strong abilities. All descendants hold powers just as strong if not stronger than our own. Instead of bringing us together, it divides us. If she were from a rival coven, come to us as a spy, we would know immediately. Even drained of all magic, the stain of it would remain.

My fingers flip through page after page. With each fruitless turn, the tighter the vice around my gut becomes. Thorne took Fox to the gym this morning but neither have been back. Asher had classes this afternoon but should be home any minute. I need to have something to show them. Something to prove that my worry isn’t futile.

She’s here somewhere, in these old tomes scribbled by the men who came before us. It doesn’t help that I have nothing to go on. I’ve traced all active families within our community to their living dependents. Social media has helped narrow down the youngest of them. Especially those who left the coven several generations back. It’s a small handful, but jealousy and temptation of a normal human existence have taken a few lines out of our reach. The outer fringes of our small society only have room for so much growth, and if bloodlines become tainted with outsiders for too long, they fade out. Tracking those lines is more difficult and has taken me hours.

Fox’s mother was not of this coven and was rejected by the one she’d been born into. She never manifested any magical ability, but her ancestral connection was strong enough for Fox to become as powerful as he is. And no one has dared to make that deep dive since her tragic death. Fox’s conception was only celebrated because she’d been made a sacrifice and yielded a harvest.

His parents were blessed and married, but when it came time for Fox to be born, they were doomed to bring their son onto this plane in pain.

Could Elsbeth be from Anita Proctor’s former coven?

I shove the idea aside. The ghosts of that long-dead history aren’t coming to haunt us now. It’s not my place to dig up Fox’s mother’s family tree, and even I can feel that I’d be grasping at straws to connect Elsbeth and the late Mrs. Proctor.

Slamming the book of family census from 1899-1999, I massage my temples, digging my index and middle fingers into the pounding pressure points until my vision blurs with stars. I have a headache from hours of deciphering lines of chicken scratch writing on rebound copies. The prospect of madness over any more of this sounds increasingly appealing by the moment. Maybe this is my punishment from the old gods for assuming Elsbeth is some sort of Trojan horse.