Page 6 of Our Covenant

“Your sacrifice will be great, but your virtues will be many,” I finish, and she nods.

Understanding and a renewed energy she’s drawn from across the veil breaks on her face. My thrusts deepen and I fuck us both to the edge. Another hand—Maddox’s—comes into view, slipping down to her entrance and making a “V” shape. The pressure on my shaft from his hold sends me reeling. Beatrice’s back arches at the overwhelming sensation. Her pussy clenches and pulses while her legs trap my hips. “I’m coming. Oh, fuck.”

She sounds surprised and thankful all at once.

“Fuck,” I rough out, allowing my release to fill her.

A moment later, there is a rush of wind. The feeling of my lungs being put in a vice then release hit me. I look up to see Asher’s eyes on me. They’re black as night. His face is stone still, but his lips are parted as an ancient dead language trips off his tongue.

Beatrice shakes beneath me. She knew what she might see, but it’s still a shock. I sit up and withdraw from her to wait as the magic we’ve summoned fills my brothers one by one. Maddox stands rod straight, black voids locked in on planes no human should ever see. Asher still has his hand on Beatrice’s stomach when his eyes draw up to the ceiling, the whites and blue of them being eaten up by darkness. His fingers dig into her flesh, making her too scared to move.

It feels like a lifetime, but it finally hits me. Warmth spreads from my toes up to my calves, thighs, and into my core. A galaxy of stars bursts across my vision and my consciousness dives into the pool of primordial nothingness. The fibers of my existence are pulled tight then woven together by forces of nature to create a path for the power to flow freely.

A voice calls to me and my ears perk. I’ve experienced a great many things during these rituals, but never a disembodied resonance. I strain to hear or understand, separating the syllables from the loud thud of blood being pumped through my arteries.

“Bishop ,” it calls, coming closer. “Morey.”

I hold my breath.

“Elwell.”

A bright light is cresting and the trance is ending.

“Proctor.”

Fox’s family name fades. This has to be a sign that our time as legacies is destined for the greatness that we’re desperate for. What other reason would there be?

I blink furiously, the flicker of the firelight dancing into focus. Fox, Asher, and Maddox all stare up at me, their faces pale and brows pinched.

“What did you say?” Asher’s hazel irises shine through the fading black.

“I—what did I—nothing?” I sit back on my heels to catch my breath and let my brain catch up to the conversation.

“You did.” Maddox speaks up. “A name.”

“The fuck are you guys talking about?” I couldn’t have said anything. Not in that state.

“You know what he fucking said, Mads,” Fox chimes in.

He is helping Beatrice to her feet and wrapping her in a robe. The heat from the magic is now gone and the chill of the earth sets in.

“Tell me,” I demand, looking at each of them in turn. “What did I say?”

“Hale,” Asher says through gritted teeth. “You said their name.”

The question marks their faces. The only one not looking at me with concern and disgust is Beatrice, who is now slumped in Fox’s throne, waiting for him to take her upstairs. It has to be a mistake. It has to be . . . .

Fuck.

4

ASHER

Thorne speaking anything that remotely sounds like modern English isn’t possible during a recharge. But last night, we heard him as plain as the screams that had come from Bea. There’s no reason to ruin the post-harvest surge on a threat long executed. That’s a discussion for after our families have received their harvest shares next week.

Until then, I have class and a coven council meeting to oversee. My professor paces the floor of the gallery classroom, his voice projecting up to the row I sit in alone. The majority of my peers are in the section closest to the door. Fall break next week has given everyone an itch. Each one of them is too self-involved to assume our Pulitzer Prize winning instructor is worth their time. The man is in the running for a Nobel this year, for fuck’s sake.

His burly mustache twitches from side to side as he looks around the room and picks a student to test. “Ms. Beckman, what were Rée’s views on the political ramifications of the revolution of the working class in modern society as he foresaw it?”