Page 3 of I Don’t Do Witches

The figure at the altar raises his arms, the eclipse mask catching the candlelight.

He spreads his arms wide, and the chanting dies to reverent silence. His voice moves through the cathedral without amplification, each word resonating in my chest cavity.

"Welcome, faithful servants of our lunar covenant."

In a unified response, the assembled practitioners unleash harmonics that vibrate through the stone floor.

"We hear and obey, Moon Prophet."

The title, Moon Prophet, sends a chill down my spine. A cold static prickles across my skin. Rather than emerging from within, prophets cultivate covens, using their vision and presence to inspire and unite those around them. They are the worst kind of magical leader.

"Tonight marks the convergence of our sacred work." He gestures toward the chalices, their contents seeming to quiver with internal light. "Recently, the blood of three has been sanctified, their power distilled for our greater purpose."

Marisol and two others were reduced to mere ingredients. A sharp breath escapes behind my glamoured mask.

"Some among you have served faithfully for years, harvesting the essence we require." His gaze sweeps across the front pews where figures sit straighter and preen under his attention.

"Others join us this evening, enticed by the promise of true power." A murmur ripples through the gathering. New recruits scattered among the veterans provide perfect cover for my presence.

"The old covens cling to their petty territories, their small magics. They hoard power like misers count coins, never understanding that true strength comes through unity of purpose."

He lifts the central chalice, dark liquid swirling within slate-etched crystal.

"But we know better. Tonight, we expand our reach." An abrasive tone slices through the cathedral air, every syllable thick with a mocking, theatrical reverence.

"Behold, another bountiful harvest before our ascension."

Three figures kneel before the altar, bound in metal chains that shimmer under suppressive magic. Their heads hang forward, bodies trembling with exhaustion. Even from the back pew, I recognize the signs of magical depletion through their gray pallor and labored breathing. Their auras suffer frantic, unsteady surges that threaten to blink out entirely.

"The first vessel offers her sight."

The eclipse-masked leader raises a curved blade, its surface etched with the same selenic symbols from the tunnel. The bound woman lifts her head and uncovers eyes clouded with terror and resistance. She is a scryer, similar to the clairvoyant who helped me track a missing teenager last spring.

"No, no, no." The words slip out as a whisper.

The blade descends. A ragged scream echoes off stone walls as the scryer's power tears free, streaming upward in ribbons of light. Before her body can even crumple forward, the nearest chalice fills with liquid starlight.

My glamour wavers with shock, the borrowed appearance flickering around the edges. Several masked figures turn toward my pew, but the leader’s icy pronouncement commands attention.

"The second vessel offers his strength."

He is a ward specialist wearing the traditional garbs of the South Side covens. The knife finds his throat effortlessly. Power erupts from the wound, driving a torrent of molten energy into the second chalice until it pours over the rim.

The third victim raises her head as the blade approaches. A chaotic, shimmering aura of panic bleeds from her skin that marks her as an empath—barely nineteen and clearly still learning to mask her energy even in shackles.

The eclipse mask turns toward the congregation and surveys his audience, thoroughly satisfied.

"And now, the final offering completes tonight's trinity."

Her death scream shatters my composure. My glamour vanishes, ditching me standing in my leather jacket and dark waves of hair, a stark intrusion of shadow in a room full of ceremonial white. Every masked face swivels toward me perfunctorily.

The practitioner beside me lunges, fingers clawing at my sleeve. I drive my elbow into his sternum and shove past the woman on my other side before she can get a grip, knocking her into the armrest as I scramble over the pew back.

The leader's pronouncement drops to a whisper that somehow reaches every corner of the cathedral. "Interesting. We have an uninvited guest."

Immediately, I bolt from the pew, but robed figures already block the main entrance. The leader gestures with one pale hand, and stone grinds against stone as hidden mechanisms engage. Every exit seals with the finality of a tomb.

The Prophet’s command possesses absolute authority; robed figures burst from their pews, a white wall of bodies flooding the aisles. "Seize her."