10. The Coven

Ingrid and Chamomile stepped into the shadows with their hands clasped. The bluffs raced away at their backs, the river far beneath them as they skated over air and shadow. Micah's brownstone sped closer, and typically they aimed for his bedroom at the top. But the limestone structure seemed more solid today. It wasn't yielding to the liminal space, within which the edges of everything were soft and washed of color. A lively green sheen clung to its four stories like Micah had painted it with glitter, which wouldn't honestly be that out of character for him. Ingrid redirected them from the top story and dropped them onto the decorated balcony instead. Chamomile stumbled into her, surprised.

"Sorry," said Ingrid distractedly. She clutched a handful of shadows and tried to step herself through the balcony door, but she bumped inelegantly into the green barrier. Rubbing her nose, she mused, "Interesting."

"What is that?" Flummoxed, Chamomile flapped at the green sheen and then tried the same thing as Ingrid, staggering back with a yelp. She gaped up at Micah's fourth floor window. "Is he okay?"

Ingrid nodded, rubbing her chin. "He did this. He anointed his lintels with aloe."

Chamomile crossed her arms. Then she rapped her knuckles on the glass. "This is the second incredibly creative solution he's come up with just this week. The moss and ivy wall? Everyone in the commune loves it." She rapped again on the glass, hard enough that Cinnamon, peacefully slumbering on the couch, puffed up and then shot out of the room.

Ingrid began, "Let's go to the fro—"

"Nope!" Chamomile hooked their elbows together before Ingrid could vault over the balcony. "There's, like, three feet of snow down there. I am not in the right shoes."

Ingrid sighed noisily.

Not letting her go, Chamomile looked up at her and asked cautiously, "And anyway, doesn't this mean…?"

Ingrid looked away. She gently pulled her arm free. Chamomile's small shoulders slumped as she stared at the light-draped rafters overhead with an expression Ingrid found inscrutable—as usual.

The faoladh girl tore into the living room in the cat's stead followed by Micah moving slowly. Fionna flipped a switch on the glass door and flung it open with a happy yip. Her hair was neatly braided, the pink hearts on her sweatshirt were unblemished, and her glitter leggings were intact. When Ingrid picked up the girl and gave her a firm hug, notes of almond, tea, and tamarind wafted through her nose instead of wet dog or spruce forests. Fionna was domesticated, in no time at all, happy and warm and part of the family.

"You guys usually appear in my room," Micah remarked. He was freshly groomed as well, with a swipe of gold beneath his lower lashes that matched his gauges and his mulberry leaf necklace. The leather belt he was using to support his left arm almost went with his outfit, an olive green shacket over a low-cut white henley that displayed his sharp collarbone and the tips of the antlers on his bobcat skull tattoo.

"We weren't allowed." Chamomile climbed on the arm of the couch to inspect the smudge of aloe vera over the patio door. "I believe your ward works as a barrier against unexpected visitors, malicious or not."

"Yeah, Andrew doesn't like anyone dropping in." Micah laughed. "Glad it's working, but sorry for the inconvenience. We're not quite ready if you want to come up to my room." He surveyed the two Fae women and how they'd delivered on his request for them to dress in ‘business casual'. Unsurprisingly, Ingrid didn't know what that meant and looked as elegant as usual in a short burgundy dress under a taupe duster jacket with sheer tights and heeled boots, her hair greased flat on top and veiling her ears with slender gold pins. Not even a date to fight witches could have kept her from her dark glossy lipstick or her sharp wingtips, brightened at the tear ducts with an opalescent gold.

Micah was more surprised by Chamomile's outfit. The goblin usually offset her sage skin with warm and feminine shades of pink or gold, but she was wearing a mint green wide-legged jumpsuit beneath a fuzzy seafoam green jacket with a matching cap pulled over her sharp ears. Her hair was loose and draped over her shoulder, and her eyes were sharp as she glared up at him with a challenge.

"Sorry." He bent and kissed her unblemished cheek. "I just don't think I've ever seen you wear green." Stairs creaked underneath their feet as the four of them made their way up, up, up the brownstone to Micah's penthouse.

Humming, Chamomile twirled her way over to his bed to make amends with Cinnamon after they scared him. "It's important that my allegiance is clear today."

Micah's lips parted. He glanced where Andrew sat in the corner on the couch. Andrew was watching Chamomile and shifted his dark eyes to meet Micah's before the crinkle of his smile appeared beneath his eye and he winked. Andrew had tried two variations of green himself, but the color didn't suit him and he'd opted for shades of russet and brown like usual, although the plaid cardigan he was wearing had been a Christmas gift from Micah last month, and his half-braid was tied with a green ribbon.

Still holding Fionna, Ingrid crossed to Micah's desk and sat in the spinning chair. "I take it from his smell that the witchcraft nonsense you tried didn't work," she said as she wheeled closer to Andrew. Climbing off her, Fionna picked up a misting bottle and started sniffing leaves and then spraying some of the plants in Micah's windows.

"You saying I stink?" Micah grumbled.

"Your back smells like ass," said Chamomile, nodding.

Micah glared at her.

Andrew twirled the pen in his fingers, casting his gaze back to Ingrid. "Can you blame me for wanting to try?"

Ingrid shook her head. "No, I don't. What else can we do?"

Pen between his teeth, Andrew turned the page in the heavy tome on his lap, scanning it in silence for a beat. He slowly lifted his gaze back to her, an animal stillness falling over his body as if the alpha wolf returned to take over. He removed the pen before calmly saying, "I have some ideas."

Ingrid raised her brows. "You're out for blood at this dinner too, I see."

Andrew shrugged.

"Speaking of blood," said Chamomile, "can I borrow your crossbow?" She grinned toothily and slid onto the couch, hip to hip with Andrew, nudging him with her elbow.

"That's a bit obtuse," he remarked, patting her head even though she snapped at his fingers.

"I brought a bag for it," she scoffed, and unfolded a large canvas sack she'd kept in an inner pocket of her coat.

Andrew shrugged. "Sure, okay."

"No!" Micah exclaimed. "We're not—"

"This is not a pacifist mission," Ingrid interrupted. "Not this time. We need to send a message that…" She trailed off suddenly, glancing at Chamomile. "I mean. Tell me what you had planned, but may I add to it?"

Micah smiled thinly at her. "You may."

Red Rabbit's industrial ceilings helped to absorb some of the ruckus of the overcrowded tables. Its wide square bar in the middle was all shiplap and shiny levers. It was the type of place that had a downtown feel but a big enough space to not rub elbows with the stranger at the table next to you. Diana wasn't entirely sure why Micah had chosen this place, given how busy it was, but then again, maybe that was what he wanted. Less isolation meant less opportunities for something to go wrong.

Wearing her hair in a loose bun, tights under a pencil skirt, and a Howl's Moving Castle tee with a leather jacket, Diana spotted Sophie's solitary head bowed at a small table against the far wall. Diana kept her hands in the pockets of her jacket as she sat down across from the blue-haired witch.

Sophie lifted her head and smiled faintly. Dark eyeshadow was smudged over her lids and she wore a necklace of a twisting snake. Her right forearm had a neon blue plaster cast on it, so instead of wearing long sleeves, she had a glittering black shawl draped over her shoulders. "Well, well, well. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Diana attempted an easygoing smile, propping her chin on her fist. "Yeah, ah, sorry it's been so long. Things have felt…"

"Terrifying? Yeah. I know." Sophie frowned.

"How's your arm?"

Sophie lifted the cast off the table. It was dense with signatures and a scattering of sketchy runes. "Got another month or two in this. It was pretty fucked up."

Diana winced. "That sucks."

"Good thing you got out unscathed, huh?" Venom flashed in Sophie's eyes.

Pulling a face, Diana said awkwardly, "Uh…yeah, I guess."

Primly fixing her shawl, Sophie basked in the tension between them. Finally, she cleared her throat. "What made you reach out? I thought you were done with us."

"I have to be done with…the dark magic," said Diana pointedly. "I told you. The woman that made me swear was definitely, like, the kind of faerie that overlaps with elves, in Tolkien and shit."

Sophie raised a painted eyebrow. "It just sounds like a convenient excuse. I just think it's because you like the guy we fucked up more than you let on."

Diana began to get up. "Look, I didn't want to come and fight with you—"

"Sorry." Sophie waved her good hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get spicy." She sighed and looked down. "I had to start going to therapy twice a week after that nonsense. My therapist says I have trauma."

Diana was glad Sophie was looking away so she could privately roll her eyes. Sophie was in a cast, but yesterday, Micah was reduced to tears in the fetal position, and was rotting from the inside out. She sighed. Many of her friends were the kind that would tell her not to compare people's trauma. "I bet. Are you still…doing stuff like that, then? Is there still a coven?"

Sophie smirked. "Well, duh. Actually, I hope you don't mind, but I invited some of them here tonight."

Heart lurching, Diana shifted in her seat and picked at a cuticle. She cast a surreptitious glance toward the other end of the room. From her position, the large round table under a southern facing window looked unoccupied, the light fixture hanging over it dim somehow compared to its neighbor. But she knew that's where Micah, Andrew, and the two faeries were sitting. Apparently, Folk were able to play tricks with light and shadows, falling into a liminal space and avoiding being seen by someone not looking for them. Tucked into the breast pocket of her jacket, Diana's phone was connected to an ongoing call with Micah where everyone at the table across the room listened with their heads together.

She pulled herself back to the table with Sophie and said as neutrally as she could, "Isn't that kind of a dick move to invite people without asking me?"

Sophie scrutinized Diana with a sharp glint in her eye. "Maybe I didn't feel safe being out alone with you." Her expression grew colder. "After all, you just watched Caty get murdered."

Ice coursed up Diana's spine and grasped the back of her neck. "Wh…What was I supposed to do? I mean, you left her there, too, so—"

Glowering, Sophie opened her mouth to reply, then her eyes slid past Diana and the storm of her expression cleared into a sunshine smile. She raised both hands to wave. Diana looked over her shoulder at a younger, curvier blonde woman with a smirk on her plump lips, which had a stud piercing below each corner. The blonde had a swagger when she walked that made her large breasts bounce under a grayscale lantern chest tattoo partly obscured by several silver necklaces. She had a hand with black nails clamped around the arm of an uncomfortable bespectacled person with a shag of brown hair tinged purple, dragging them with her over to the table. Where the blonde was wearing a skintight black dress, fishnets, and chunky boots, the person with her just wore a dark button-down under a cardigan.

The blond woman took the chair next to Diana, and her companion slid into the booth beside Sophie, scratching their cheek. Diana stared at the shaggy-haired person, brow crinkled, feeling an ambiguous tingle of familiarity at the sight of their tortoiseshell glasses and hazel eyes.

"This is Cirrus." Sophie pointed at the blonde woman, and then the person with glasses. "And this is Sam. I'm hoping the four of us can form a coven. Get some magic going again."

"I…I wouldn't go that far." Sam smiled as if biting on a lemon. "I'm actually not sure about magic."

"Don't be bashful." Cirrus elbowed them. She turned dark eyes toward Diana. "He knows a ton about magic. And I heard that you do, too."

Diana chewed on the inside of her lip before nodding. "I'm doing my Master's in folklore. I like old books."

"Ew." Cirrus gagged, looking at Sophie. "Seriously? Your amazing wellspring of knowledge is a nerd?"

"Excuse me." Diana erupted with indignation. "What exactly do you think you know about me?"

Smiling like a wolverine, Cirrus rested her chin on her hand. "Well, I know they're using you."

"Who's using me?" Diana asked, a little too loudly.

Cirrus cocked her head with a devilish grin. "Andrew and Micah." Her voice was false sweetness and spoiled syrup.

Diana frowned. Well, they were using her. But she knew that. They made no point of hiding it.

Sam shifted in his seat, eyes darting between Cirrus and Diana. "Wait, how do you know them? What…What's going on here?"

Diana blushed at the question. "Er… well…Micah was my boss."

Sam jolted, realization dawning on his features. "Oh my god! You're the bitch who kissed Micah."

Diana realized why she recognized Sam. His photo had been in Micah's living room, in a frame where he posed with Andrew, Micah, and an older man who simply had to be Micah's father. Diana was busy trying to piece it all together—why was the man who'd tried to kill Micah in his dream involved in any of this? And why did it seem like he didn't know?

"It's your fault that they almost broke up. And it's your fault Micah got stabbed," Sam added, hostility bringing a growl to his voice and a snarl to his lips.

Swallowing her bitterness, Diana said neutrally, "Didn't you just try to murder him in his dreams?"

Eyes widening, color draining from his face, Sam said, "I did…what? What happened to Micah?"

Nudging Sam's elbow, Sophie said with a sidelong smile, "We happened. How about that?"

Cirrus leaned across the table, high-fiving with Sophie.

Bile rose in Diana's throat. These women were triumphant about that? She was truly out of her depths with them. She cursed the moment when she'd first met Sophie and Caty and thought she could fit in with them. Wicked, wicked women.

"You two are sick," Diana spat. "How could you do that to someone?"

"Quite easily, if you know the right curses," said Sophie, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"I bet it looked pretty nasty," said Cirrus. "Wish I could have seen that bastard bleeding."

Diana's mouth fell open.

"Cirrus!" exclaimed Sam. "What is wrong with you? What did Micah ever do to you?"

Sophie turned sharply toward him and said, "He murdered my best friend."

Sam groaned, sinking against the booth, shaking his head. "What the fuck am I in the middle of?"

"My sentiment exactly. C'mon, Sam." Diana pushed back her chair. Scheming be damned. She didn't want to sit near these women for another second.

Cirrus snatched a handful of Diana's jacket and yanked her back down with such sudden force that she successfully landed Diana's ass back in her seat. "Diana here had the right idea, trying to get some of the power Micah's wasting."

"Oh, no." Diana waved her hands. "I deeply regret that very wrong idea."

Cirrus ignored her. "We could do so much more with magic like that. It's time to turn the tables on that asshole and those monsters up in Lilydale."

Still shaking his head, Sam said, "Andrew was one hundred percent right about you, Cirrus. You are an absolute psychopath."

"Oh, come on, Sam." Cirrus scoffed, face contorting. "All you ever do is complain about that pompous gay string bean."

Diana's phone felt heavier in her jacket pocket as she imagined Andrew's face right now.

"Sure," admitted Sam. "Andrew and I have a lot of history. And I've been angry at him lately. But it's…like…being mad at a brother. I don't wish him harm."

Cirrus shrugged. "Too bad." Her lips twitched. "I do."

Sam started to stand up.

Sophie grabbed his arm and sat him back down. He shot Diana a pleading look.

In response, she straightened and curled her hands into fists on the tabletop. "I don't care how shitty either of those guys have been," said Diana. "Throwing around serious dark magic curses, trying to kill people, it's just wrong."

"You don't understand!" Cirrus's snarl gathered stares from nearby diners. "The Folk don't care about people like us. They let people die all the time. And if you get too close to their orbit, they'll shoot you down so fast you won't know what hit you. You think you're in with them, but you'll be crashing toward earth before long." Cirrus sneered. Diana wondered if the younger woman knew how her eyes were glistening. "You're not better than me, you snotty bitch."

Impatient, Sophie growled. "Show ‘em what they did to you." Cirrus pulled up her sleeve on her dress to expose a scabbed red slash across her shoulder.

Diana bit back a gasp. She looked sharply toward the table in the corner, and the illusion of emptiness fell away from it. The scarlet-eyed faerie stood up from her chair, and the patrons at the nearest two tables gasped when she materialized.

Then everything happened at once.

The scarlet-eyed faerie descended on Cirrus like a heart attack. She grasped Cirrus by a handful of her hair and forced her head back, pressing an ivory-handled knife against her throat.

"You did it," Ingrid snarled. Cirrus's yelp of surprise tumbled into a strangled laugh.

"Oh, shit." Sophie shrieked, her cast knocking over her water glass.

Screams of alarm rose from the patrons on either side of the witches' table. The panic spread. Diners fled, tripping over chairs, someone knocking over a wine glass where it exploded on the floor.

"Ingrid?" Sam gasped. He looked across the table at Diana, stricken. "She's been here the whole…"

Lips spread in a too-big grin, Cirrus gazed up into Ingrid's face. "All hail the Goth Queen of Lilydale." Her brittle voice was cold and mocking.

"Any last words?" Ingrid growled.

"Oh, shit," said Diana this time.

Micah shoved his way upstream through the fleeing crowd. "Ingrid, do not shed blood!" He threw himself over her arm and upset her stance with her knife as she fought to regain her balance. "This is not how we do things!"

With a grip still tight on Cirrus's hair, Ingrid shook her like a dog toy while she fought with Micah. Cirrus tried to pry herself loose, tried to press her iron necklaces into Ingrid's hand, but Ingrid didn't even notice the sting under the heat of her rage. The girl dangled helplessly from Ingrid's grip, cheeks flushed and tears jumping in her eyes despite her stoic expression.

Sophie glared at Ingrid with narrowed, hateful eyes. That had to be the faerie that had murdered Caty. And right now, she wasn't paying attention. Sophie launched out of the booth and onto the table, scattering their silverware and glasses onto the floor. Brandishing a pocket knife, she lunged toward the tall female faerie.

"Ingrid!" Sam screamed. He grabbed the dangling ends of Sophie's shawl and yanked her back; she screeched, the pocket knife in her hand arcing off its path. Sam scrabbled for Sophie, who yelled and clawed at his face as they fell back into the booth in a tangle of limbs.

Ingrid snarled and stumbled back, running into Micah, who caught her with both hands. She clutched her bicep, the sleeve of her coat fluttering open. Blood ribboned from a finger-length cut which blistered and smoked.

The restaurant, Diana realized in the sudden silence, was now empty. Passersby stopped and stared as the restaurant patrons and staff flooded the sidewalk. Andrew and Chamomile tore across the room; Andrew's hair stuck out from his braid and the short faerie's hat was askew as if they'd been scuffling.

Andrew snarled at Chamomile, "You shouldn't have held me back! Ingrid's blood is on your hands." He climbed onto the booth, confidently prying apart Sam and Sophie and pushing himself between them with a hand on Sam's stomach. Sophie lost her balance and fell onto the bench on her casted arm before quickly lunging at Andrew. He pulled out his ankle knife and held it out in warning, eyes flinty, making Sophie stop fast and sit back, picking her mussed blue hair out of her mouth. She had a trail of bright red fingernail scratches on her cheek. Andrew kept his dagger extended as he checked on Sam, who clung to Andrew's collar and wiped his bleeding nose with shock warping his expression and making his hazel eyes too bright.

Micah pulled back on Ingrid's thumb to make her release Cirrus, who dropped heavily back to the table with a cry of relief. He pushed Ingrid behind himself, and she was distracted enough with her hand clutched over her bleeding arm to let him. Opening his palm, Micah drew the birchwood cuff into his hand where it sprouted into his staff. He touched Ingrid's wound and then the staff flashed with spring green light; his hand glowed, and Ingrid sucked in a gasp and bent her arm to inspect the hole in her jacket—and the unblemished flesh beneath.

Micah turned back to Cirrus and Sophie, stoic. "This ends now."

Hand on her scalp, Cirrus grinned, tearful but delighted. "It does." She clambered up to her feet. Raising her arm, she threw something at the flagstones under them and then stomped it under her heel. A blast of red light and heat consumed the room, lightning streaking across the ceiling, sulfur crowding mouths and noses.

Micah screamed.

When the air cleared, he was on the floor, facedown and writhing on his knees, shirt drenched in blood. The birchwood staff rolled silently away from his right hand which was curled into a fist.

Cirrus was gone.

Ingrid yelled and dropped to her hands and knees, slipping in blood that was already pooling under Micah.

When Andrew's attention snapped to Micah, Sophie scrambled off the booth with eyes wide, staring at the puddle of blood beneath Micah's limp form. In the chaos, nobody paid her any mind, and she knew for the moment there was nothing more to be done. She backed away and fled toward the deserted front doors.

Something twanged into the door frame a few inches from Sophie's face. She yelped. It looked like a short, metal arrow. Sophie stole a glance over her shoulder. The small blue-eyed faerie had a crossbow raised at her. Her stony expression and her narrowed eyes told Sophie she had missed on purpose.

It was a warning. Sophie sprinted out the door.

Lamely, Diana unrolled the napkins from the silverware left on the tables. But uncertainty paralyzed her—frankly, so did the terror of watching a man die.

"Micah—" Andrew's knees cracked against flagstones. Shaking, he lifted Micah by the chest. He was dead weight, limp and silent as Andrew cradled him against his chest. Ingrid's long fingers tapped desperately against Micah's cheeks, trying to provoke a response. But Micah's skin was drained of color, slick with sweat, his eyes glassy and unseeing. He rested unmoving against Andrew, blood pumping from the wound in his back with each sluggish beat of his heart. Andrew fumbled for the birchwood staff, slotting it between Micah's knees, begging the conduit to come to their aid.

"No, no, no, no," pleaded Andrew, tears leaping into his eyes. "You're fine. You're okay. Stay with me. We've got you, okay? Can you feel me? Don't…" His voice broke. "Don't go to sleep."

Chamomile squatted to determine what Cirrus had stepped on. She picked up the copper-wrapped vial, jagged and in pieces. She recognized it—she'd helped Micah make it so Andrew could wear it as a ward. "Where did she…?" With a jolt of realization, Chamomile's eyes narrowed and slid toward Sam.

Tears welled in Sam's eyes as he clapped his hands over his mouth.

Pocketing the shattered vial, Chamomile turned resolutely back toward them. "Go get more Folk," she ordered to Ingrid. She slung her canvas bag around and dug inside. "We need more energy." She withdrew three packs and spread them over the flagstones, unrolling them to sachets of herbs, small silver scissors, thread, and gauze. She was prepared for this, but only in the event that all else turned to ashes—and now it had.

"I am not leaving him," Ingrid snarled back, holding Micah's hand between both of her own.

"Ingrid, do as I say!" Chamomile said. She added, desperation making her voice break, "Please!"

Ingrid's resolve crumbled. She let go of Micah's hand, rose to a crouch, and then melted into a shadow.

"Diana," said Chamomile, "I need your hands. Take off your jacket, take a deep breath, and get down here." She reached for the napkins Diana had grabbed and used them like a dam around the blood gushing from the angry dark wound near his shoulder blade. "Cut his shirt back. Fast, not neatly."

As the cold metal scissors slid against Micah's skin, his green lashes fluttered. Cradled against Andrew's chest, Micah gazed up at him with glassy, unfocused blood-red eyes. "Andrew." The name fell from his lips like the last curling leaf from a tree branch falling loose in autumn.

"Hush, don't say anything," Andrew said, fingers tangled in Micah's hair. "You will not start giving me your last words. Just hold on, okay?"

"I'm sorry we…tried to wait till Ostara," he said faintly. "I sh…should have married you the second you asked…"

"Please stop," sobbed Andrew, not budging as Diana took Chamomile's scissors and started cutting through Micah's shirt and rolling it toward his armpits to keep it out of the way. "Please don't. Please." Andrew's words dissolved into weeping, shoulders heaving, his features creased and warped and soaked with tears.

Micah let go a small sigh as Chamomile pressed a sharply odorous pad of tea tree oil to his shoulder as hard as she could. Labored, he went on shakily, "I…tried to…"

Footsteps clattered across the bricks from the main doors. A woman Diana didn't recognize ran up to them, clutching a large carpet bag. She wore jeans and large boots and a heavy hunter jacket, with a thick gold band around her neck. Surveying the situation with sharp brown eyes, she shook her head with a faint tsk as she slipped a Y-shaped dowsing rod into the deep pocket of her jacket. The woman reached out a thin hand and touched the back of Andrew's head.

Andrew jumped. He wiped his eyes with his shoulder and looked up. Then he jolted, mouth going slack. Hope lit up his face, despairing as it was, like the first brush of dawn on a darkened sky.

"Mother?"