12. Vestic

twelve

Lou’s presence lingered long after the witch left, her vanilla and sugar, cookies-fresh-from-the-oven scent clogging the cell and turning Milla’s stomach. She lay on her mattress, frowning at the folder Lou had left behind and wondering how royally she had just fucked up.

If the silence in her head were anything to judge by, it was pretty royal. The voice had snapped at her, just once, after she had agreed, and then nothing. No more snide remarks, no pleas for Milla to focus on the voice and the voice alone. No more utterances of the nickname she hated that had become a comfort in the horror of the cells.

But worse than the silence was that every time she closed her eyes, she saw Darkly.

Black-eyed and furious, his hair tousled and windblown. Panicked and broken, surrounded by the whirling mass of his Shades. Reaching for her and begging desperately, “Milla, please.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Believe me.”

She bolted upright, hauled from her captive sleep by that lurching feeling at the center of her chest. The tingling was back in her fingers and toes. Her heart hammering in her chest. She pressed a hand against her sternum, focusing on every tiny, panting breath. In time, her heart settled. In time, she lay on her side and stared across the cell, focusing on the dim glow of the svítilna light until her eyelids grew heavy and sleep pulled her back into its arms.

Black-eyed.

Broken.

“Milla, please.”

And again, lurching from the bed as if someone had woven a rope through her ribs and hauled with all their might, leaving Milla gasping for air that was too thin to fill her lungs.

“I’m so sorry.”

And again and again and again and again.

“I promise.” He beat his fist against the barrier, begging her to look him in the eye. To believe him even as he lied. “I will fix this.”

“Horned God knows why you couldn’t agree to work with us earlier.” Lou tugged on the belt, jerking Milla forward by the hips. She fed the tail through the buckle, frowning at the excess leather and lack of grommets. “It’s hard enough getting my brother to dress appropriately.” She leaned back and flitted her gaze over Milla, frowning deeply. “You look like a child wearing her mother’s clothes as fancy dress.”

Milla flicked the belt and pinched the billowing fabric of her dusty rose blouse. “Why is this even necessary?”

“Appearances matter, Ludmilla.” Lou tutted and stooped, hooking her fore and middle fingers into a pair of pointed-toe heels and presenting them to Milla. “You can at least walk in these, yes?”

“No?”

Lou sighed and tossed the shoes on the mattress. “Sit.” She pointed. “And put those on. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

Them . The Elder Witch of the Panhandle Coven and the Third Head of the Tribunal.

Milla followed Lou and Agent Sterne through the halls, teetering in her borrowed heels. As before, the illusions on the walls made her dizzy. True to Agent Sterne’s claim, they grew weaker the higher the trio rose within the building. Pulsing walls and hellish landscapes became never-ending corridors and utilitarian, mid-century office building nightmares. Only after climbing yet another flight of metal stairs in a beige stairwell and exiting into a densely populated cube farm did Milla realize they had left the hexed hallways behind.

Witches in office-casual attire bustled down the narrow rows between cubicles, glancing at Milla and rushing away. Whispers rose at her back, and she caught “Daytona” and “St. Augustine” from multiple mouths. Neck prickling and chest heating, she crossed her arms and shrank into the too-large blouse as they passed through the large room and into the front lobby of the Panhandle Coven.

Harlequin tiles stretched across the floor, the bold black and white offset by sage green scalloped pillars topped by gilded Corinthian caps. A row of mid-century leather chairs hugged the walls on either side of large oak and iron doors, and a desk nearly as tall as Milla filled the opposite wall. Behind it was a mural she had only ever been able to think of as “Soviet chic.”

Three witches stood together, one facing forward and the others caught in a profile. La Voison with her deck of cards on the left, Margarete von Leipzig with her astrolabe on the right, and Catherine of Aragon in the center with her bible, bell, and candle. The original Tribunal of C.R.O.W.

Lou strode across the hall, heels clicking steadily against the marble floor. She bypassed the front desk altogether, aiming for another, smaller set of doors.

“Ma’am.” A young witch looked up from her computer as they crossed the hall. “Ma’am, do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.” Lou grasped the handle without glancing at the receptionist. She fluttered a half-hearted wave over her shoulder as she yanked the door open to reveal a dark, wood-paneled hallway Milla had not traversed in years. She hesitated and glanced back at Agent Sterne, who peeled off toward the desk.

“With me, Probuditna,” Lou said.

“Don’t we need to …” She pointed at the desk.

“ We need to keep moving.” Lou grabbed her arm and tugged. “Come along.”

Compared to the bright, echoing lobby, the hallway was quiet as a tomb. Tall windows lined the wall to Milla’s right, the world beyond the Panhandle Coven obscured by cream-colored curtains. What light bled into the hallway was a sickly yellow swallowed by stained oak panels on the interior wall and the rich reds, browns, and blues of the carpet.

A young witch waited for them halfway down, arms crossed behind his back and his expression patient. Like the witches in the cube farm, he wore business attire: pressed pale blue seersucker pants with a faint off-white pinstripe, a tailored button-down, paisley bow tie, and tan suspenders. The rounded tortoiseshell glasses and styled mop of chestnut brown curls completed the image of a witch who cared deeply for appearances, and, against all odds, the jaundice-yellow light only flattered his bright hazel eyes and golden beige complexion.

As Lou and Milla approached, his attention jumped to somewhere over their heads, and a step later, she felt the tell-tale crackle and pressure of magick.

“Triple warded,” the witch said with a smile as they passed through. “Can never be too careful.” He stepped forward, extending a hand to Lou. “Rhett Marchand, polednice to the Elder Witch.”

“I didn’t know she had an apprentice,” Milla said. Rhett cocked his head, eyes darting briefly her way before returning to Lou.

“Agent Simmons.” She took his hand, shaking once and frowning when he did not immediately let go. Still smiling, Rhett’s hazel eyes flashed a bright copper. Quick and barely noticeable, it marked a vestic stepping into their Way. Lou scoffed, jerking her hand free. “Do you mind?”

“As I said,” he smiled, unbothered by her disdain. “One can never be too careful. The ward is against illusions, ensuring that all who meet with the Elder Witch are who they claim to be.”

“And the vestic doorman is to assess intent?” Milla asked. The witch looked at her in full, and his smile washed away. With one steady bob of his throat, he extended his hand for Milla to take.

So she did, setting the tips of her fingers against his palm in the most limp-wristed, cold fish handshake she could muster and slipping away before he could get a read.

“I—” Rhett started.

“My mother’s a vestic,” Milla finished with a sharp smile. It was tacky and probably stupid, but she had been a prisoner in the cells beneath this building for Horned God knew how long. If he did not know who she was by now, why should Milla help him out?

Rhett coughed into a fist, narrowing his eyes at Milla before turning swiftly, crooking his fingers in the air for them to follow. “This way, you’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

Another set of large oak doors filled the end of the hall, and Milla mentally steeled herself for what waited on the other side. Nothing changed in the salt and marble, and nothing changed here. The overly plush carpet and the eye-stinging scents of wood polish and mothballs. The sick light bleeding through the curtains no matter what time of day it was. Once upon a time, in the floral pastel comfort of Key West, she thought that she’d dreamt of this place or had a particularly awful nightmare about Gilded Age mansions multiplying in the Reconstruction Era South.

But standing here now, once again on the outside of these foreboding doors and pondering the fate awaiting her within, Milla felt every inch the little witchling who had cast this place into the darkest corners of her mind.

How long had it been since that first visit? Eighteen years? And still, nothing had changed. Not the carpet or the smell or the fear fluttering in her belly like an eclipse of moths.

The door opened without even the slightest whisper against the carpet, and Rhett ushered them in. As she had feared, the room was exactly the same. Windows filled the wall behind a broad mahogany desk, covered by the same gauzy curtains from the hallway. Behind the desk, twin Tiffany lamps glowed a warm, welcoming greenish-gold, casting a cozy ambiance over the parts of the office the light could reach and leaving the furthest corners cast in deep shadow.

Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls to Milla’s left and right, the shelves stuffed with leather-bound grimoires, shadow books, and tomes delving into the intricacies of the Ways. Wherever there weren’t books, there were bell jars full of bones and bundles of twigs tied with twine and hair, innocent-looking trinkets that Milla knew housed curses and allures, and vases filled with flowers in perpetual bloom. A small silver tray full of graffiti-covered rocks was tucked high on a shelf to her left, and a bronze sextant held the attention of the only other witch in the room.

Natje flicked a knob at the base of the sextant, frowning as she ran a finger along the telescope affixed to the frame. As ever, her tall figure was draped in midnight. A deep black tuxedo jacket with silk lapels offered glimpses of an intricate lace bodysuit and a series of gleaming silver necklaces of varying lengths. Sleek leather leggings dripped down her legs, and as Milla and Lou entered, she strode across the room in a pair of studded leather heels as easily as if she were barefoot.

She crooked two fingers at Milla, gesturing for her to sit in one of two plump leather chairs facing the desk, and nodded at Lou.

“Thank you, Agent Simmons.”

Lou replied with a terse nod of her own and retreated to the corner of the room opposite Natje, standing out as a prim and proper pastel harpy against the gloom clawing up the walls.

Milla slipped into a chair, settling against the plush leather and stabbing the carpet with her heels to keep from slipping off the sleek cushion. She gripped the armrest, pushing herself back into the chair.

Natje clicked her tongue. “Everything alright?”

“Peachy,” Milla said through clenched teeth. “What’s going on?”

Natje flitted her gaze over Milla, a crease forming between her brows. “Remember what I told you, Ludmilla: no one lies to C.R.O.W.”

Before she could reply, a door tucked between the bookcase and the window swung open. A door that had absolutely not been there a moment prior. Milla’s breath hitched, and she gripped the armrests tighter as Constance Abernathy, Elder Witch of the Panhandle Coven, swept in.