17. Triskelion

seventeen

“What?” Darkly’s voice echoed Milla’s, and she damn near snapped her neck as she whipped around to catch him gawking at her. “She’s a … what .”

“Oh, Horned God.” Lou rolled her eyes and approached her brother carefully, hands out and voice soft. “Not now, Keir.”

Darkly pressed against the wall, wide green eyes bouncing from Milla to Lou and back, looking as if someone had just told him the sky was purple. He winced again, hissing and pressing the heel of his palm to his temple. “I dinnae—”

“I’ll explain later, wee yin.” She gently gripped his shoulders, getting close to Darkly’s face and whispering in his ear. His cheeks blanched, smoke wafted over his eyes, and after a long moment, he pressed his lips together, gaining control of whatever had frightened him and wrangling it into submission. “Just a little longer, alright?”

“I dinnae understand…” Even as he whispered, Milla heard the quiet plea in his words. He looked at her over his sister’s shoulder, winced, and closed his eyes, face tight with pain. “Why can’t I—”

He went still as Lou cupped his cheek, forcing her brother to meet her eye. “Later, Keir.”

“Poor dear,” Dina tutted. She leaned over and whispered to Constance, “Would it help if we put the boy out of his misery?”

The shift in the room was palpable, reflected by the mischief vanishing from Constance’s face. She sent a sympathetic smile in Darkly’s direction and shook her head. “I’d rather not have to explain why an unconscious Dark Witch is being carried from my office.”

As much as she hated liars who betrayed their pseudo-girlfriends to save their own skin, Milla hated the games C.R.O.W. played even more. She shouldered her anger, hooking her thumb at Darkly. “What’s his problem?”

Natje settled in the chair beside her, leaning over the armrest to brush her arm. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“All offense meant, but that’s bullshit”—she jerked her head at the Simmons siblings—“that’s fucking weird , and what do you mean ‘soft launch a Death Witch’?” She spat out this last bit directly at Constance. Aunt Connie. A witch she had known for close to twenty years and was just now realizing she didn’t know at all.

“Why do you think I was always down in Key West?” Constance replied.

“I—but— what .” She whipped around to Natje, who nodded slowly, which did nothing to help Milla settle this new knowledge with the life she had known. “How many witches knew? ”

“You resurrected a dog in the middle of ?esky Krumlov, Ludmilla.” Dina pushed back from the desk and rose. “Not even the Advoccultant General could hide that from C.R.O.W.”

“Perhaps if he had called me first,” Natje muttered under her breath.

“It was a new moon, and you know it.” Dina rolled her eyes and strode around the desk, settling on the edge in front of Milla. “No one lies to C.R.O.W., dear.” Dina patted her head. “But a small amount of obfuscation goes a long way.”

“And some clever social engineering even further.” Constance grinned mischievously at Milla as if she were in on their joke. Considering she wasn’t laughing, Milla decidedly was not.

“I don’t—”

“Gossips, girl.” Dina cackled in Milla’s face. “Witches are terrible gossips. Put the right witnesses in a room together, one prejudiced and one sympathetic, and you can spin whatever story you desire.”

“By now, Rhett has likely commandeered a secretary’s computer to pull up Keir’s record, which will corroborate everything he heard in this office.” Constance eased back in her chair, bangles jangling as she crossed her arms. Her smug expression lit up her eyes, and her full lips split to place brilliant white teeth on display. “He’ll see, with an audience of onlookers, that our Keir is a witch in good standing with a decade of stellar work as an Enforcer under his belt.”

Something about the way she said his name, the possessiveness in her tone, rankled Milla. Goddess knew why. She pushed her lips together as Constance spoke, pouting instead of giving in to the overwhelming urge to demand Darkly answer to the one damn question she had: Why.

Because none of this made sense .

He knew her Way, had suffered and learned her Way, and sought to help her control it. Yes, he was a liar, but nobody lied to C.R.O.W.

That he had managed it—along with a life as a Dark Witch and a career as an Enforcer—that he knew the Third Head and was conspicuously absent the one night the Neitherworld needed it… at all of that , some nasty little voice in her head began yelling that he was being played as much as she was, and it felt terrible .

“Maddox, dear witch that they are, will confirm the Soul Projections and that the Elder Agent Simmons was unable to pull your memory. Everyone will be so distracted by the witch who survived a cleaving that the reality of your Way will either fall by the wayside or act as an explanation rather than a reason for blame.”

“Can’t cleave the Death Witch,” Dina sang. “And can’t blame the Death Witch for being uncleavable.” She tapped her nose, pointed at Milla, and winked. “Especially if she works for the very agency desiring her cleaving.”

“...what,” croaked Milla.

“It’s nothing you haven’t already agreed to, Ludmilla.” This came from Lou, still haunting the wall with her brother. Something slammed against the bookshelf, a fist, or a foot, and Lou hissed, “Not now.”

“We should have a decent enough handle on the optics when it comes time for you to pay your ritual dues at Beltane,” Constance spoke over the tussle by the shelves, “and from then on out, the Death Witch of the Demesne will be a management issue and not a—”

“I’m not going to Beltane,” stated Milla. “I never go to Beltane.”

“You owe the coven, Milla Mouse.” Constance clicked her tongue.

“And it’s a crowd of thousands , Aunt Connie,” she argued. “You want me to come out as a Death Witch in front of a mass of Waydrunk witches?”

“It’s nothing as dramatic as all that.” Dina swished her hand again, and Milla’s eye twitched. If she saw one more dismissive gesture from that witch, she was going to steal the athame from Constance’s cupholder and solve the problem for good. “Every Witch of a Demesne gives a brief display of their magick for a gathering of coven Elder Witches. Feed some of your magick into the greater ritual and be on your way.”

“Every witch?” Lou asked. Four sets of eyes landed on her, and Milla zeroed in on the bob in her throat.

“Every witch with a demesne, yes,” Dina confirmed. “The American Covens handle the regional maintenance of power differently than those on the Continent.”

“Archaically,” Natje coughed into a fist, earning a smirk from the Third Head.

“You’re years overdue, Milla,” Constance continued, “and aside from Dina’s motives, it is the most efficient way to pay and prove to C.R.O.W. that you are not a witch to be feared.”

“Disagree.”

“With which point?”

“Both of them.” Milla narrowed her eyes at the Elder Witch, who ought to know better. “But mostly the last one.”

“Ludmilla.” Natje leaned over. “Consider what they are offering: a chance to return to your demesne and walk without the sword of Damocles dangling over your head.”

Milla tucked her chin, sending her advoccultant a highly skeptical look. “Doesn’t that refer to those in power laboring under the specter of anxiety and death?” Darkly snorted, which she just hated. “How is this any different?”

Natje clenched her jaw, and a strange look crossed her face. A fleeting admiration marked by mirth. Before she could reply, Lou stepped away from the bookshelf, her arms at her sides, palms facing Milla in a subtle plea.

“You’d be allowed to step into your Way,” she said. “Under close surveillance, of course.” She took another step and another, the room seeming to darken until it was only Lou. She loomed over the back of the chair, a shining light amidst the gloom, forcing Milla to twist at a weird angle and crane her neck to look at her. The position was awkward. Supplicative in a way she hated. “All of this, everything that has happened in the last hour, was put into motion by your agreement. Work with us, and agree to be placed in my custody. Consent to the Soul Binding, and all of this ends. Today.”

Millapet.

She jerked her head around, searching for that voice, and only then did she notice how dark the room had gone. Shadows teemed and roiled, climbing up Milla’s legs as easily as they were repelled by the warm, glowing light emanating from Lou.

This wasn’t right. This was miles from right; this was coercion. Her fingers tingled in fright, and she squinted into the shadows. Why wasn’t Natje saying anything? How in the nine rings were an Elder Witch and the Third Head okay with this? And why wasn’t—

“ Lou. ”

Ah, there it is , she thought.

“ This isnae what we agreed. ” Darkly’s voice boomed through the darkness, far beyond warning and now outright menacing.

Lou huffed, rolled her eyes, and threw her arm back, fingers curved and clawed as they were in Daytona. Her eyes did the creepy fog-lamp thing and without any ado whatsoever, she stated, “Done.”

Milla had only a second to register the word and the action. A second to blink and react to the familiarity of the scene and the pose of the witches before the shadows withdrew into Darkly in a rush of wind, fast enough to send him staggering off balance. Light returned to the office, and his back hit the bookcase, jostling the trinkets and vases. The lunar sextant wobbled, tipping off the shelf and landing on the floor beside Natje with an ominous thud.

“Young man!” Dina pounded the desk, and the rest of the room came to life.

“Horned God,” cursed Constance. “Now I’ll have to explain that to the technomantics.”

“That is quite enough, Keir,” Lou spat each word with a caustic bite. Darkly slumped, gripping the edge of the bookshelf to keep from joining the sextant on the floor. He raised his head, shaking it once before glaring murderously at his sister.

“What is a Soul Binding?” Milla asked when the tension was thick enough to smear over toast. Darkly’s attention snapped to her, and Lou slowly turned, wearing a soft smile that Milla didn’t like at all .

“Think of it as a version of the Waybinding you already wear.” Two fingers on her casting hand flicked toward Milla’s wrist. “But unlike the Waybinding, a Soul Binding can be controlled, like the lock of a dam maintaining the water flow.”

“Controlled by who?”

“By me.” The smile spread, softening her features. Milla looked down at her palms, eyes trailing the web of scars. Beneath the thick, marbled tissue, beneath the lifelines she had tried to erase, her Way simmered, surging against the Waybinding with a desperate need to be released into the world. Were this any other day, under any other circumstances, she would be running herself to exhaustion, feeding her demesne until the world grew hazy and her body too heavy for her weary legs to carry. Were this the years before Lake Pontchartrain, she would be throwing herself at Ezra, begging him to help her burn off the worst of the boiling heat until she could think and focus while he slept sated in their bed.

Were this that week in Daytona, hidden in a swamp, she would want nothing more than a way to touch Darkly without hurting him.

Funny how things changed.

She curled her fingers over her palms, ragged nails digging into the scars. “It will control my Way?”

“Until I deem your control and tolerance satisfactory, yes.” Lou moved around the chair, standing beside the desk where Constance and Dina watched the exchange with rapt attention. “This is an opportunity, Ludmilla.”

“It’s a leash.” Darkly pushed from the wall, teetering as he stood. “And I dinnae want her on the team.”

“Well, fuck me then, I guess.”

“Tried that.” He shot a heated look her way, his face harder and colder than she’d ever seen it. Milla opened her mouth, but only a shocked squeak came out.

“I fail to see how you have a say in the matter, Keir,” said Dina. “This is the settlement proposed by your sister and agreed upon by Mistress Tage.” At that, Milla gaped at her advoccultant, who stared at the lunar sextant on the floor by her feet. “We leverage the reputation of the Simmons siblings against that of Ludmilla Probuditna. She agrees to a Soul Binding and undergoes strict training in her Way until she is no longer perceived as a threat.”

“And she returns to St. Augustine where I can keep an eye on her,” Constance said with a firm look at Milla.

“The choice, ultimately, is up to Ludmilla, not you.” Dina pointed at Darkly. “She cannot be cleaved, so she’ll either rot in the salt and marble cells of ?esky Krumlov, or she can work for C.R.O.W.”

“I’ll do it,” Milla blurted. Goddess, anything was better than those cells, even selling what was left of her cleaved Soul to C.R.O.W.

St. Augustine, her store, Diego. A semblance of a life, and one not spent ducking and hiding? Fuck yes, she was going to take their offer.

“Milla,” Darkly croaked.

She jumped from the chair, spinning around to hiss at him, “Milla, what , Darkly? Is a Death Witch not good enough? Don’t I deserve the same deal you got?”

“No, Milla, that isnae—”

“All of this is your fault.” She threw her arm out, gesturing to the office, the witches in it, and then herself. “You put me here; what did you think I would do? Roll over and die?”

His cheeks blanched, what color was left bleeding right down into the collar of his suit until he was ghostly pale. So different from the freckle-dusted, sunburned witch she had known. The room fell so silent she heard the creak of floorboards under Darkly’s feet as he straightened and stood tall. Then he shook his head once, eyes boring into his sister, turned, and left.

Milla flinched as the door snicked shut, staring at the stained wood as she tried to settle his reaction to her words. It was the blankness that bothered her. The Darkly she knew, or thought she knew, was an expressive disaster of a witch unable to hide his emotions. He wore them like that suit: fitted to his frame and tailored to perfection. To see him so detached was … jarring.

“Well.” Dina clapped her hands together. The sound bounced off the walls, battering Milla back into her chair. She exhaled and sank low, her head aching and fingers trembling. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s.” Lou snagged Milla’s wrists, locking them in a far stronger grip than expected. She jerked her forward in the chair until Milla was flat over her knees, arms stretched out in front of her. “Hold still,” Lou murmured and ran her thumbs over Milla’s pale, blue-veined skin.

A burning ache rose in the path of her thumbs, and she squirmed, tugging against Lou’s grip. “What are you doing?”

“Removing the Waybinding.” Lou lifted gleaming eyes to Milla’s, unleashing a whispered intent that was little more than a cool, vanilla-grass breath.

“Wait, what?” She tugged again, and Lou held tight. “No, nonono.” Her Way flared to life in a rush of furious heat, the backlog of magick searing a path up her arms, demanding to be used and burning in its fury. Milla yelped. Panic had her breaths coming in short, gasping pants, and—

“Breathe,” Lou ordered, tightening her hold.

“Oh, Goddess,” Milla gritted out. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, it burns.”

“Is this normal?” Dina appeared over Lou’s shoulder, wearing a gleeful smile.

“Not really,” Lou grunted. “But she’s been Waybound for weeks.”

“Weeks.” Milla echoed, looking to Natje. She knew time had gone funny in the cells, but so much of this was not adding up. How long had Lou been devising this plan? How long had the Third Head been a part of the plot? How many weeks was weeks?

Natje frowned, intent on Lou’s fingers manacling her wrists. She reached out and gripped Milla’s arm. Whether it was in assurance or apology, she had no idea. All she knew was that this fucking hurt, and she hadn’t had her tea, and any second now, she was going to start rotting C.R.O.W.’s darling Light Witch through no fault of her own.

A hot sweat bubbled across her brow, followed by a sticky, prickling flush down her back and around her ribs. She groaned and pressed her mouth to her shoulder, gnashing her teeth as she tried to hold back her magick. Weeks of magick. Weeks of her Way, oh, Goddess, how long had she been away from her demesne? Diego? The store?

A sob tore free before she could bite it off. Her shoulders heaved, and Lou adjusted her grip, damn near hauling Milla out of the chair. Irish flew from her lips in a steady stream, her thumbs pressing down at the base of Milla’s wrists hard enough to curl her fingers.

She clenched every muscle, weak as they were, to restrain the heat coursing through her body, involuntarily tugging against Lou’s grip. Her sweat-slicked wrist slipped, slid free, and before Lou could react, Milla dug her nails into her arm, scratching and tearing at the skin to alleviate the sensation of a thousand fire ants chomping down on her arteries.

“Let go,” she begged. “I can’t hold this much longer, Lou. Let go!”

Dina seized her arm, jerking it down so Lou could regain her grip, and Constance filled the empty space behind her. Delight lit up her face, and a heartbeat later, Milla felt the shift in the intent, a new heat battling the burn of her Way. A bone-searing, marrow-boiling heat that had her eyes tearing up and a tiny whimper escaping before she could clench her teeth. Threads of shimmering light blossomed from under Lou’s fingers, bleeding into Milla’s veins and searing a path up into her very Soul.

She panted, unable to catch her breath enough to scream. Goddess, it burned, and no one cared. Not her advoccultant, not the Elder Witch she called an aunt.

And right when the pain was too much to bear, when white spots danced in the field of her vision, and her lungs ached for air—the heat snuffed out. Lou rocked back, catching herself against the edge of the desk. A bubbling giggle escaped and she smothered it with a hand, tittering between gasps for air.

Dina and Constance huddled over Milla’s wrists, pointing as the threads sank deeper into her arms and an empty, bracing cold replaced the searing heat. With it came a weight, a heaviness to her hands that had not been there before. She blinked, clearing the tears from her eyes, and stared at the mark of the Light Witch gleaming against her skin.

Twin triskelions, one on each wrist, in a shimmering, minty moss green. A sigil only a witch could see. A sigil that did not appear in any grimoire she knew, but one that Milla had traced on the skin of a Dark Witch.

She lifted her head and the room tilted on its side, muted browns and golds swirling into a putrid swathe of dull colors. A wild tremor overtook her fingers, exhaustion barreling down on Milla like a freight train.

“Oh, Goddess.” Natje lurched from the chair, cursing under her breath as she made for the door and bellowed down the hallway, “Agent Sterne!”

“Are you alright, Milla?” Constance crouched in front of her, a tender hand on Milla’s knee, but she only had eyes for the Light Witch braced against the desk with a drunken smile.

“This yours?” She raised her wrists to show the twin sigils to Lou, grunting against the unfamiliar weight.

“Soul Sigil,” Lou nodded, dropping her head back to blink at the ceiling.

Black spots joined the white; Milla’s vision went dark at the edges, and before she passed out, she slurred, “Li’l early for matchin’ tattoos, dontcha think?”