44. Telos

forty-four

“You’ll want to freshen up,” Rai called from near the tent, her tone indifferent and bored.

Darkly muttered a curse under his breath, tucking himself back into his pants before turning around. “Lou send you to babysit?”

“Do you think I would if she asked me?” Rai cocked her head. She’d added a jaunty, undersized top hat and half veil to her ensemble, and the red lipstick had been traded for a poisonous green that smudged into a sinful black. “It’s almost sundown. Constance Abernathy’s assistant is about to have a heart attack looking for you two.”

“He can deal,” Milla grumbled. She tugged her shorts up and fiddled with her skirt, trying to get it to sit correctly on her hips.

“Also, there’s the matter of what in the nine rings you two have been doing all day.”

“Being seen.” Darkly yanked on his belt, easily looping the Celtic knot.

Rai blinked calmly at him and looked pointedly at the ashen husk of an oak tree he had just fucked Milla against, then back to him. “Sure.”

“Rai—”

She raised a hand, silencing him. “Neither of you is weak, Keir, and frankly, it was insulting for her to insinuate as such. I am only worried about what happens next.”

“Gonnae tattle?”

“Please.” She skirted around him and plucked a satchel from the empty air, opening it up and offering it to Milla. “Angelica root. I don’t know what this is all about”—she waved a vague hand at the tree, Milla, and Darkly—“but you are expected to perform for the Elder Witches. We can’t have you dawdling drunk about the stage.”

Milla shoved a root shaving under her tongue, head-clearing almost immediately. “Thank you.”

“And you.” She wheeled around and examined Darkly, lips parting in surprise. “You’re not …”

“Rotted?” he finished for her. “Aye, nifty trick I’ve picked up.”

“But how?”

“Yeah, seriously.” Milla moved closer, stopping her hand a hair’s breadth away from his chest. “I’m unbound, and you were still on me when my Way … how are you not rotting?”

“La petite mort.” He winked at her. It took Milla a second to translate, and when she caught up, her neck and chest flared with heat. The little death. She stared at him in shock, and Darkly grinned. “Had me wondering how Lightner survived you.” He booped her nose, and Milla swatted his hand away. “Your magick wants to be used, leannán . Even better, ken it fancies bein’ used on me.”

“Oh, Horned God, really? Magickal orgasms?” Rai vanished her bag and stalked toward the tents and the narrow passageway between them. “I literally can not.”

This deep in the ring, it was a bit of a hike to the throughway that would lead them into Heresy. Milla caught glimpses of the rituals they passed, marveling at the ingenuity of the witches as manifestation rituals and libidinous displays evolved into more fetishized performances.

At their heart, rituals were all the same—first came the establishment of the telos, or the objective purpose of the ritual, the intent.

Next came desire. A witch must want with all her mind, body, and soul the thing for which she appeals to the Triple Goddess. Desire was fairly easy to achieve where sex magick was involved, but in sex magick, desire was wound in with intent and established through the act.

Sacrifice was the tricky one. In the traditional sense, the sacrifice taken was one Milla knew well. One she had fallen back upon with Ezra time and time again and now with Darkly. It was easy to lose oneself in carnal pleasure, and wasn’t loss a sacrifice? While Milla never leapt to that as a first choice, it was hard to deny the appeal of la petite mort, and clearly, Darkly had made the same connection.

But as with all things witchy and weird, the Ways were many, and the means plentiful.

Sacrifice could be of the flesh. It could be pain given or received. It could be the emotional loss of self above the physical or be as simple as taking away one’s freedom and will. All of this illustrated by the final rituals they passed. In one, a woman perched on the lap of a witch, her legs held apart while he played her like an instrument and savored her moans. Near the throughway, a pair of witches in clunky, iron shoes were led by their harnesses in a circle, their legs hobbled and horse-hair plugs bobbing. A striking image to hold in mind as they entered the Sixth Ring.

“Flinging or Flying?” the Security Witch asked, gesturing to the casting ranges within the ring.

“Flying,” Milla sighed, following the witch’s pointed arm to the through-way. It did not stop her from flinging a subtle hex or two, withering a Green Witch’s vine and reversing a chronomantic’s offensive allure.

Crowded tents filled the Seventh Ring, Violence, housing everything from the Vamp Camp to live paintings of torrid scenes to spoken-word open mics. Witches illusioned to appear as creatures of myth wandered the ring, and Rai led them easily through the installations, handily avoiding the vampires.

Thumping bass and electronic wails welcomed them to the Eighth Ring—Fraud. Milla kept her eyes sharp, scanning the crowd for Diego while knowing the likelihood of spotting him was slim. The crowd in this ring was thick at the end of the day as witches made their way to the center of the festival, all of them blind to the extra shadows clinging to the trees and tents.

The barrier between the Eighth and Ninth Rings was thin and guarded by the massive landmark Milla had pointed out to Darkly on the map.

Larger than the Red Death or any of the other sculptures and statuary speckling the grounds, every passer-by slowed to marvel at the thirty-foot-tall winged terror. Red eyes lit with spalování flame scanned the crowd from a head pivoting left to right. Clever mechanics twisted each of his three mouths in a cycle of pain, malice, and rage. Both hands gripped limp bodies dressed in rags, and a third dangled half-chewed in one of the mouths.

As they approached, Milla lightly caressed the thin casing wrapped around the statue’s leg.

“Leather.” She moved to the beast’s cloven hoof and pressed her hand against the heel. Life whispered back at her, and she jerked her hand away, mystified. “And bone and fur, Holy Horned God.”

“The Panhandle Coven spares no expense,” Rai advised from somewhere over her left shoulder. “The pamphlet described it as iron reinforced bone and chronomantically hexed leather and fur to maintain the Mystique of the Real.” Milla glanced at the Vinefica, and Rai’s lips spread smugly. “You two are clearly up to something. I trust this will do?”

Milla whipped her face to Darkly, who looked just as alarmed as she felt.

“What do you mean?” he asked, all innocence.

“Please, she rotted an oak tree, and you’ve been dropping Shades since Limbo.” When Darkly’s mouth formed a startled little o, Rai shook her head and sent him a fond smile. “I can still sense your magick a kilometer away, Keir. A witch doesn’t easily forget something like that.” She patted his arm. “Anything else I should know?”

“Be ready,” Milla said, checking her phone and sliding it back into the pouch. “If this works, the ritualists are going to be caught bare-assed.” At Rai’s blank look, she clarified, “They’ll be out in the open.”

“They’ll need tae act quickly,” Darkly added.

Rai’s gaze drifted from Milla to the organic construct looming over them. “How many of the rings did you manage?”

“All but the Seventh.”

Rai nodded, contemplating the three-headed statue and, no doubt, the Ways of the witches she escorted.

“M’gonnae need something to keep me grounded,” Darkly said in a low voice. “No weed, a stimulant.”

Rai whipped her face to him, worry creasing her brow. “You’re sure?”

“Need my wits about me.” He brushed Rai’s arm. Took her hand. “Lou’s gonnae expect me to be functional.”

“Lou’s going to be livid.” Rai squeezed his fingers and pulled away, looking between the pair. “You’re positive about this?”

“Deadly,” Milla confirmed. “And you should put up a ward; with any luck, this will take out the entire festival.”

“Well, alright then.” Rai fluffed Milla’s hair, straightened the fingerbone and boline on her necklace, then did the same to Darkly, tugging his scarf into place as she smiled sweetly at him, carefully avoiding the Shade looping his bicep. “I’ll go find Toby.”

“Oh, thank the Goddess, there you are!” Rhett bustled up beside them, eyes frantic and curls tousled. Dust clung to the creases at the corners of his eyes, aging the young Vestic by a handful of years. “Ms. Abernathy hoped to meet with you before your demonstrations, but we don’t have the time now. The svítilna can light on the fly, but the audiomantics are beside themselves."

“I’m sorry, what?” Milla stumbled a step, half-tracking Rai, who slipped away as Rhett pressed on.

“You’re up first; I’ll need some idea of what music they should play,” the vestic fussed over Darkly. “Will you talk? They can cast your voice easily enough. And where have you been? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

Darkly smiled a shark’s grin, eyes bleeding deep black. “Got waylaid.”

The main stage of Beltane was separated from the crowd by a narrow moat of cleared ground guarded by Enforcers. A trench had been dug beneath the stage, allowing more clearance for the taller witches. Darkly halted at the entrance, an earthen ramp guarded on both sides by sound-dampening wards and a slew of look-away hexes that Rhett dispelled with a lazy wave. Dropping hands on his hips and rocking back on his heels, Darkly scanned the crowd beyond the Enforcers, the angle of the sun, and the mound rising over the curve of the stage. A broad grin lit up his face; the fool of a witch was thrilled by what he saw.

“Let me guess,” Milla said, “reminds you of your childhood?”

“Aye, that it does.” He scanned the stage and the gathering crowd, completely at ease with their circumstances, while Milla’s belly was a riot of nerves and anxiety. “Mum used to breathe fire in the main ring.” Of the carnival he’d grown up in, she assumed. “Da worked the lights.”

“Svítilna?”

“I—” He closed his mouth, chin tucking and lips pursing. “Actually, dinnae ken what—”

“There you are.” Lou popped out from under the stage, eyes blazing as she examined them both. Her lip curled at the lipstick stains on Darkly’s chest. Milla’s disheveled skirt. “Goddess, are you even sober enough to cast?”

“‘Course I am.” Darkly pressed a hand to his chest in mock affront. “Wee Milla, on the other hand.”

“Had a li’l fun in the Fourth.” Milla hiccuped and pressed a finger to her chin, swaying slightly. “Or wassit the Fifth?” She flexed the fingers on her casting hand, forming a wobbly sigil. “Can still do the flower trick. I think.”

“Abysmal.” She prodded them under the stage, Rhett following close behind. “The Elder Witches are seated here.” Lou pointed to a short staircase leading to a lowered portion of the stage.

“Did Dina make it?” Milla asked. Lou’s brow bunched, and she clarified, “She said she wanted to be here.” Swirling a finger in the air, she swayed for good measure, forcing Lou to back away. “Wouldn’ wan’ her to miss the show.”

“I’m sure she’s here somewhere.” Lou directed them to the stairs. “There’s a vase on stage. I’ll be on hand to bind your Way the moment you’re done. We wouldn’t want you rotting anything unnecessary.”

“Got it.”

“Keir, you’re expected to bring on the night. With any luck, the crowd will be too stunned to be disappointed by Ludmilla.”

Darkly’s drunken grin widened, and glee crinkled his eyes. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, plumes of deep, black smoke rising with the motion. “Excellent.”

“Is that them?” Constance descended the short flight of stairs, bustling over. “Thank the Goddess, I thought we were about to miss the window.” She bustled over, necklaces and bracelets clacking, and swept Milla into a hug. Pendants and beads dug into Milla’s front, and the cat-eye point of bright purple glasses pierced her temple. “Two demesnes, my girl, Morgen is so proud!” She gripped Milla’s shoulders and leaned back, beaming a bright, gap-toothed smile at her. “She can’t wait to see you.”

“Morgen’s here?”

“Of course she is. What sort of mother misses her daughter’s first Beltane?” She released Milla and faced Darkly. He grinned, dimple and all, and offered his hand. Constance batted it away and hugged with as much vigor as she’d hugged Milla.

The smoke drained away, and startled green eyes widened over the Elder Witch’s head. He was over a foot taller than Constance, undoubtedly stronger and heavier, but the woman rocked him side to side with as much ease as she had Milla’s slight frame. His shock melted away as quickly as it had risen, and Darkly hugged her back.

“A witch could get used to such greetings, Ms. Abernathy,” he said, all charm and smiles.

“None of that. You’re one of ours now. Call me Auntie.” She let go, checking her watch, and jerked into motion, ushering Darkly to the stairs. “Five minutes, is that enough time?”

“More than.” He ducked to avoid a beam and alighted the steps with Connie right behind him, glancing back at Milla before ascending out of sight. “It’s showtime.”

Lou, Rhett, and Constance followed him up to the viewing platform, and the crowd erupted as Darkly took the stage. Milla closed her eyes and counted to three. Her nerves were a jangle, and, absent an audience, she took a moment to internally freak the fuck out.

This would work. It had to work. They had primed the ritual grounds, Darkly would bring on the night, ensuring Milla had everything she needed in place, and they would light their figurative beacon, drawing all of the attention and all of the magick to themselves. It wasn’t her best theory, but Goddess, it was better than rotting flowers and waiting for something to happen.

Charge the field, draw the magick, starve the ritual. Turn down all of the noise, erase the confusion of Beltane and distortion of the Ways, and clear a path to locate the witches pretending to be her.

She only hoped it would be enough.

Shadows flickered and stretched beneath the stage, drawn to the stairs. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out, reading the E.R.I.E. and its reassuring chart, doing exactly what she expected it to. The light winked out, plunging Milla into utter darkness. The Beltane crowd shrieked in delighted terror, and a deep, rolling chuckle trickled through the boards to Milla’s ears, dying away as the light returned and she came face to face with the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.

Milla yelped, jerking out of Marie’s reach. The vampire did not move. Dressed as impeccably as ever, her deep crimson wrap dress clung to every curve. Liquid shadows dripped from ruffles at the neckline and along the asymmetrical slit in the skirt. Gold adorned her fingers, wrists, and neck, glinting rich and wicked in the salt lamps beneath the stage, and nestled in the wild curls of her hair was one of those little dreadfuls Milla despised.

The doll waved a stumpy appendage at her, and it was a struggle not to hex the damn thing into a pile of decaying burlap.

Despite the utter fear curdling her blood, despite all wisdom screaming at her not to, Milla spoke first. “I’m surprised to see you here, Marie.”

“This is a celebration of the Ways, is it not? She pursed her lips in false innocence. “I had not been made aware Voodoo was no longer considered acceptable.” When Milla had no response, Marie flashed her fangs. “Is this any way to greet me after so long apart, Little Lightner?”

Milla’s heart seized. Just plumb stopped in her chest. She willed herself not to flee, not to lash out, managing enough poise to stare at the vampire with her lips pursed together. The Voodoo Queen had never called her by Ezra’s name, and Milla did not want to unpack the implications of her using it now.

Marie laughed again, throwing her head back. “Terror is lovely on you, Ludmilla.”

“If I recall, my history of being terrorized doesn’t tend to end well for you and yours,” Milla replied. That sobered Marie enough to have her move closer. Milla held up a hand, showing her the blackened tips of her fingernails. “One question.” Shallow eyes darted to Milla’s hand. “You know about these rituals, don’t you?”

A long, loaded moment passed, heavy as a held breath. Marie nodded, relinquishing a few inches of space between them. “What have you done?”

“Rigged the deck.” Milla faced the stairs, boldly putting her back to Marie. “Is the Vamp Camp warded?”

“By the best, naturally.”

“You should leave.” She tipped her head to the side, angling it enough to see Marie’s face. Was that a hint of pride she saw there? “Get behind the wards and keep the cultists inside.”

“And the witches in the Seventh Ring?”

That had Milla twisting around. “How many.”

“A handful,” Marie conceded. “And one Stitch Witch.”

Fuck . She knew Diego had been assigned the Seventh Ring, but she had thought he would be smart enough to avoid Marie. Who was she kidding? No one could avoid the Voodoo Queen. The Horned God-damned woman was inevitable.

“Can you—” she swallowed thickly, hating that of all the witches in the world, she was about to ask Marie this favor. “Can you get him behind a ward?”

“It is going to cost you.”

“Whatever you need.” A fool’s bargain, but this was about Diego they were talking about. What else could she do?

“It is less about what I need and more about what I want.” Marie let that sit for a singular heartbeat. “ Who I want.”

Milla closed her eyes, dropping her chin to her chest. Like the witch, her request was inevitable. But this was a question of Diego, and in that there was only ever one answer. She raised her head, hoping her expression was as determined as she felt. “Whatever you need.”

Marie smiled, the Shades plunged them into darkness, and a cold, vice-like grip seized Milla’s wrist. She cried out as fangs plunged into her arm, the sound drowned out by the roaring crowd. Marie sucked once, dragging at the very essence of Milla, and released her arm. When the light returned, she was a dozen feet away, wiping her thumb across her lower lip.

“Await my summons,” Marie stated. The stage was plunged into darkness again, and Milla knew before the lamps flickered to life that the Voodoo Queen was gone.