Chapter 1

Vive in umbra.

Live in shadow.

Fifth Tenet of the Order of the Hallowed

It’s difficult to describe, with accuracy, how the hot spray of blood feels when it kisses my cheek. 

Or the sheer horror of watching my boyfriend’s body fall on the beige rug, his limbs cocked at odd angles. It’s strange how even in death, his eyes remain open like empty windows.

Momentarily, I forget about the dead body at my feet. My attention is stolen by a flash of shadow—humanoid in shape—creeping along the far wall of my living room. I snap my head up. My breath is a tight knot in my chest. Looking around the room, I find a layer of viscera covering the floor and dripping down from the ceiling. The space is eerily quiet like the calm before a mighty storm. The seconds are languid, stretching into minutes, and possibly eons. 

Meow. My heart slams against my rib-cage. Spectre, my fat tuxedo cat, slithers around my millennial gray couch. I let out my breath, my shoulders falling away from my ears.

“Don’t scare me like that!” I hiss.

Spectre ignores me in supreme cat fashion and prances through the gore. He stops to sniff Jared’s intestines. Before I can process what is happening, the cat licks the remains. I grimace. The little monster goes a step further, piercing the soft tissues with his sharp teeth. Fuck. At least he has his rabies shot.

“Get away from that!” I lurch forward. Blood squelches under my shoe. Bile rises up my throat and every muscle in my body freezes. I growl with annoyance. Fine. I give up. Dumb cat.

Blood rolls down my arms, the liquid warm and sticky. On my shirt and pant legs, clumps of Jared’s entrails stick to me. My stomach twists like a wrench.

I killed him.

Jared deserved the punishment. This evening wasn’t the first time he hit me, but it will certainly be his last. Though being sliced in half with his insides very much on the outside is probably a step too far.

I realize I should probably be panicking. Murder isn’t something someone just does on a regular basis. Well, unless they’re a serial killer, and this is only my second time killing in ten years. Surely, that doesn’t qualify me for such a label? I’ll ask the internet later.

But more importantly—how the fuck am I going to clean this up?

The last time I accidentally killed someone, it wasn’t messy. In fact, it was quite a neat and polite affair, in terms of murdering. One day she was there, and the next moment, she fell through a hole in the world.

Just poof.

Gone.

The scene before me was anything but polite. It was more akin to a loud and abstract art show, where you don’t quite understand anything you’re seeing. The brushstrokes—long in some places, short and jagged in others—lain on the canvas in such a fashion it makes your heart careen off your rib cage. The color is messy and bright.

And this painter likes red. The thought is not my own. It stands apart from the jumble in my mind, ringing out with distinct clarity.

Did I take my meds today? I glance back at the kitchen counter, struggling to remember.

I shake my head, throwing the thought to the wind. There are more pressing matters at hand. Who do you call after accidentally killing your boyfriend because your magic has a mind of its own? I work through a maze of machinations, but they all come slamming to a halt at one inevitable conclusion.

My mother.

“Fucking shit.” I dig the phone from my pocket. Its surface is viscid, my hands still covered in gore. Looking through my contacts, I find my mother’s name, Charlotte Maddox. But my thumb hovers over it, stifled by fear. With a flick of my finger, the contacts scroll by and I select a different name.

I put the phone on speaker, the trilling sound assaults my eardrums.

“I’m kinda busy right now,” Gwyneth, my sister, says by way of greeting.

“Well, fuck whatever you’re doing. I need help,” I say. 

“Quinn, there’s a lot going on here at the manor with the Consummation around the corner. The florist fucked up mom’s order. Can you tell the difference between an aster and a chrysanthemum? Because I sure as hell can’t. But of course, our mother, she—” 

“Gwyn!” I shout and cut off my sister’s word vomit. “I killed Jared.”

On the other end of the line, I hear gum cracking. “Your boyfriend? Did he deserve it?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. And yes. But that isn’t the point. There’s a dead body at my feet and a lot of blood. It’s a crime scene.”

Gwyn huffs. “There’s only so much I can do about that. That’s a bit beyond me and my power. You need to call our mother.”

I clench my teeth together considering my sister’s words. Calling Charlotte would mean embroiling myself with the Order of the Hallowed again. And getting involved with a mystical fellowship who believe themselves mortal gods isn’t high on my priority list. For the last ten years, I’ve run fast and hard away from that particular flavor of insanity. I got a big enough mess in my own head.

But peering around my ruined downtown apartment, I’m not sure I have much choice. I don’t have the ability to clean this up myself or more importantly…cover it up. And if I don’t get help, I’ll surely end up behind steely bars.

“Gwyn, you know I can’t do that. Charlotte will drag me back into the fold.”

“Do I need to remind you of your promise?” Gwyn says. 

Fuck.Internally, I brace myself.

“I know you hate our mother. I get it, I do too. She’s demanding. And I’m not entirely sure she feels anything remotely close to love. But I’m gonna be real with you for a moment, Quinn—continuing to run away from your magic, isn’t going to fix anything. After everything with Sophia, you promised we’d get through the Hallowed and our mother—together. Until our dying breath. Remember? How can you do that—”

“Stop,” I say through gritted teeth, not appreciating Gwyn’s attempt at guilting me because it’s working. “I’ll call Charlotte. Be ready.” I hang up the phone before Gwyn can say anything else.

But doubt’s heavy hand creeps in and latches onto me. I’m scared of what this call will do to me, of how it will change the trajectory of my life. In the Order, they would say this is the work of fate—of Ananke, the primordial goddess of order. She coils her length around me, in her form of the great serpent, and tugs me toward a fork in the road; one path paved with cement to a life behind prison bars, and the other, encased in unknown horrors—in magic.

The last time I spoke to Charlotte was nearly a decade ago, only a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday. Charlotte begged me to accept my power. Accept the magic—the Hallowed. But after that first accident, I just wanted to be normal. Magic could go suck ass for all I cared. There was no good to come from my particular blend of magic. If my ability could even be called magic. It’s dangerous.

But staring down at my phone, I realize asking Charlotte for help is the only path I have left to take. The worst part? I know the moment I call her, she will know I’m out of moves. And through hell-or-highwater she will exploit it.

Charlotte will praise destiny—Ananke. I will become a pawn to push around the board. I know because after the initial accident, Charlotte didn’t recoil, no—she rejoiced. She celebrated my ability to tear apart the world, rip holes in our existence, and put them back together.

And unfortunately, since that fated day ten years ago, when I split the world in two for the first time, I’ve had an inescapable dark shadow stalking me. It looms over my shoulder and whispers nonsense within the confines of my mind. It’s a constant echo of the gloom lurking inside me. Not that I need it. The bottles of medication lined up on the kitchen counter are reminder enough.

I do not revel in killing. I’m not proud of snuffing out the light in those closest to me. If anything, it makes me question my own body, my own mind. This hunk of flesh is not a home I can trust.

I sink my thumb into the screen of my phone. Each trill cuts me like a razor’s edge. The phone shakes in my hand.

“Quinn! How long has it been?” Charlotte says in her honeysuckle southern twang. Her greeting is more appropriate for a distant friend than an estranged daughter. But that is the way of Charlotte Maddox, Praevoti of the Draco Circulae, a small sect of the Hallowed. She is all business and false pleasantries. Her children are merely a data point, a small piece in a large puzzle. “It must be a momentous occasion for you to be calling. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need help,” I bite out.

“I’m surprised you didn’t call your sister,” she says.

I don’t bother admitting I already tried that particular tactic. With sticky fingers, I play with the length of the gold cord around my neck—my anankion—a relic of my childhood and my time with the Hallowed.“It’s messy.”

On the other end of the phone, Charlotte clicks her tongue. “What exactly is the issue?”

“My boyfriend’s intestines are on my living room floor.”

“Hmm. How did this happen?”

I shuffle my feet. “It just happened. Like with Sophia. I can’t explain it.”

“If the authorities showed up, could it be explained away by mundane causes?”

“No,” I breathe out.

“Well,” Charlotte says, her tone matter of fact, “this is not good at all. Do you not recall our tenets?”

Dammit. Why does she have to bring that up? I rack my brain trying to remember the exact five guiding principles of the Hallowed, but my boarding school days are years behind me. The knowledge is foggy from the marching of time. “Something about not being obvious. About going unseen?”

“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten everything. You obviously understand the seriousness of the situation.” Charlotte pauses, calculating the cost of my transgressions, and not just this one, but the entirety of my ten year absence. “However, it’s always my pleasure to help a dear daughter in a time of need. But—,” she says, the syllable flung high in the air, waiting for me to catch it.

“Yes,” I say, acknowledging the cost. Because nothing is ever without a price in the world of the Hallowed. There is no free entry.

“Then you agree to be a Sacrati in the upcoming Consummation?”

I’m not surprised she doesn’t bother to pad the question and instead, chooses to cut right to the chase. Every twenty years, the Hallowed gather to select new leadership and pay homage to their primordial gods. And I’ve done nothing but try to escape that bloody ritual. Destiny is a bitch. I grind my teeth, growling the answer, “Yes.”

“Perfect!” Charlotte’s winning blow rings across the line. “Tell me who to send.”

My body pulses with unbridled rage at her matter-of-fact smugness. I heave out a shaking breath, reigning in my emotions. “Send my sister. And someone who is good at…cleaning.”

“Gwyneth and Dmitri will be there momentarily. Are you still living in that place downtown?”

My teeth grind together. When Gwyn arrives, she will be receiving an earful about what not to share with our dear mother. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

“Wonderful,” Charlotte coos. The word slithers over me, wrapping its length around me, pulling me toward my grave. I was finally allowing Charlotte, and the Hallowed, to have power over me. I’m certain Charlotte will use the opportunity to mold me into something new and shiny, something I won’t recognize. “But Quinn, before you go, please only bring the bare minimum. You should know traveling via telemotus is easier with a lighter load.”

“Noted.” But I’m cringing internally. Traveling by magic is an awful experience to say the least.

“Good. It’s going to be wonderful having both my daughters under one roof again. Oh, and right on the cusp of the Consummation,” Charlotte pauses, putting the nails in the coffin that will drag me down, down, down. “The Vates always said you were destined to participate.”

I recall my first meeting with the Vates, the seer, and my heart leaps so far into my throat, I might choke on it. All children of the Hallowed, get a blessing at fourteen when they receive their anankion—a chain used to channel power. It was at my blessing ceremony, the Vates proclaimed I was going to be a great force, chosen by the gods to usher in a new era for our people. But what the fuck did that even mean? It sounds like nonsense.

But yet, I’m here.

I stare back at the phone's glowing screen, realizing there was only ever one path carved out for me. I look down at my chain, its gold links glinting in the warm lamplight, and curse the accomplice to my downfall. 

“See you soon,” Charlotte says, interrupting my thoughts, 

The line goes dead, emptying itself of her presence. I’m left alone in my living room waiting for fate to tug at my threads like a puppet. It’s by her unfathomable will by which I will be flung into a series of lethal trials and back into the madness of the Order. Just my damn luck, mucking up my magic on the eve of such archaic rites.

A sinking feeling pulls at my stomach.

What the fuck did I just do?

Chapter 2

I still need to extricate myself from the puddle of blood and guts at my feet. My eyes scan the floor but the way to the kitchen is fraught with gore. The squishy noises beneath my shoes make bile shoot up my throat. I choke it back.

I trek the remainder of the obstacle course on my tiptoes like a gods-damned ballerina. Gwyn would snicker if she caught me prancing through puddles of blood. In the safety of my kitchen, I crawl out of my filthy clothes. 

My band shirt and ripped jeans fall to the floor with a soft thud like wet laundry. Examining myself, I groan. Even my bra and underwear are ruined. I throw my undergarments on the floor with the rest of my soiled items. My hands fuss with all the visible and invisible gore still clinging to me. Naked and in the middle of the kitchen, I rub at my skin, shaking, as if a million little bugs are crawling over my flesh.

A knock sounds at the door. The cavalry has arrived. Gosh, they got here quick. I scurry over to the door, still naked, and look through the peephole. Gwyn’s copper hair, the same as my own, comes into view. Before I can say anything, the door handle jiggles and then opens. I skitter from behind its wooden face.

“Hey, hey, hey! What the fuck, Gwyn,” I shout. “I’m naked!”

Gwyn steps inside, her hands tucked into a long gray trench coat, her black heels click against the old wood floors. She gives me a wicked smile. Gwyn’s hair is cut in an angular bob framing her high cheekbones. Her hair used to be long like mine but about a month ago, she chopped most of it off. I admit, it suits her.

A man with sepia skin, honey brown eyes, and curly dark hair walks in after Gwyn—Dmitri. He enters my apartment without a word, shutting the door promptly closed behind him.

“Quinn, now is not the time to pretend you’re shy,” Gwyn says. “Unless you’re embarrassed about that horrible shiner ‘round your eye—it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

I ignore her comment about my black eye and cross my arms. “Yeah, maybe not you, but Dmitri,” I say, scowling at them both.

Dmitri’s brown eyes stare past me at the beautiful picture of my living room as if I’m the least interesting thing he’s ever seen. He is put together with not a single hair or button out of place; from his well-manicured beard, to the tips of his shiny shoes. His talent for making things disappear is well-regarded by the Hallowed, and its leaders. It makes him one of Charlotte’s secondhand men. I scoff in his general direction, but he pays me no mind.

“Also, why did you tell Charlotte where I lived? You know how I feel about you sharing details of my life,” I ask.

Gwyn cuts her eyes at me. “And let her send Ren after me?” She makes a gagging sound and sticks out her tongue. “Let him dip his weird magical tendrils into my brain? I don’t think so.”

I have to admit, Gwyn makes a good point. I shiver at the mention of Ren, the young esoradication prodigy— ability to reach into a person’s mind and pluck free memories like they are ripe fruit from a tree. I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.

And perhaps, I’m as bad as Charlotte. Even after my departure from the Hallowed I’ve kept a pulse on Charlotte’s activity. I see now that thought was silly, naïve even. The Vates’ blessing at fourteen was a target on my back. All Charlotte needed to do was be patient, and in time, I’d come crawling back. I acquiesce and throw my hands up in the air. “Fine. You win. What about Spectre?” I ask.

“What?”

I point down to the small creature rubbing itself on Dmitri’s black pant legs. “My cat!”

“Bring him?” Gwyn whirls around me, gliding on her five-inch heels, the image of grace. The scent of strawberries, rose and bergamot dance around me, replacing the overwhelming smell of effluvium filling the apartment. “Why don’t you go clean yourself up, Quinn? I will handle the landlord and the neighbors. Dmitri will,” she pauses, looking over at the man, then raises an eyebrow. “Do whatever Dmitri does.”

“What about my job? My friends?” Or Jared friends? But I don’t say it. Dammit. I’ve made a mess of things. Jared didn’t deserve the end I gave him. I never aspired to be an executioner. 

She walks over to my kitchen counter, pulls out an envelope and pen from the mail sorter and slides them across the counter. “Write down everyone’s info, their emails and phone numbers. It will be like they never knew you.”

I frown and begrudgingly start writing. It feels like signing my death note.

“I’d say you got about twenty minutes until we skedaddle. Sound like a plan?” She asks when I pass her the paper.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say before flicking her off. Gwyn is gloating. As the younger of the two of us, she takes every chance she gets to rub in her superiority. While I’ve been free of our mother’s burden, living my life, she’s been stuck under Charlotte’s thumb. And now that I too am a prisoner of our mother’s will, Gwyn is going to pour salt in the wound. Especially since I need her and her power to weave false stories into reality.

Gwyn giggles “Too-dah-loo.”

I roll my eyes and retreat to my bedroom.

My arrival to my childhood home is anything but graceful. My guts feel as if they’ve been scooped out with a fork. We become visible, in a swirl of light and dust, on the two-story monstrosity my mother calls a porch. Corinthian columns hold the whole thing up. Bronze lanterns illuminate the space and keep the darkness at bay. Thank goodness I’m able to watch myself vomit all over my new shoes. Cicadas drone all around us, the sound only making me more ill.

Beside me, Gwyn laughs, a hand covering her grin. There isn’t even a bead of sweat on her forehead. I hate how easy she makes it look. And I am no delicate flower by any means, but telemoting is taxing on the body. To travel from one place to another in a matter of seconds requires turning oneself into aether, into spirit or light, and makes it quite difficult. Not that I ever mastered much of my power before running away. I only make it to my childhood home of Mossgrave Manor, in the rural foothills of North Carolina, thanks to my sister’s prowess.

The front door opens, warm light spills out from the interior, and my vision fills with red high heels. Charlotte. I suck down some air and push off my thighs. The world tilts. I fling my arms out to either side of me, catching my balance like a new born foal. Finally steady on my feet, my mother’s face comes into view.

Charlotte’s hazel eyes stare back at me, a reminder we are born of the same flesh. Her red lips are arranged in a soft smile. Her bleached platinum blonde hair is tucked neatly behind one ear, the ends curled to perfection. “Good to see you as always, Quinn. Welcome home. Looks like your magic is out of practice. I’d ask that you please remove your shoes before stepping inside.” Charlotte snaps her fingers at the figure standing in the shadows of the foyer. “Trish, get this cleaned up please.” 

Trish is head of manor staff and is wearing the usual pencil black skirt and collared black button up. The stern looking woman, with thick eyebrows and ramrod straight posture, has worked for my mother all my life. In her hands, she holds a thick white bag like the kind you find in hotels for laundry.

“Nice to see you too, Charlotte.” I step out of my shoes and bend over to pick them up. 

“Ms. Maddox, if you will let me,” Trish says, putting a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“I’m not letting you touch my vomit,” I say, brushing her hand away. I retrieve the shoes by the loops on the heels and deposit them into Trish’s open bag.

Trish gives me a tight-lipped smile before turning around and disappearing into the house. Trish—and all of the staff— are Profani or the Hallowed born without power. To those who believe in this nonsense, these individuals were not blessed by Ananke to reach apotheosis in this lifetime. Many of the Hallowed treat them as less than, like my mother, but it never sits right with me.

Charlotte’s eyes shift, roving over Dmitri. “What’s that?” She points, her facial features rearranging into disgust.

My eyes follow her outstretched hand. Dmitri, who apparently also took the time to clean my cat, cradles Spectre in one arm. With his free hand, the hulking man rubs a hand down the cat’s orange fur. Spectre purrs loudly in return. “Oh, that’s my cat.”

“You know how I feel about animals in my house.”

“I’m sure he hates you as much as you hate him.” I side step the pile of guts and shoulder past my mother. “My room still in the same place?”

Charlotte turns around, a red flush dusting her cheeks. A small sign I’ve gotten under her skin. On the inside, I’m kicking my feet like a school girl. If there is anything in this world that brings me a sliver of joy, and there isn’t much, it's annoying my mother.

She waves hand in the air, motioning toward the back of the palatial home. “Left side of the family wing, next to Gwyn, as usual.”

“Ten four, captain.” I give Charlotte a mock salute before turning on my heels.

Behind me, I hear Gwyn and Dmitri talking to my mother in hushed voices. More than likely, they are providing Charlotte a play-by-play account of what led to my arrival at my childhood home. I push the thought away as Spectre brushes against my jeans and yowls up to me.

“Oh you’re gonna love it here!” I say down to my chunky boy. “There are so many little nooks and crannies, so many shadows to hide in.”

The cat chirps up at me again as if understanding. Bending down, my hand rubs over his face, gray hairs frame his amber eyes. The two of us have been together for almost as long as I’ve been missing from Mossgrave Manor. Spectre has seen me through several bad boyfriends—and girlfriends. His loyal companionship is one of the few steady relationships I’ve managed to keep. I’m sure that says something about me but choose not to think about it too hard.

I continue my walk across the marble checkerboard floors in the foyer, and pass under the grand double staircase, into the family wing. The estate itself has five wings. Each of the five wings are named after constellations: Aquilla, Capricon, Gemini, Orion, and Draco. It’s all very pretentious. Each wing is decorated in colors to match their namesake.

The family wing—housing the Draco constellation—is bedecked in rich verdant greens, golds and matte blacks. I pass beneath the staircase into the oversized living room with dark green walls. Two circulae members are chatting, facing each other, on a high back couch with gold gilding. When I glide past them. Their bodies tense, the conversation dies. Their faces aren’t familiar to me, but I’m sure they know who I am. And if they don’t, well, Charlotte will fix that really soon.

Sconces dot the long hallway like small stars in the night. I drag my fingers along the wainscoting. It feels familiar in the same way a dream, spilling from your mind in the fresh morning light is hazy and misshapen. Not quite right.

If I didn’t grow up here, it would be easy to get lost. The surrounding darkness presses in as I turn down a short corridor. I find two arched wooden doors with gold handles. Gwyn’s room is to the right, mine on the opposite wall. 

At the edges of my vision, I swear I see the shadows move. Not real, I tell myself. I’m not surprised by imagination’s manifestations. Being back home stirs up uncomfortable feelings and memories. All of them are stored in the walls of this house, making its presence heavy and unyielding.

Opening the door, the room is unlit. As my eyes adjust to the dim, I make out piles of boxes along the edges of the space. A large, four-poster bed is to my left and directly opposite, a fireplace. Beyond the bed is a desk and several bookcases in a small private study. The room is devoid of any personality beyond the clutter of boxes. When I left, I didn’t take much with me. Charlotte must have asked Trish to take down all my memorabilia at some point because now the room feels empty of life.

I drop my messenger bag to the floor and Spectre wanders in the room behind me. Padding across the room, I turn on a small lamp next to the bed. Its light is warm and inviting. I throw myself onto the white, plush duvet. To my surprise, it smells fresh, like laundry. That was nice of Charlotte, I think. But I consider better only a second later. It isn’t like my mother to go out of her way for others. It was probably Trish’s doing. The small, black-haired woman always seemed to know everything about our goings-on when we were children. It was like the house was whispering all our secrets into her ears.

I relish in the quiet. But of course, my mind will not let me rest. It turns over the string of events leading me back to my childhood cage. Images of Jared’s brown hair and snarling face come to mind. He was belligerently drunk and accusing me of cheating. Which was the farthest thing from the truth. I should be able to talk to a woman at the bar without him being so threatened by my sexuality. But he was always prone to starting arguments in that state of mind. 

In the living room of my old downtown apartment, with its creaky floors and brick walls, our argument spiraled into a brawl. But I’m not one to take anything laying down. An incessant buzzing formed beneath my skin and I grabbed the long golden chain, dotted with three quartz stones.The stones were given to me by the Vates at my blessing ceremony. A token of an individual's perceived power. 

I’m not sure why instinct had me reaching for the chain. I should have taken it off years ago, but for some reason, I wear it like a coveted relic. Maybe because in some weird way, it connects me with my sisters? 

And there I was lassoing the chain around like an errant cowboy, trying to dodge Jared’s onslaught of punches, and a yawning portal snapped open, slicing him in half like a bloody steak. For a blink of an eye, it was as if his torso floated in the air, his face still twisted in anger. Then, all his intestines dropped to the floor in a heap.

It all happened so fast and now, I’m here, and my emotions feel stunted. Shouldn’t I feel remorseful? Sad? Guilty? But there is only a strange nothingness. I loved Jared, even if he was a walking red flag. I should feel something. Instead, his death feels more like clinical fact rather than an avalanche of feeling. Normally, I’d talk this over with my therapist, but my old life is gone now. 

A loud clatter jolts me from my ruminations. The door swings open. Gwyn strides into the room in a flurry of motion. Her trench coat swishes around her legs. She leaps into the air with a squeal, landing beside me. She arranges herself, laying on her belly, and props her chin on her hands. The spray of freckles across her nose comes into view.

My brow inches upward. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I told Charlotte, everything, of course,” she says, pausing to look at me expectantly. But I say nothing. There is no point in hiding anything. Gwyn is just a cog in the machine. “She wants you showered, and—,” She pauses, throwing up her hands to make air quotes. “To be ‘dressed appropriately’ for a family dinner.”

“Is this a family dinner or a circulae dinner?”

A smile slides across her face. “Look at you, so smart. Circulae, duh.”

I heave out of a sigh. “And by appropriate, you mean, in all the best finery.”

“Exactly!” she slaps a hand on the bed. “But I know you don’t really have any clothes right now. I mean maybe you have some old stuff in your closet?”

My eyes dart toward the wooden doors across the room. “I’m not exactly the same size I was in high school.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let you borrow something from my closet.”

I doubt I’ll find anything in Gwyn’s closet either. Her taste is more expensive than my own. She likes clothing that is well-fitted and more classic. Me, on the other hand, I tend to look like a raccoon rummaging in the trash. Occasionally, I feign being human, and wear a mini dress to flirt my butt cheeks when I am in the mood to bring someone home.

“Thanks,” I grumble.

“Don’t worry, Charlotte said we can go shopping tomorrow. She wants you well-outfitted for the Consummation rituals next week. The other circulae are set to arrive on Sunday.”

“That’s only four days away. And we’re hosting this year?” I ask.

When I was eight years old, we attended the Consummation somewhere in Washington state. It was hosted by the Phoenix Circulae and neither Gwyn or I were able to participate in most of the proceedings due to our age. But that was changing this year, both my sister and I would have front row seats to the series of bloody rituals.

“Yup, first time in a hundred years,” Gwen says.

It sounds like a long time, but there are a total of five sects or circulae in the Order of the Hallowed, and every twenty years each circulae takes a turn hosting.

“I guess I need to count my blessings. The Consummation being held on home turf with me being so untrained, and unprepared, is a good thing.” 

Physically, I knew I would be fine when it came to the endurance and strength aspect of the Trials of Succession. These trials are used to eliminate participants from leadership positions, and in the process, offer sacrifice to their primordial gods. They are known for being dangerous, often on rocky terrain or watery battlefields. Thankfully, I’ve spent most of my twenties taking up a range of extreme sports; marathon running, powerlifting, and rock climbing. Because the thing with magic is, even if you turn away from it, it still bubbles under the surface. It presents itself in busy dreams, and restless days. For my sanity, I had to find a way to work off the pent up energy.

“Oh, you’re going to work on that too. After shopping tomorrow and your Initiation, you’ll be meeting with a few people from our circulae.”

I fall back on the bed and groan. It wasn’t productive to whine like a small child, but it felt good. I never got around to actually initiating into the Hallowed before I ran off. It wasn’t something one did until their power fully manifested. I fled only days after my power made itself known. Right after I killed for the first time.

Gwyn scoots closer to me, bringing her face next to mine. “Forget training! Focus on the fun stuff, spending time with me and shopping. It will be just like when we were kids. Plus, Charlotte isn’t coming...”

But Gwyn’s words become background noise when a flash of movement catches my eye. A long shadow, like that of man, creeps along the wall. My pulse quickens.

Gwyn pinches my arm. “Where’d you go?”

I shift my gaze back to her heart-shaped face.“I’m here. Sounds like a lot of fun,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But I’m not going to let you force me into anything with a fucking fringe or made with linen.”

Gwyn laughs.

Chapter 3

When I step out of our connecting bathroom into Gwyn’s room, I don’t feel like I can breathe. Sweat beads on my brow and my cheeks are flushed from exerting myself. This is why I hate shopping. It shouldn’t be a full blown workout trying to find something to wear. It doesn’t help that every piece in Gwyn’s closet is at least a size too small. We don’t exactly have the same build. Gwyn is about two inches shorter than me, and more lithe. My body curves in places hers doesn’t.

I manage to find a dark navy silk slip dress that doesn’t look horrible. The dress hugs all my curves in a flirty way. The real star of the show are my boobs. The thought makes me smile when I realize it will probably piss off Charlotte. You have to find joy somewhere.

I twirl around in the dress, Gwyn’s dusty pink and soft sage room spins in my vision. Every surface is plush or draped in velvet. Leaning on the wall opposite her bed, is a stack of canvases; some empty, some finished. I’m glad to see she’s still painting. 

She giggles. “You look so hot!”

“Yeah, doesn’t look too bad. But doubt you got any shoes that’ll fit me.” 

She scrunches her nose, thinking, then darts into the closet. When she comes out, she throws a pair of gold pointed heels at me. They land at my feet with a thud. “Try those. I ordered them online a few months ago but they’re too big. I meant to return them.”

The shoes are tight and bite into my ankles. With only a few steps, my feet ache are immediately aching, unaccustomed to the sharp angle of heels. Gwyn spends a few more minutes fussing with my make-up before she decides I’m arranged to our mother’s standard.

We walk down the hall toward the dining hall. Gwyn is the image of serenity. She walks with an easy grace and self-assurance. I try to mirror her confidence. In a dress and heels, I feel anything but myself. But Charlotte knows my weaknesses, she is my mother after all, and it’s exactly why she demanded we dress this way.

“So,” Gwyn says, dragging out the vowel and hanging it between us.

I cut my eyes at her. “What?”

“I heard Eden is coming with the Soteria’s entourage of Hallowed.”

The Soteria Ciculae is the closest in proximity to our own, and Eden—my high school love. For a long time, I thought it was just a crush. But people get over crushes, right? I’m not sure many days have gone by without her crossing my mind. When I think of seeing her again, the saliva in my mouth grows thick, trying to strangle me.

“Lovely,” I bite out.

“Thought you’d be excited,” Gwyn says, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“It’s complicated.”

We turn the corner into the dining hall before Gwen can pry further. Its interior is alive with activity and chatter. Black sconces emit a warm light, illuminating paintings held in gilded frames along forest green walls. Neoclassical chairs with solid green upholstered backs line either side of the dining table. The space is elegant but lacks any warmth.

Heads turn in our direction. Gwyn breaks formation, walking to the right of the long, wood dining table. There are about thirty place settings dotted with golden chargers.  In the center of the table sit several tapered candles in black candelabras. A few dozen pairs of eyes wash over me. I stand at the end of the entryway like a fish out of water. The room falls silent. Charlotte is sat at the head of the table at the far end of the large room. Her eyes zero in on my face.

She stands, bringing her champagne flute with her, and taps the glass lip with a fork. “Everyone, please welcome my eldest daughter Quinn. She is returning to the Order of the Hallowed and finally completing her Initiation into our circulae.”

People clap in a polite but subdued way. In fact, no one in this room looks particularly pleased to see me. Except Gwyn. She stands near our mother, a champagne flute in her hands, and wears a beautiful green cocktail dress. She gives me a bright smile.  

Charlotte looks around the room and continues, “Quinn comes to us on the cusp of our next great Consummation. I have selected her as a Sacrati alongside Ren, Gwyn, Wells, and Harper. For the last several weeks, I’ve told you our fifth Sacrati would make themselves known. To trust our great god, Phanes, would provide. She arrived on our doorstep just this evening, declaring her intention to rejoin our ranks. To show her dedication, she has agreed to honor our circulae by becoming an Sacrati. Her power, I’m sure, will be invaluable. And thank you, to each and every one of you joining us tonight to welcome her back into our ranks. Destiny calls upon us all.”

Around the room, glasses go airborne. A chorus of voices chant, “Fatum vocat.” The old Latin words—Fate calls—sends an electric chill down my spine. I recognize the feeling, the pulse in the air. Magic.

I give the crowd a cordial nod.

Charlotte sweeps a hand toward a seat near her spot at the table. “Join us, Quinn, it’s time to celebrate.”

In unison, everyone takes their seat at the table. I walk down the length of the table, my eyes rove the faces of the Draco Circulae. I know this isn’t everyone, only those closest and most important to my mother are present. Most circulae consist of fifty to hundred members. While many of the faces are unfamiliar to me, I’ve heard many of their names thanks to my ongoing conversations with Gwyn over the years.

But then there is Wells. He looks handsome in a navy sports jacket and cream polo, complimenting his warm chestnut eyes and umber skin. We were in the same class during my boarding school days. As students, we were fast friends bonding over books, our shared hatred of our math instructor and the rules. Seeing him now makes my pulse tick up a notch. When I pass him, he ducks his eyes to look at the golden charger laid before him. Fair. He never wanted me to leave, and begged me to stay. We haven’t spoken since my departure.

I know this won’t be the last awkward encounter. When the remaining sects arrive in a few days time, it will only get worse. I have the ghost of an old lover who haunts me.

An empty space waits for me near Charlotte at the head of the table. Internally, I sigh with relief when I find I’m not seated directly next to my mother. The first two seats on either side of her are filled by Dimtri and Dr. Rolland—my mother’s partner and the circulae’s personal doctor.

I’m seated directly across from Gwyn. To my right is a man, with short cropped black hair, beige skin, and muscular shoulders. Next to Gwyn, is a woman, with medium-length dirty blonde hair, and doe eyes. The woman glares at me under her long eyelashes. Wells is seated immediately next to the woman. My intuition tells me the unfamiliar faces are Ren and Harper. Charlotte is known for keeping her cards close to her chest.

I take my seat, feeling unsure of what to say to break the silence. The room is tense, quiet.

Charlotte does us all a favor and snaps her fingers. Trish glides out from the shadows behind my mother. The service door to the kitchen swings open, and the staff file out with trays of food. “Dinner is served!” Charlotte says.

The blonde woman’s eyes are still locked on me. I cock an eyebrow in her direction. “What are you staring at? Something on me?” I fawn and look at my shoulders, arms and hands.

“Just the stench of a Profani. Stay the fuck out of my way during the trials,” the woman spats.

I suck in a sharp breath in mock hurt, bringing a hand to my chest. I’m confused by the insult. The Profani are known as the ‘empty ones’ because they are without power. When their power does not manifest, they are still allowed to initiate into the Order if they so choose. But wait, does Harper think I don’t have magic?

Charlotte cuts in, “Harper, do play nice. The two of you are officially on a team together, and representing our circulae. I expect you to conduct yourself with some decorum.”

Harper’s face does a series of aerobatics which are quite impressive. She gapes like a fish, then huffs in anger, then finally her face settles itself in a serene expression of neutrality. I can’t help but chuckle.

“Nice to meet you, Harper. Can’t wait to work with you,” I say, twisting the knife.

Harper looks down at the plate of food she was just served, and ignores me. 

The man next to me nudges my shoulder gently. I turn toward him. He gives me an enthusiastic smile. His gray eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “Pay Harper no mind, she’s got more bark than bite. I’m Ren, by the way.”

He offers me a strong handshake that I return in the same fashion. “Thanks, I’m Quinn.”

“Oh, I know. We all know.” He gestures down the table. “Praevoti Maddox speaks highly of you. I’m excited to see what you bring to the table in training.”

“You’re my trainer?” I’m caught off-guard by his eagerness. Not that Gwyn ever spoke badly of him, she was never a fan of his power.

Ren produces a nervous chuckle. “One of them.”

Dr. Rolland clears his throat, the six of us in his vicinity all turn toward him. His honey hair is slicked back and the light catches in the round frames of his glasses. He clasps his hands in front of him. “You will work with Ren, Harper, Gwyn, and Wells leading up to the first trial on some team building exercises. However, your direct training will be supervised by me since your abilities are…” His cold, green eyes land on me.“Different. Please report to my office first thing tomorrow morning. Also, sorry to interrupt, Ren. I just thought it pertinent to share with Quinn the expectations.”

My mouth feels dry. I reach for the glass of water in front of me.

Ren nods his head, then folds his hands in his lap. “Of course, doctor.”

“I expect you in my office at seven in the morning, sharp,” Dr. Rolland continues, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m aware you have plans tomorrow morning with Gwyn. I’ve spoken with Charlotte, and I will permit the outing on the grounds you meet with me first and attend your Initiation upon your return.”

My shoulders stiffen at his words. My relationship with Jude Rolland is complicated. I’ve never met my father because Charlotte was bred like a prized show horse. My father was ‘selected’ because of his magical ability, and would give Charlotte the highest likelihood of producing children that would be worthy of the Maddox name. She’s never married. But Dr. Rolland has been around since my earliest memories, and is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father figure.

“We only have a handful of days before the Consummation. Getting you ready is the only priority right now. Understood?” Dr. Rolland asks with a smile. His straight white teeth are stark against his suntanned skin.

“Yes, of course,” I say, knowing I have no choice in the matter. When I was younger and before I left, I had room to argue with Dr. Rolland and push back. But I’d given away that ability the moment I called to ask for help. In this world, every choice was met with a consequence, a payment due—a debt to be paid.

My dreams are a playground for my demons. Images of blood spraying, my family, and an unfamiliar man play on repeat. I wake up twice during the night with cold sweat clinging to my brow and thighs. Panic wraps around my chest like an unwanted hug. Sometime around five in the morning, I give up on sleep.

Spectre is curled into a tight ball, pressed into my hip. I manage to extricate myself from the bed without disturbing him. Dressed in an oversized shirt, gifted to me by Gwyn, I pad down the hallway to the kitchen. It feels like walking through the belly of a beast while it sleeps. When I reach the end of the hall, I find myself holding my breath and let it out.

At this hour, the house is unusually still. It feels too early to turn on any lights. In the kitchen, I fumble around for a glass, my memory hazy. Warm light cascades onto the wooden floors from the nearby floor-to-ceiling windows. My hands graze over the glasses. I slip it from the cabinet and run it under the faucet. Cool water runs down my throat, easing the sharp dryness in my throat. By the time I finish chugging a second glass, the sweat on my skin has dried and breathing comes easier.

Putting my glass in the sink, I stand there surveying the empty kitchen and gathering room. The open floor plan means I can see clearly across the whole thing during the day. But right now, it's touched by long shadows, skewing the shapes of the furniture. The soft garden lights drifting in through the windows make the space look like a dream as if I’m viewing it from somewhere else, faraway.

My body feels detached from the scene. Being home again feels surreal. Is it possible that if I concentrate hard enough, and clench my eyes shut, it all might disappear like one of my dreams? 

My eyes rove the space, trying to find anything familiar, to draw me back down into my body. The porch light flickers. Through the blinds, I watch a silhouette meander past the windows, the sheer curtains obscuring their features. I freeze in my spot in front of the sink. My heart hammers in my chest again.  It’s probably just another Hallowed. Someone who also isn’t sleeping well. No big deal, I rationalize.

But the lights flicker again, and the silhouette disappears from the windows. My feet begin to move of their own accord. My morbid curiosity is getting the better of me. Approaching one of the windows, I pull back the curtains and peek out the window. From my angle, the porch is empty, devoid of any life.

In the corner of my peripheral vision, a shadow stretches along the stairs of the porch, moving down toward the garden. My breath catches. I lean on the wall, putting a hand to my chest. There are so many people in this house, it’s fine, the boogeyman isn’t real. But damn if I’m going to let some asshole scare me.

I’m at the French doors, my hands grip tight around the handle. I open the doors before I can second guess what I’m doing. Stepping outside, the wet sticky summer air drapes itself over me like a blanket. Katydids sing in the early morning light. I stand there wrapped in the glory of a suffocating, southern morning.

The crunch of gravel, somewhere ahead of me, shoots a chilly zing down my spine.

“Hello?” I say, taking a step toward the stairs.

“Quinn,” a husky voice says. The word echoes through me. It sounds familiar.

“Hello?” I’m on the stairs, looking over the hedges lining the walkway in front of me. The garden is quiet, save for the chirping insects. No answer comes. Am I really seeing things again? I’ve been taking my meds like clockwork. But if this gets worse, I may need to talk to Dr. Rolland.

I walk across flagstone pavers into the garden. Splashes of color spring up in the form of hydrangea and rose bushes. Pushing forward, the gardens open up onto a sea of green. The lawn sparkles with dew in the early morning light. In the distance, there is a large pond. A large oak looks over the water, Spanish moss dripping from its branches. A figure leans against the trunk of the tree. My eyes squint, trying to make out the vague form.

I stride toward the pond, my feet become wet with dew. “Hey!” I shout. The figure moves, dipping behind the tree. I break out into a sprint. “Hey! Who are you?”

At the pond, I come to a stop, gulping down air. My breath is hot in my throat. I spin around looking for signs of the shadow. But there is nothing. No one. The surface of the pond is a mirror, reflecting the knotted branches of the oak. I feel the electric tether of magic coursing through my veins. Goosebumps roll down my arms.

My mind reels. I put a hand to my chest again, willing myself to come back down to reality. I’m just seeing shit. It isn’t real, I tell myself. Since the first accident, I’ve struggled with trusting my own mind.

At the water’s edge, I sink to the ground, my head in my hands. My body hums with the chaotic pulsing of magic like a heartbeat that isn’t my own. Loud and uncontrollable. Go away, go away, I say to myself, rocking on my heels. It's the same feeling I had when I killed Jared. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. A frantic sob cuts through my chest. I hate this feeling. I hate this place. I fucking hate magic.

I spring upward, my fists clench at my sides. A guttural, nerve splitting scream crawls up my throat. The rage and uncontrollable energy pours out and hollows out my insides. When I’m done, the only thing that is left is my darkness, the never ending void swirling inside of me. I’ve tried drinking and drugging it away. I’ve tried burying myself in books, useless degrees, and vomit-inducing exercise. Anything to quiet the constant ache. It’s always so hungry.

Wetness rims my eyes. “What do you want?” I sob into the sky.

A hand wraps around my own, a gasp is on my lips. My head snaps forward. Eyes as dark as night bore into my being. “I want you, Quinn.”

I’m yanked forward. I stumble over my feet, and into the water. Warm water encases me, wrapping its suffocating tendrils around me. I kick and thrash but I’m pulled under, deeper and deeper. I open my mouth to scream, but I choke on water. My body seizes with panic. I claw at my throat with my hands. Black spots creep into my vision.  I can’t breathe. I’m going to die.

“Quinn!” a frantic voice says in the back of my mind. “Quinn!”

My eyes fly open, and I gasp, coming up from the water. Cool air tears coats my throat. Sweet, sweet air. I grip the white duvet, realizing I’m still in my bed and Gwyn’s face stares back at me. I sob with gratitude and tears fall from my eyes.

“You’re okay,” Gwyn says, crawling into the bed next to me. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”