By early afternoon, with the village almost within sight, Kara decided to find out if she could inscribe animals from memory.

She could.

She chose the first creature because it could protect her. The second one was its complement, capable of dealing great harm. And the third . . . she wasn’t sure exactly. It was an odd decision, but it felt right.

It was a comfort knowing her creatures lay nestled between the pages of the notebook, ready to be called. She hoped she had chosen wisely, but since she had no idea what spells Grace would cast, it was all a guessing game anyway.

Before closing the book, Kara spent some time staring at the last page, blank and terrible.

She prayed she would not need it.

 

The village stretched out before her. At first glance little had changed. The same one-story buildings lined the main road, painted the same eggshell white. General Store. Blacksmith. Tack Shop.

None of the buildings had signs. People knew what they were.

A light rain began to fall, spotting the dirt coffee-brown, and Kara pulled her cloak tightly around her. Her mother’s dress fit perfectly, but it did little to shield her against the cold. Above the door of the cobbler’s shop, a wooden chime danced in the wind, adding gentle music to the patter of raindrops. The chime was in the shape of an owl—Timoth Clen’s favorite animal—and meant to ward off magic. Kara had always found that ironic.

She dismounted Shadowdancer and ran a hand along her mane.

“Go on,” she said. “This isn’t your battle. You’re free.”

Shadowdancer stood stone still. She regarded Kara with suspicion, as though this were some kind of trick.

“I can’t protect you,” Kara said. “You need to get away from here! She’ll hurt you.” Kara leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for helping me. Now go!”

Turning quickly before she lost her resolve, Kara took a few steps deeper into the village.

Don’t look back, she told herself. It’ll be easier if you don’t look back.

She looked back. Shadowdancer remained rooted to her spot.

“Go!” Kara said as loudly as she dared. “Please.”

Her eyes found Shadowdancer’s. Holding Kara’s gaze, the mare bent her graceful neck forward and low to the ground.

A bow.

And then Shadowdancer was off, a black blur racing toward a stableless existence of open plains and freedom. Kara watched the horse until she was just a dot on the horizon. It was hard to look away from such unadulterated bliss.

When she turned around, the village was filled with people.

A visitor watching the crowd from afar would have thought everything was all right. More than all right: Here was a bustling community of merchants and farmers, fishermen and teachers, Elders and children. Each inhabitant was living proof that the Children of the Fold were a prosperous, civilized people. Bethany James haggled over the price of a sack of flour. The Whitney sisters, their heads pressed together as they strolled along the road, gossiped about some rumor they had overheard at school. A wizened old man swept the porch of the general store.

It could have been any day in De’Noran. Kara wondered—just for a moment—if this had all been some sort of bad dream.

Then she looked closer.

The man was not sweeping the dust to the street, where it belonged, but to the other side of the porch. There, a second worker, standing only a few feet away, swept the dust back again, like some bizarre game of catch. Judging by their gnarled hands and stooped shoulders, they had been at this for a long, long time.

Perhaps the Whitney sisters were indeed gossiping, but the words came out as soft, desperate bleats.

As Shopkeeper Wilkins held out the bag of flour to Bethany James, they haggled in the same bleat language as the Whitney sisters. Neither woman noticed the maggots that had spilled forth from the sack and found new homes on their arms and legs and faces.

Stifling a scream, Kara moved onward. She saw more of the same: a corrupted version of the village’s daily routine. No one seemed to notice her presence.

Is Grace punishing them? Kara wondered. And then a second, even more horrifying possibility: Or is this the way she sees the world?

Kara found the rest of the villagers sitting around the Fenroot tree, hands folded neatly on their laps. Black half rings swelled beneath their sunken eyes. Their lips were cracked with thirst.

How many days have they been sitting there?

Not a leaf of the Fenroot tree remained, and its trunk, usually the rich brown of fertile soil, was as black and smooth as obsidian. Its branches sagged down at impossible angles, as though the tree itself had given up. The top of the tree, however, was where the greatest change had taken place. Here the limbs gathered together into a base, behind which a hundred sharpened branches pointed toward the heavens like the claw of an infernal beast.

In the cradle of this unnatural throne sat Grace Stone.

She had changed as well.

Grace had always been beautiful, but this beauty had become a fierce and terrible thing. Her hair, ash blond and sumptuous, gathered around her ankles like a cloak. She wore a white dress cut short at the knees, revealing two legs that were whole and perfect.

Only her eyes remained the same: a startling turquoise that swirled with the cold fire of madness.

“Nice dress,” Grace said. “It suits you.”

From below, Kara could just make out the black shape in Grace’s lap.

The grimoire.

“Ah,” said Grace, following Kara’s eyes. She placed a hand on the open book. “You came for this. I’m disappointed. I still hoped, despite everything, that we might be friends. But no. You want to steal what’s mine.”

She doesn’t know I have my own grimoire. I have to pick the right moment. Surprise is my best weapon.

“I have no desire for the book,” Kara said. She stared up at the tree throne with what she hoped was a determined expression. “I came to save you!”

Grace laughed, dulcet tones beautiful enough to draw sailors to a rocky shore. Jerking on their stone seats like hideous marionettes, the congregation joined in. Their laughs were not so beautiful.

“Save me? From what, Kara Westfall?”

“The grimoire. It’s tricking you.”

“And how is that, exactly? By letting me do anything I wish?”

“There is a price for such power. Each time you cast a spell, you get closer to the end of the book, and when that happens—”

“Then I’ll be able to cast spells without using the book at all. The grimoire told me all about it, Kara.”

“It lied.”

“My book obeys me. Not the other way around.”

She was too far away to tell for sure, but Kara thought she might have seen a flicker of doubt cross Grace’s face. The congregation, unsettled by this disturbance in their universe, keened softly.

“How many pages are left?” Kara asked. “How many pages until the Last Spell? Because, unless you listen to me, that’s exactly how long you have to . . .”

Grace stepped off the throne. She plummeted though the air at frightening speed, her hair trailing behind her like a reverse waterfall. Just before hitting the ground, Grace vanished—and reappeared right in front of Kara.

“You’ve tried to trick me before,” Grace said. “Remember? You told me the grimoire wouldn’t let me hurt people.” She smiled. “Well, you were wrong about that, Kara Westfall. Let me show you all the different ways.”

Grace stroked the black book clasped in her hands and spit out a stream of words. Kara had just enough time to note Grace’s place in the grimoire—just a few pages left—and then she was airborne. She landed squarely on her back, the impact sending a puff of dirt into the sky along with the oxygen in her lungs.

The congregation, as one, clapped gently.

Before Kara could stand, a cold force squeezed her neck. Kara clawed at the invisible noose, but all she did was scratch bloody rivulets into her own skin. She gasped for breath, and the noose tightened, lifting her into the air. Just as the world was becoming a darkness from which Kara would never return, the spell released its hold. She fell to earth and lay in the dirt, gasping desperately for air.

The congregation moaned their disappointment.

When Kara looked up, Grace was standing before her. The expression on her face might have been mistaken for pity.

“Surely you didn’t think you could fight me,” she said. “Even when you had the grimoire, your power did not compare to mine. And now.” She shook her head. “Now you’re no better than one of them. Perhaps you should just join my followers and be done with it.”

“You need . . . to stop,” Kara said. Each word was a struggle, more air than her body was willing to impart. “The book . . . using you. It will make . . . you . . . suffer. Don’t—”

Grace spoke a single word and set Kara on fire. Flames licked the skin between her fingers. Eyeballs boiled in sockets. Kara would have thought it impossible, but somewhere, deep within her lungs, she found the air to scream.

And then the pain ended. In astonishment Kara held her hand in front of her. The skin was whole, without so much as a sunburn.

“I want to say this will eventually get boring,” Grace said, “but, unlike you, I refuse to lie to another witch.” She held the grimoire open and flipped to the next page. Almost the entire weight of the book, nearly two hundred pages, rested in her left hand. She continued. “I don’t even pick the spells. The grimoire does it for me. But it’s always the right spell.” With a mocking grin, she showed Kara the next page. “Take this one right here. You can’t see it, of course, but that’s probably for the best. It’s vicious. Much different than the others. That’s the book’s way of telling me it’s time to stop playing games and put an end to this.” Grace looked at her. “And I agree.”

Before Grace could open her mouth again, Kara touched the grimoire in her pocket and mumbled the necessary words.

“What was that?” Grace asked. Her voice was bubbly with amusement. “Did you just try to cast a spell? Without a grimoire? Oh dear. Don’t you understand anything about magic at—”

The gra’dak plowed into Grace just below the knees, tossing her over its squat body. She hit the ground hard but quickly rose to her feet, more stunned than hurt. Kara sent the gra’dak again, faster this time. It leaped at the last moment, its tusks knocking the grimoire from Grace’s hands.

The book landed with a thud at Kara’s feet.

“No!” Grace screamed, crawling toward her. “Give it to me! It’s mine!”

The gra’dak nipped Grace’s calf with its human mouth. Then it circled the girl, its five mouths quivering eagerly, longing to finish what they had started. Exercising all her will, Kara managed to calm its violent nature, freezing it in place.

She picked up Grace’s grimoire.

Instantly Kara was flooded by a desire to use it that was far more powerful than before. KILLHERKILLTHEMPOWERPOWERPOWER. Before she even realized what she was doing, the grimoire was open in her shaking hands, a spell inscribing itself before her eyes. ANYTHINGYOUWANT. REVENGE. MOTHERALIVE. ALLYOURS.

The sketch, nearly finished now, showed an achingly beautiful woman with the long, graceful neck of a swan. Kara knew the drawing’s power: the ability to grant any wish. All she had to do was speak her desire and it would be hers.

Don’t listen. This is a thing of evil.

“You are not my mother’s book,” Kara said, and slammed the grimoire shut.

A dark blossom of pain spread throughout her chest. Her entire torso felt slick with blood, but she knew that it was an illusion. She recognized this pain. Looking up she saw Grace kneeling over the gra’dak, a dagger in her hands. Though there was no need, she plunged it into the dying creature one more time. Then another. Each strike of the dagger sent a sharp lance through Kara.

I’m sorry, Kara thought as she felt the gra’dak’s spirit weaken and waver. In order to save Grace, she had taken away its power to move, and it had been unable to defend itself. I’m so sorry. I’m so . . .

It was gone.

Slowly the pain began to recede, but not before Grace yanked the grimoire from her hands. Kara was too weak to stop her.

Unmindful of the gore, Grace slipped the dagger back into her boot.

“How did you do that?” she asked. “It’s impossible to cast a spell without a grimoire. Unless . . .” Grace’s eyes brightened. “There’s a second grimoire, isn’t there? Yes! I can see it in your eyes!” Grace clapped her hands. “Well, why didn’t you tell me that, Witch Girl? That makes everything much more fun.”

Grace opened the grimoire and read the spell before her with unconcealed delight. It was a long one. Still too weak to stand, Kara crawled away on her elbows. She heard gentle tinkling sounds to either side of her, up and down the street. A small crack split the center of the window in the general store. The crack grew larger, heading off in every direction, inching its way along the glass like a snake.

All at once every window in the village shattered.

Kara shouted out her own spell, but the thunderous sound of breaking glass was so deafening that she could not hear the words. Covering her ears she watched the glass gather together in a mini-tornado, hovering just in front of Grace’s outstretched hands. It spun and twisted in the air, the sun glinting off its jagged edges in an oddly beautiful paroxysm of light.

Grace pursed her lips and blew. The glass shot forward.

Kara shielded her face with her hands and curled into a ball, trying to make herself as small as possible. She waited for the glass to slice her skin into a thousand pieces. It never did. Instead she heard a series of clinking sounds, like tiny icicles falling off a tree and shattering on the rocks below. The sound was peaceful, with a certain music to it.

Kara opened her eyes.

She was surrounded by a squirming darkness. Holding out a hand, Kara felt the silverworms she had summoned. There were hundreds of them—maybe thousands—moving close enough together that not even light could pass. A little one nipped her finger playfully as it darted by. The underside of the creature—the part facing Kara—was soft and tender to the touch. Its back and wings, however, were made of an armor as hard as steel. Down by the stream, she had once seen them form a similar phalanx to protect their young from a larger predator. Kara felt honored that they would treat her with the same devotion.

The clinking slowed and then stopped altogether as the storm of glass ended. Before Grace could retaliate, Kara set the silverworms free. She felt responsible for the creatures and wanted to keep them safe.

Shielding her eyes against the harsh sunlight, Kara scanned the empty street.

Grace was nowhere to be seen.

She stepped over a ring of broken glass as high as her knees. It was more difficult than it should have been. Kara’s neck throbbed with pain, and countless scrapes and abrasions weakened her body. These physical injuries, however, were minor in comparison to the mental strain of casting one spell after another. Her head felt foggy, out of sorts. She looked over at the Fenroot tree and saw that the people of De’Noran had risen. This seemed important for some reason, though Kara couldn’t figure out why. She continued to stare. There was something she wasn’t seeing, something that would have been obvious had her mind been clear.

It snapped into place, then. And as it did, panic cleared Kara’s mind of any lingering fog.

The sitting stones are missing!

By the time the first stone thudded into the earth just a few steps to her left, Kara was already running. Two more followed, landing where she had just been standing. Thunk! Another one fell directly in front of her, not just embedding itself in the dirt but plummeting through it, leaving a crater in its wake. She risked a quick look at the sky and saw gray dots in the distance, some hovering above her and others already on a downward trajectory, growing into their real size before her eyes.

A dozen rocks crashed through the roof of the general store. At first Kara thought Grace had missed, but she knew better. This was a message: If they can do that to solid wood, imagine what they’re going to do to you.

Kara ran for the schoolhouse.

Its roof had been fortified to provide safe shelter for the entire village during a storm. Kara wasn’t sure if it was strong enough to withstand something like this, but it seemed the best option.

All she had to do was make it there alive.

Physical ailments forgotten, Kara found the will to sprint, zigzagging along the road in what she hoped was an unpredictable pattern. Rocks fell around her in a deadly hail, their impact sending giant clouds of dirt into the air. Soon it was difficult to see, and Kara had to slow down to avoid the new holes in the ground. A fragment of rock passed close, the angry whiz of its descent buzzing along her ear. Two inches to the right and she would have been dead.

I won’t make it this way, Kara thought. She’s toying with me, but as soon as she gets bored her aim will improve. She’ll never let me reach safety.

Kara touched the battered notebook in her pocket. The spell she wanted, inscribed on the penultimate page, was far more complicated than the others. Even if her mind was fresh—and she was not trying to dodge instant death at every turn—it would be a difficult spell. She searched her thoughts for the words, finding a trail of them and then losing it again when she realized it was the middle of the spell, not the beginning. She began anew, from the right place this time, but just as she neared the end, she inhaled a mouthful of dust and the unfinished spell broke into pieces.

Kara rounded a bend and saw the schoolhouse in the distance, sheltered by a copse of evergreens. The trees were small and pretty, their purpose to provide rest and shade, not protection from falling rocks.

She thought of Father. She thought of Taff.

Would Grace really allow them to escape the island unharmed?

In one long breath, the spell spilled from her mouth. Kara knew she had said the words correctly, because she instantly felt dazed and wobbly, like someone had peeled her head open and removed a week of sleep.

She ran into the copse.

The rock storm was louder beneath the trees, accentuated by snapping branches and wailing wind. A tree crashed to the ground, blocking her path. Kara leaped over it just before a stone split it in two.

Her left foot landed in a hole, twisting in an unfortunate direction.

There was no pain—not yet—but a quick-setting numbness promised plenty of that in the near future. Kara tried to lift her leg, but it wouldn’t budge. Looking closer she saw that her ankle was wedged between a stone and packed dirt. Bracing her right leg firmly against the ground, she pushed forward, succeeding only in driving a fresh splinter of pain into her calf.

All at once the sky grew darker.

Directly overhead a gray blur was falling, far larger than any simple rock. At first Kara thought Grace had enlisted one of the boulders closer to shore, but then she recognized the singular shape of the falling object, the sharp rise at the top she had seen at every Service since birth.

The Speaking Stone.

Kara pulled at her left foot once again, hoping for a miracle. It wouldn’t budge. There was no time to do anything else. She watched the Speaking Stone fall, spinning slightly, until it was so close she could make out the first words of the Path etched into its base.

At the last moment, on pure reflex, she raised her hands over her head.

The stone stopped in midair.

Kara stared at her hands in wonderment. What kind of magic is this? she thought. But then she looked again and saw the purplish strands of web wound about four nearby trees, holding the boulder like a hammock. From the branches above, a webspinner chittered a greeting, its boneless arms flapping up and down with what might have been a wave. It wasn’t the only one. There were at least a dozen more of the creatures, playfully crawling up and down the unfamiliar trees on their spiderlike legs.

They came! she thought. The spell worked!

Just as Kara allowed herself a sigh of relief, the Speaking Stone started to fall again: slowly this time but still quite sufficiently to crush her. With a loud groaning sound, the four trees bent forward, unable to sustain this new weight. Kara dug her fingers into the hole, frantically searching for some kind of purchase around the rock, some way to shift it just enough. No luck. The first tree snapped, and the Speaking Stone, unbalanced, swayed back and forth, so close that Kara could have reached out and touched it. Instead she unlaced her boot, sliding her left foot free and crawling backward, just before the telltale snap of the remaining trees. The Speaking Stone crashed to the ground, missing her by inches.

The webspinners, clearly entertained, chittered their appreciation.

Kara limped toward the schoolhouse. Above her a deluge of stones rained down from the sky in an attempt to keep her from shelter. She couldn’t dodge them all, so she simply moved in a straight line, trusting the webspinners in the trees above her to catch the rocks in time. Soon the copse was filled with web baskets, each hanging low with a rock that could have killed her. Kara continued, pausing only when she heard a high-pitched squeal and, at the same moment, felt a stabbing pain in her side. One of the webspinners had perished trying to save her. She would grieve for it later. Right now there was only the door of the schoolhouse, so close, right within her grasp. . . .

Made it!

Kara immediately slammed the door shut. She waited for the sitting stones to hit the roof above her—surely Grace would test the fortifications—but it never happened. Possibly she had run out of stones. Or maybe, like Kara, she was too tired to use magic anymore.

For now Kara was safe.

In the sudden silence, she heard a different noise: the click-clacking of chalk against blackboard. Its familiarity should have been comforting, a reminder of less dangerous times, but instead it sent a chill through her body.

Kara turned around.

No light shone through the windows. She could see the sunlight just outside the school; it was simply prohibited from entering the room. Instead a single candle sat in the center of each desk, which were arranged in perfect rows.

She knew I was coming here. She prepared this for me.

Master Blackwood stood at the front of the room, writing on the blackboard. His hand was a blur of violent motion, nothing like his usual precise penmanship. The same three words filled the entire blackboard:

MAGIC IS GOOD. MAGIC IS GOOD. MAGIC IS GOOD.

Master Blackwood’s wrinkled face was caked with chalk dust and dried tears.

“Class is so much better now,” Grace said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Kara turned to find Grace sitting in her usual seat near the front of the room. Grace slid her hand playfully through the candle flame as she spoke.

“There’s someone waiting for you,” she said, pointing toward a dark corner of the room that seemed immune to candlelight. “Over there. A surprise.”

“I think I’ve had enough surprises.”

“But this one is so good. I used my next-to-last spell on it.” There was a hint of regret in her tone. “They get more powerful as you near the end. Or maybe I’m getting stronger. I think, with my Last Spell, I’m going to destroy De’Noran and everyone in it.” Grace squeezed the flame between two fingers. “Yes. I think that’s something I’d like to do.”

“Why?” Kara asked.

Grace tilted her head to one side, deeply confused by the question. Then her eyes brightened as she saw something behind Kara. “Oh look! He grew tired of waiting for you.”

Kara did not have time to turn around. The smell of decay hit her first, and then she was picked up by two impossibly cold hands and hurled across the room. She collided with a desk, overturning it. Ignoring the fresh blood running down her temple, Kara scrambled to her feet and faced her attacker.

“No,” Kara said.

Simon Loder had not been improved by death. His muscular frame was encased in a thick layer of mud and grass. Only the vague impression of facial features poked through, like an unfinished sculpture.

“How could you do this?” Kara asked Grace. “He was your friend.”

Grace shrugged. “You’re the one who killed him. I gave him life.”

Simon took a step toward her. Kara slid to the right, toward the exit, but although Simon’s eyes were obscured by mud, he managed to block her path anyway. Kara tried the other direction with the same result. It didn’t matter how quietly she moved; somehow Simon could sense her.

So she ran instead.

Simon pursued her, wooden desks slamming into the walls as he tossed them out of his way. One by one each candle was extinguished, plunging the room into a preternatural darkness. Grace watched from her seat, smirking with amusement.

Kara had her hand on the doorknob when Simon pulled her back and pinned her to the floor, his eyes seeing her and yet also somewhere else, somewhere distant. His dirt-encrusted hand wrapped around her neck and squeezed. Kara knew she should feel horror and revulsion, but all she felt was pity. This was her fault. Grace might have cast the unthinkable spell that brought him back, but she had killed him in the first place. She was the one who had turned him into a monster.

I’m sorry, Simon.

She summoned the Jabenhook with more energy than her exhausted body was capable of producing, unleashing a river of ice deep through her veins. The creature came quickly this time, filling the dark schoolhouse with its golden light. All she had to do was call it to her. It could restore her to perfect health, give her the strength she needed to fight again.

She sent it to Simon instead.

The Jabenhook took him in its great talons and started its work. Simon struggled, but even he was tiny in comparison to the magnificent bird, and it wasn’t long before a dark cloud hovered between them. Simon’s Death was older than Taff’s, a miasma of corruption that twisted and screamed in the air. Upon leaving Simon’s body, it immediately darted toward Kara, looking for a new body to occupy: This Death had no respect for the rules. Before it could reach her, however, the Jabenhook snapped its beak and removed it from the world.

And then vanished.

Kara tried to get up, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. The skin of her right hand was numb and blue. With each spell it felt like a little more life was being pressed out of her. I have to stop. Another spell like that will kill me. She heard Grace slide out of her seat. Kara concentrated hard, willing her feet to move. Nothing. She watched Grace’s footsteps come closer, saw her kick all that remained of Simon’s body: a pathetic mound of dirt.

“That was a magnificent spell!” she exclaimed. “Stole the life right from him.”

Kara spoke through numb, unmoving lips. “It healed him. From his suffering. From what we did.”

“Oh,” said Grace. “That’s not nearly as impressive.” She poked Kara’s stomach with her foot. “Get up.”

“I can’t.”

Another kick. Harder this time.

“Get. Up. We’re not done yet.”

Kara felt her eyes closing. Sleep—wonderful, blissful sleep—pulled her toward its warm embrace. “I’m not like you,” she mumbled as she fell. “The magic makes me weak.”

“Just one more.” Grace leaned forward, positively beaming. “The Last Spell. I want to see what happens.”

Kara opened her eyes. Wide.

“You can’t, Grace. It’s not worth the price.”

“Are you still trying to save me, Kara Westfall?” Grace leaned forward and whispered in Kara’s ear. “Let me tell you a secret. I don’t want to be saved.”

She kissed Kara tenderly.

“My graycloaks found your family,” Grace said. “They’re outside waiting for you.”

Kara pushed her away. The sudden movement almost made her vomit.

“Look at that,” Grace said. “Are we feeling a little more mobile all of a sudden?”

“If you hurt them, I’ll kill you!”

“Yes, Kara! Yes! Kill me! Or at least try.”

Though her right side felt as though it were encased in ice and even the slightest movement made her want to scream, Kara got to her feet. As soon as she stepped forward, however, the room tipped to one side. Grace caught her before she could fall and began walking her to the door. “It’s going to be like a story from the Path,” Grace said. “A witches’ duel! Maybe they’ll talk about us in years to come. Wouldn’t that be something? Wouldn’t that make it all worthwhile in the end?”

Kara was too tired to respond, and Grace finally stopped talking. The only sound as they exited the building was the clack of Master Blackwood’s chalk as he continued to write his message.

MAGIC IS GOOD. MAGIC IS GOOD. MAGIC IS GOOD.

 

The Shadow Festival had come again. Everyone Kara had ever known—all those who remained alive, at least—lined the main road of the village, waiting patiently for the entertainment to begin. She was the Leaf Girl. Grace was the Forest Demon. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Kara saw Father and Taff standing in the front row, spines straight and shoulder to shoulder, faces devoid of expression.

She did not see Lucas. She thought it might be better that way.

Grace remained where she was as Kara, a bit steadier on her feet now, walked slowly to the other end of the road. The eyes of the villagers followed her as she passed. Other than that, there was no movement. No whispers, muffled coughs, baby cries. The silence was so absolute that Kara could hear her footsteps in the dirt. This was Grace’s moment, and she would not permit any interruptions.

When she reached the end of the line, Kara turned around. Knowing that there was no more use for pretense, she removed the grimoire and held it in two hands. Grace had already done the same.

What will it be like? Kara wondered. To suffer for all eternity. After the first few years, will I even remember who I am anymore? Will I even be capable of thought? Or will I know only pain?

“Children of De’Noran,” Grace announced, “all your lives you’ve been told that magic is wrong. Evil. Ungodly. But this evening, I am going to give you the greatest of all gifts. Enlightenment.”

Kara looked down at the blank page before her. Her hands trembled.

I don’t want to do this. Why does it have to be me?

“You are going to witness the true power of magic. You are going to learn that everything you’ve been taught in your pathetic little lives has been a lie. And then you’re going to die.” Grace shrugged. “Sorry.”

Mother! Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you tell me this would happen?

Grace faced Kara and curtsied.

“We cast on three,” she said.

Kara looked past Grace to her brother, his eyes blank but somehow seeing her as he always did. He would remember. He would know the sacrifice she made.

And, most important: He would live.

“One,” Grace said, but Kara had already summoned what she needed. She smiled with relief as its likeness appeared in the grimoire. It had been a long time, and she feared the memory wouldn’t be strong enough.

Grace spoke the second word distantly: “Two.” Her mouth trembled, eager to say the words forming in the book . . . but then she jerked up her head, sensing something.

Kara’s grimoire burst into flames.

She tossed it away, but not before its heat singed her fingers and turned the palms of her hands an angry crimson. The fire swirled high, a cone of blinding light that split the sky and scattered the neat lines of villagers. In it crackled words just beyond Kara’s understanding.

Is this how it works? Will I burn forever?

The flames made no attempt to envelop her. Not yet. She heard screams, shouts for help. Kara tore her eyes away for just a moment and saw that Grace’s enchantment had been broken. Confused villagers were fleeing this nightmare as quickly as they could. The crazed mob pushed past Grace, knocking her to the ground.

Only one figure was actually moving toward the flames.

“Kara!” shouted Lucas. He held a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the light. “Run!”

“I can’t!” Kara said. It hasn’t taken me yet. “Get my family out of here!”

They faced each other, the spiraling flames between them. Lucas took a step toward her.

“Please, Lucas,” she said.

“I’m not going to leave you!”

I don’t want Taff to see this.

“There’s nothing you can do. Just keep them safe.”

“Kara.”

“Please. For me.”

Lucas took another step. Then he nodded once and ran off in the opposite direction. He passed Grace, who was stumbling through the chaotic crowd, screaming: “Where is it? Where is it?”

Something brushed past Kara’s face.

She watched it vanish into the distance: a bird made of flames. But that wasn’t exactly right. It was a bird, but its body lacked the fluidity of flesh; it was rigid, almost mechanical.

A page from the grimoire, folded into a winged creature.

As though inspired by Kara’s epiphany, a dozen page-birds burst from the flames and sailed into the night. Another dozen. Fifty. They did not travel together but shot off in all directions, leaving trails of light in their wake. With the passage of each bird, the tunnel of flame shrank. Finally it was only the size of a campfire—and then, four birds later, a flame so small, it could barely light a candle. From this a tiny glowworm emerged and burrowed into the ground.

And then there was nothing. Her mother’s grimoire was gone.

Kara remained.

What just happened? She ran her hands over her body, amazed at its wholeness. I cast the Last Spell—why didn’t the grimoire take me like Constance said it would? Could she have been wrong? Kara stared at the charred ground.

How am I still alive?

She didn’t even feel particularly weak. If anything, she felt . . . restored.

“It didn’t even let you cast your Last Spell, did it?” Grace asked. “You weren’t worthy. Pathetic.” She opened her grimoire. “Let me show you the power of a true witch.”

Grace’s eyes widened as a spell filled the page before her. “Yes,” she said. “This is the one. This will be forever.” Grace read the first word, and a thimbleful of blood spilled from her lips. She paused for a moment and continued anyway, louder this time. Beneath Kara’s feet the earth moaned, as though beasts dormant for thousands of years were awakening from their slumber.

Suddenly, Grace stopped.

A feeble-looking creature sat before her, its fur matted with age and filth. It tottered forward on bent-back paws, emitting a short, piteous moan with each agonizing step.

Grace burst out laughing.

“This is what you summoned?” she asked. “A dog? For what purpose? Did you think I might play nicer if I had a pet?”

“It’s not a dog.”

The creature looked up at Grace with violet eyes that were quite beautiful in their way and growled deep in its throat. With a sharp series of cracking noises, its paws unfolded and straightened. Just before the creature leaped, Grace was blessed with a moment of recognition, but by then it was too late; she was pinned beneath the nightseeker’s now muscular frame, unable to move.

“I don’t blame you for not remembering,” Kara said. “You’re not the one who saw your mother murdered before your eyes. If you had, perhaps you would have remembered the pet your father brought from the World—and its very peculiar talent.”

A long, translucent needle extended from the nightseeker’s paw. Grace screamed and then screamed louder as the needle was plunged into her forearm with brisk efficiency. She jerked in pain, and the grimoire slid from her fingers, landing open on the ground. Grace reached out, screeching. She clawed at the last page, trying to pull the book closer, but before she could the nightseeker swept its paw across the grimoire and slammed it shut on her hand. Grace screamed again, and it wasn’t the scream of a powerful witch but the terrified plea of a thirteen-year-old girl. Kara turned away. She had thought that revenge might bring her some satisfaction, but there was no pleasure in this.

The nightseeker inserted the needle into its nostril and inhaled deeply. Years ago—when Kara had been in Grace’s position—there had been a long hesitation. On this day, however, judgment came instantaneously. Keeping its quarry in place with one paw, the nightseeker lined its needle claw with Grace’s right eye.

“No!” she shouted. “Kara! Please!”

The fearsome creature rose up on its haunches. Kara could feel its fury surge through her own blood. It wasn’t just going to blind the witch. It was going to kill her.

Before it could, Kara sent it away.

Grace lay there shivering, unwilling to open her eyes. “It’s over,” Kara said. She stepped quickly to her side and kicked the grimoire away with her bootless foot. Grace’s hand, clenched in a bloody fist, fell to the ground.

“You saved me,” Grace mumbled.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“Not even me.”

“No.”

Grace chuckled. “A good witch. Can there be such a thing?”

Kara sat on the ground next to Grace. Evening was starting to settle in, and the colors of the setting sun were their own kind of magic.

“You won’t be able to save me from the villagers. When they return they’re going to kill me.”

“Maybe both of us.”

“No. They know the truth. You saved them.”

“With magic. The greatest sin.”

“They will speak of your great deeds for years to come. They will throw flowers at your feet and trade hard-earned seeds for your wisdom. They will worship you and dream of your attention. Just like him.” Her eyes sought out the swaying treetops of the Thickety, and she tilted her head to one side, as though listening. “After all I’ve done to prove myself, it is still you he covets. The world is not a fair place, Kara Westfall. And not even magic can change that.”

Grace mumbled three words—only three—but Kara recognized a spell when she heard one.

“What did you do?” Kara asked.

Grace turned her head. Her beautiful eyes focused on something unseen.

“I gave him what he wanted,” she said.

Blond leeched from Grace’s hair as it turned its original shade of white. With a grotesque snap, the bones of her leg twisted into their familiar crippled form.

“No! That’s impossible!” Kara shouted. “You couldn’t have cast a spell! I have the grimoire!”

Grace smirked, a little of the old arrogance returning—Won’t you ever learn?—before opening her bloodied hand. A piece of torn, crumpled paper rolled out.

Cold dread nestled in Kara’s stomach. She really did it. She cast her Last Spell. With no grimoire of her own, Kara was helpless to defend herself—to defend anyone. She had failed.

She scanned the skies, listening carefully for the sound of an approaching apocalypse. All was quiet.

“What did you do?” she asked again.

“You’ll thank me,” Grace replied. “In the end. Once you learn to accept the true nature of his love.”

Grace’s grimoire was torn from Kara’s hands by an invisible force. It sailed high in the air before landing on the ground between them. Kara stepped back, expecting it to burst into flames. Instead the pages flipped to the precise center of the book, where there were no longer spells but a gaping hole that led into absolute darkness.

“That’s new,” Grace said.

A woman’s arm shot out of the hole and grabbed Grace’s ankle. By the time Grace tried to pry off the fingers, they had melted into her flesh like wax and there was nothing to disengage. The second arm, this one thinner—the arm of a child—grasped Grace’s other leg and became part of it, and it yanked her toward the hole, which by this point had expanded well past the confines of the grimoire. Another hand rose from the darkness, this one wearing a familiar wedding band (Abby! That’s Abby!), and Grace managed to slap it away, but then there were three more, four, half a dozen—all eager to do their part. Kara held Grace’s hands and pulled as hard as she could, but it was no use; it was one against many, and they were legion. From below—deep within the impossible recesses of the grimoire—she heard cackling, screams of pain, the singsong chant of the damned:

One of us! One of us! One of us!

Kara fell backward as Grace’s fingers slipped from her hands. The white-haired girl slid into darkness, brilliant blue eyes watching Kara until the very end.

Satisfied at last, the grimoire slammed shut.