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  Father Juan seemed to catch the old woman’s determined expression, and dipped his head. “Thank you, Esther. Accepted.”

  “Can you . . . can you use this elixir to change Heather back?” Jenn’s mom asked, her voice small and agonized. She slid a glance toward Antonio. “Though I suppose you’d have already done that. Unless he likes being a vampire.”

  Antonio frowned, clearly offended. But Jamie thought what she said held some truth. Immortality, superstrength—lots of men would trade their souls for that.

  Father Juan looked at the others. “Jamie, you may go look for Skye.” He picked up the gym bag and unzipped it, retrieving a rectangular white crystal.

  “This scrying stone may alert you when you’re closing in on her. The range is approximately twenty miles.”

  “Finally,” Jamie said, grabbing it. He’d been wondering how, with all his magicks, the priest hadn’t offered anything in the search for Skye. It was about time.

  “Then I should be the one—,” Holgar began, but Father Juan shook his head.

  “There will be werewolves after you, Holgar. You will also go to Romania. You have a better chance of fighting them off with Antonio and Jenn than you would alone, distracted by so personal a mission.”

  Now it was Holgar’s turn to sigh. Jamie reveled in Holgar’s defeat.

  “When did you make this stone?” Jamie asked. “How long have you planned to give me leave to find her?”

  Father Juan’s only answer was a philosophical shrug. “There are billions of square miles on the planet, Jamie. That will only work when you’re within twenty miles of her.”

  “It’s a start,” Jamie insisted.

  Father Juan gave Jamie a measured look, then turned to Jenn and Antonio. “You two and I have something to discuss before we part.” And then he said to Jenn’s grandmother, “Señora Esther, please go into the next room and tell Father Sebastian that we accept the offer of the Brotherhood of Saint Andrew, and that Antonio de la Cruz will travel in the company of Jennifer Leitner and Holgar Vibbard.”

  “Yes, Juan,” Esther said. Jamie liked her. He remembered how well she had run her camp in Montana. She was worth twenty of Jenn any day.

  Sade was starting to rock back and forth.

  “Who’s looking for Heather? Why didn’t you make a—a stone for her?” Mrs. Leitner cried.

  “We’ll find her, Mom,” Jenn said. “You have to trust Father Juan. And—and me.” Her voice was tight and anxious. But she didn’t go over to hug her mother. Jamie took note, and filed that information away.

  Sade wrapped her arms around Jenn’s mother. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and the two held each other.

  “Here are new cell phones for all of you,” Father Juan continued, dipping into the bag. “I’ve programmed everyone’s numbers, but I want you to take the time to memorize them. I’ve already given one to Noah.”

  At Noah’s mention, Jenn’s cheeks reddened. Jamie’s eyes narrowed. Oh, she fancied him, then? Had Antonio figured that out? That would make their trip to Romania all the more interesting. Now Jamie was almost sorry he wasn’t going along.

  “Now, for other matters,” Father Juan said to Jenn and Antonio. “Private ones.”

  * * *

  Father Juan led Jenn and Antonio into a side chapel separate from where he had given Jenn’s mom the terrible news about Heather. There was one small pew, barely big enough for two people. At the end of the pew, a statue of St. John of the Cross stood elevated above a row of flickering candles. Antonio and Father Juan dipped their fingers into a small silver font attached to the wall, bent their knees, and crossed themselves. Jenn just waited, feeling the odd person out.

  “We don’t have much time,” Father Juan said, “and so I’ll be blunt.”

  Jenn’s chest tightened. It seemed that every time they spoke in private, there was more bad news. Reflexively, she began to reach for Antonio’s hand, then stopped herself. Those days were over.

  But they weren’t. Antonio firmly slid his fingers around hers and squeezed. Her throat tightened, and she had to shut her eyes to keep the tears away.

  She didn’t squeeze back.

  She expected Father Juan to start with a prayer, as he usually did. Instead he asked, “What am I going to do with the two of you?”

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  “Padre?” Antonio said.

  “You heard me right. You spent two years at the Academia pining for each other, neither admitting your feelings. But I knew, I watched you, and every time I sent up a prayer or cast the runes, the answer was always the same.”

  Jenn sucked in her breath, terrified of what he would say.

  “The two of you belong together.” The priest laced his fingers together in demonstration. “Spirit. Mind. Body.”

  Jenn was shocked. And strangely hopeful. Happy. And then dizzy with fear. Antonio was a vampire, and nearly a priest.

  She felt Antonio move beside her, leaning toward Father Juan. He let go of her, and she tried to fold her hands quietly in her lap. Instead she clenched them, determined not to lose her composure.

  “But I’m a Cursed One,” Antonio murmured. “And I have lost my soul twice. I can’t be trusted. Ever.”

  “But according to the runes, God trusts you,” Father Juan said.

  “Runes are magick,” Antonio protested, “and I’m a Catholic.”

  “My son, look at the Bible. God doesn’t choose the mightiest, the most virtuous to carry out His grand plans. He chooses the weak, the flawed, the outcast. He chooses those who are willing to do as He asks even when it seems impossible.”

  And this is why I don’t believe, Jenn thought. Antonio was right. He couldn’t be trusted. He’d turned his back on her. He believed his rampage in Las Vegas was a result of losing focus, and he’d rededicated his body, mind, and soul to the Catholic Church, which had turned its back on him.

  Antonio dipped his head. “But in this case . . .”

  “This is no different,” Father Juan interrupted him. “We are living in terrible times, and great things will be asked of us all if we are to survive. But the greatest thing God requires of you is faith, and even more than that, love.”

  Jenn’s throat tightened. Father Juan was practically forcing Antonio to declare that he didn’t love her as much as he loved his Church. Please, Father Juan, just shut up.

  Unaware of her turmoil, Father Juan laid a hand on each of their heads. “I know you think it is a fool’s errand to go to Romania. But nothing He asks is foolish. Antonio, you need to overcome your vampiric urges. And Jenn, you need to find your faith. Only then can we win this war. Only then will you, too, find the love God wants for you.”

  Jenn didn’t know which task was more impossible, finding faith or being with Antonio. Maybe it was time for her to throw the runes. Because she sure wasn’t going to pray for guidance.

  “You must find a way, or you will be lost. And the world will be lost too. Now go in peace.”

  “Peace? That’s a joke, right?” Jenn asked, as the priest lifted his hands from their heads.

  Beside her, Antonio crossed himself and pressed his lips against his thumb.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What is Father Juan trying to tell us? I don’t understand. But I hope . . .

  . . . I can’t even write it down.

  Because it’s impossible.

  —from the diary of Jenn Leitner,

  retrieved from the ruins

  EPPING FOREST, ENGLAND

  SKYE

  Skye had walked these forests since she was a small child, and she’d always had a sense of wonder. Now it felt like some dead, decaying thing. The trees were still green, the animal tracks in the ground fresh, but the vitality, the joy, were gone. And just beneath the surface, evil twisted and turned, growing ever stronger.

  They’ve done this to us, the Cursed Ones, she thought bitterly. They’ve slaughtered humanity and poisoned the Earth herself.

  Skye thought of her parents, her s
ister, and all her kin. They let it happen. They should have been the protectors and stewards of this world.

  Tears streaked down her cheeks, unchecked. She prayed to the Lady that they might water the earth beneath her feet, returning to it that which was lost.

  But they were only tears, not magick.

  She balled her hands into fists, as something powerful broke loose within her. An it harm none, do what thou wilt. It was the creed of her people. She had clung to it blindly even through the most desperate nights, trying to restrict and regulate her actions accordingly.

  But there were things worth fighting for, things worth dying for, and things worth killing for.

  And because she had refused to kill anything but vampires, people had died. Their blood was on her hands.

  “Never again,” she whispered.

  The wind caught at her words even as they left her lips. A warning or an affirmation?

  “Never again,” she said, louder.

  She could feel something stirring in the woods.

  “Never again!” she shouted as loud as she could. Her nails dug into her palms. She fell to her knees and fed the earth with her blood and her tears. The forest sighed around her, and the ground beneath her seemed to shudder.

  “I am a daughter of the Goddess, and I will defend you,” she pledged to the Earth. All the fear, the uncertainty, the frustration poured out from her, and she breathed in courage, purpose, and clarity.

  Some argued that the code had been transcribed improperly, and that the true words were these: “An it harm none, do what thou must.”

  She would protect the world. She must.

  And when she had shed her last tear, she tumbled down onto the earth and closed her eyes. Mist—or maybe dreams—rose around her, and she could almost see Holgar’s face. Almost hear his voice murmuring, Skye, merrily met.

  Then she realized that someone was talking to her. She opened her eyes. There, standing over her, were her old friends Soleil and Lune, their palms extended toward her. Soleil had grown; she was nearly as tall as Lune now. Both looked much older than when they had last met.

  Skye didn’t know why, but she felt no surprise at seeing them, just sudden, overwhelming gladness. She rose.

  “It’s about time,” Soleil said softly.

  “The Circuit welcomes a sister,” Lune murmured.

  They raised their left hands—the hand of magick. In each palm was a henna pentagram. Then Skye’s sisters in the Art pressed their left palms against each of Skye’s bleeding hands and threw their arms around her, and the healing began to take place.

  * * *

  Soleil and Lune wouldn’t tell Skye exactly how they had found her, saying only that “a friend” had alerted them that she was in England. They had cast a finder’s spell to pinpoint her location. Skye wondered if that friend was Melody, or Summer’s husband.

  The two gave her a chance to wash up in the bathroom of a pub, then fed her a savory mushroom pie. Lune had brought her a change of clothes; Skye dressed in a pair of brown leggings, an olive pleated miniskirt, and a cream-colored sweater. Everything was a little loose on her, but Skye rather liked Lune’s choice of earth tones. Soleil wore jeans and a ruffled yellow blouse, befitting her name, which meant “sun.”

  Then they drove her to the beautiful castle of Leeds. Part of the castle was built on land, and part extended into a lakelike moat. It was after hours, and all the tourists had left. The three crept to the water’s edge, where a small white rowboat waited, and Soleil and Lune guided the boat with magicks onto the water, using no oars to power it. A small, arched gate provided them entrance. They glided in, climbed out, and pulled the boat onto a stone landing.

  “So this is the headquarters of the Circuit?” Skye whispered as they went through a small door and up a narrow, circular staircase.

  “Just one of many,” Lune replied.

  “Did you know that a medieval princess, Joan of Navarre, was imprisoned here for using witchcraft? Her magicks have soaked into the stone. Do you feel them?” Soleil asked as they entered a gently illuminated room.

  Skye nodded. Deep, powerful vibrations were thrumming through her. A statue of the Virgin Mary crushed a serpent beneath her feet. What had been lost to White magick was that the Lady had taken evil on, and won. The Mother had not stayed neutral, and Skye now believed—no, she knew—that in the battle to come, the Goddess would actively fight.

  A single candle glowed on a table in front of the three, and she focused on the light. The Circuit was a loose alliance of witches who had decided that going underground was the wrong choice in a world gone mad. Skye had been in and out of contact with them for a while, but she wasn’t an actual member. She was a hunter, and they viewed her hunting team as her coven. Skye couldn’t help but smile slightly as she wondered what Jamie would have to say about that.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Lune told her, as the two disappeared through a door. A few minutes later they reappeared in long white hooded robes embroidered with silver crescents and golden pentagrams. Lune carried an identical robe in her arms.

  “They’ll see you now,” Lune said. “Put this on.”

  Together Soleil and Lune helped Skye into the heavy robe. Her friends raised their hoods over their hair; Skye did the same, and followed them slowly across the threshold.

  Six or seven hooded women ringed the stone altar, which was covered with pink roses, rose quartz, and five white candles arranged in a pentagram. An illuminated Book of Spells lay open before a statue of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. Her bow was notched with an arrow; the string was pulled back tightly. Diana had sighted her quarry.

  The High Priestess spread her arms in greeting. The woman’s papery skin was heavily lined, but her bright blue eyes crackled with energy. She regarded Skye for a moment. A charge skittered down Skye’s spine, and she felt as if the other witch were reading her soul.

  “Skye of Salamanca, blessed be,” the High Priestess said.

  “Blessed be,” the other witches—including Soleil and Lune—echoed.

  “Blessed be,” Skye said. “Merrily met.”

  The High Priestess shook her head. “Not merrily, little one.” She waved her hand above the altar. A clutch of carved stones materialized in front of the Book of Spells. “The runes have been cast thirteen times thirteen for the last fortnight.”

  “What do they foretell?” Skye asked, gazing at them.

  A deep sigh echoed throughout the room. It seemed to Skye that, in the flickering flames, the statue of Diana raised her bow slightly, as if to refine her aim.

  Then the statue loosed her arrow, and it arced toward the ceiling. A shower of bright white stars burst into flame, then assumed a shape—

  The shape of a bat.

  Then larger stars appeared, exploded, and formed a larger bat that consumed the smaller.

  “The Vampire Nation will fall. And the Vampire Kingdom will rise,” said the High Priestess. “Every human death, every vampire victory—these are merely portents for what is to come later. And it will be worse.”

  “So we have to stop it,” Skye said. She looked at the hooded women. “We have to stop it now!” Her voice came out as a bellow, and echoed against the stones. The torches flickered. And a low wind wound its way through the room.

  She hunched her shoulders, cringing at the way she had just spoken to the High Priestess. She was about to apologize, when the old woman spoke again.

  “We have a question,” the High Priestess said. “And you are here to help us answer it.”

  “Me?” Skye said. “How?” But she had a feeling that she already knew the answer.

  “We here have worked in secret, behind the scenes. We’ve seen much, but not all. But you have been on the front line of this war.”

  “You’ve been a symbol of inspiration,” said one of the other witches.

  “Or damnation,” said another.

  “We’ve cast spells to strengthen and protect humanity. But we must use our magick to fi
ght shoulder to shoulder with humanity,” said a third.

  “An thou harm none,” a fourth argued.

  Skye flared with irritation. “I’m sorry, but this is a war. The only way to win against the vampires is to kill them. There can be no peace.”

  “A truce,” someone said. “A truce with Solomon, and then—”

  “Crikey, are you mad?” Skye cried. “The vampires want to destroy us, and we cannot let that happen. You’ve been working behind the scenes, but the time for that is past.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” the High Priestess said. “The Cursed Ones wage war against the nonmagickal, not us.”

  And there it was, the arrogance, the denial, and the fear that allowed people to stand by and do nothing while others were slaughtered. It doesn’t concern me.

  Skye had spoken to Antonio many times about his experiences during World War II. Millions had been murdered because people thought Adolf Hitler could be reasoned with, bargained with. But bombs had fallen on Britain, and still nation upon nation stood by, because their countries hadn’t been attacked. Let Hitler kill the Jews and the Gypsies; what concern was it to them? And now Skye’s people, the witches, were willing to sacrifice nonwitch humanity because they believed that the Cursed Ones wouldn’t come after them.

  “It won’t end with ordinary humans,” Skye said. “The vampires fear us and our powers. But that won’t stop them from wiping us out too.”

  “Not everyone believes that,” the High Priestess replied.

  Raw fury coursed through Skye’s veins like blood. “Then believe this. Even if the vampires kill every mundane man, woman, and child, they’ll still need to feed. And we, and the werewolves, will be the only ones left. Everyone knows that werewolves fight back, so who do you think they’re going to look to for blood?”

  The High Priestess nodded. Her face was grim, her lips pursed tightly. “Well said, Sister York. You are young, passionate, and eloquent. You must persuade us all to join this war.”

  Moments later, blurry images of men and women began to appear in the room, some wearing robes, some ordinary street clothes. They were pale, ghostlike in their transparency.