Prologue
Two ancient crones sat at the head of the semicircle, their withered frames haloed by the faint glow of candles that burned without flame. Shadows crawled across the stone walls, stretching like dark fingers. Mara shivered as the hum of old magic thrummed beneath the floor, vibrating up through her bones.
“It is time again,” rasped the eldest, her voice brittle.
“Mm,” the other murmured, barely moving.
Mara’s fingers twitched in her lap. Her amber eyes flicked between Agatha and Maud. A year among the coven had taught her respect, fear, and silence. Even now, looking into the crones’ faces was like staring into the hollowed sockets of death itself.
“Time for what, Maud?” Talia’s voice cut through the quiet, firm and sharp. Her golden hair caught the dim light like fire, though her defiance burned brighter. Her eyes fixed on the crones with bold steadiness. Mara’s chest tightened. Half fear, half awe. The sister beside Talia jabbed her sharply in the ribs, but Talia only smirked.
“What, Rhi? Someone has to ask. I’m sick of riddles. If they have something to say, they should just say it.”
The air snapped. Maud’s gnarled hands slammed onto the oak table, rattling the candles, and she rose. Frail though she looked with her hunched frame, power rolled from her like a storm.
“Silence, child!” Her voice boomed, echoing as though a dozen mouths spoke with her. Her thin lips peeled back in a snarl, blackened teeth flashing. Talia stiffened, gasping as though she’d been struck, before sagging in her chair once Maud eased herself back down.
At last, Agatha spoke. “One century has passed.”
“One hundred years since our foremothers bent the knee and signed the ledger,” Maud said. “The Lord of Hell’s ledger.”
Mara’s stomach knotted. The name itself seemed to sour the air.
“Our power wanes,” Agatha continued. “Our numbers shrink. Too many of our kind have been hunted and burned, or abandoned us.”
“This is no mere renewal to secure our continued power,” Maud intoned. “This is an opportunity.”
The shadows pressed closer. Mara could hardly breathe.
“The Lord of Hell does not hunger for years of our lives, or souls,” Agatha whispered, her eyes gleaming. “Nor does he bargain in blood or gold.”
Maud leaned forward, her gnarled hands curling as she cackled. “He wants an heir.”
Mara’s eyes twitched.Of course he does.Even a Lord of Hell could be reduced to the same tired obsession as mortal men: a legacy to breed, a line to carry his name, power wrapped in a dynasty. The predictability of it made her lips curl into a faint, sardonic smirk.
“He will take a bride,” Agatha hissed. “A witch worthy of his throne. And she will be gifted with power… power that rivals his own.”
Mara felt Talia shift across the circle. Her golden head tilted, her blue eyes suddenly alight, her full lips parted with sharp attention. Ambition radiated from her like heat.
“And,” Maud’s voice deepened, savoring the words, “eternal youth.”
The crones’ faces lit at once, their hollow eyes gleaming unnaturally, their gaunt features briefly transformed by something close to joy. Greedy. Hungry. Desperate.
Mara shivered. It was worse than their snarls.
“And only the coven that the bride belongs to,” Agatha declared, voice sharp as knives, “will share in his blessing with continued power to draw our magic from. The rest will rot. Forgotten.”
Those final words landed on Mara like a curse. She couldn’t lose her magic after finally learning to control it, nor could she lose the sisterhood that had found her. Twenty years of feeling misplaced and unwanted had ended the day the coven knocked at her door. Magic had given her purpose, made her pulse quicken, made her feel alive. She had no desire to be anyone’s bride, least of all to the Lord of Hell, but to surrender the one thing that had ever made her whole? That, she could not do.
Her nails dug crescents into her palms as her mind whirled. There had to be strings. There were always strings. What of the other covens? How many remained? Would they be competing against them? And how, exactly, would this “bride” be chosen?
The chamber was thick with silence. Rhiannon’s pale eyes flicked from elder to elder, restless, as if she too sensed the catch. Marie, silent as she had been all year, parted her lips as though she might finally speak, only to let the words die on her tongue. Talia leaned forward with a smile so sharp it might draw blood, the air around her humming with ambition. The elders, Maud and Agatha, sat stiff and brittle, their hunger for another taste of youth and beauty written in the lines of their faces.
But they were bound as sisters, and every choice had to be made together. Mara would not be tricked into agreeing without answers. The Lord of Hell was a demon, and it was well known that demons lied, demons schemed, demons devoured.
“So can we just… draw sticks?” Mara asked softly, letting sarcasm disguise the fear in her words. “Send one of you or Talia and call it a day? What’s the catch?” She whispered a prayer under her breath that it might truly be that simple.
The elders exchanged a glance. Agatha’s head tilted slowly. “There will be trials of potential,” she said, her voice grave. “All of us must enter his domain. The Lord of Hell will decide who is worthy.”
Rhiannon’s voice cracked as she whispered, “But if we enter Hell… we can’t leave, can we?”
Maud’s hollow black eyes turned to her. “No one leaves Hell without permission. That is true, child. His word will free us… once he has chosen the bride.” She grinned again.
Talia’s smile widened, cruel and glittering. “You think it’ll be one of you, don’t you? Centuries of practice and you’d snatch the chance from us before it even begins.” She gestured at Mara, Rhiannon, and Marie. “Why should I risk Hell for a prize I’ve no chance at winning?”
Maud spat. “Because the crossing spell requires all six. Every last one of us must agree, or none of us goes.”
Agatha’s voice was barely a breath. “And if we don’t go… we lose everything.”
Rhiannon twirled a strand of her white-blonde hair around her finger, thoughtful. “But you said ‘trials of potential.’ That doesn’t sound like knowledge or experience. It could be… anyone.”
Maud and Agatha spoke as one: “Yes.”
That was enough for Talia. Her sulk melted into a grin. “Then I’m in.” She turned to Marie, who inclined her head silently. “And you, Rhi?”
Rhiannon hesitated, then nodded. “I’m in.”
At last Talia’s eyes slid to Mara, smug and shining. “And you?” she purred.
Mara’s throat constricted. If it could truly be anyone, then it could be her—and that was the last thing she wanted. She told herself she could falter on purpose, let Talia snatch the crown she so clearly craved. But demons would scent weakness like wolves smelling prey, and deceit would only paint a target on her back. Mara considered further. Even at her best, she was certain she could not be the one chosen. Marie’s quiet concentration gave off an eerie strength that wouldn’t surprise Mara if it outshone them all. Then there were the elders who carried centuries of knowledge etched into their bones. Talia was dazzling, cruelly beautiful. The sort of prize a Lord of Hell might covet. And Rhiannon… Rhiannon had a way of bending others to her will with nothing but a smile, a gift for persuasion that was power in its own right.
Compared to them, what was Mara?
It couldn’t be her.
Still, the thought of losing her magic sent a shiver of panic down her spine.
“For the coven,” Mara said at last, rolling her eyes to mask the weight of her words as she sighed.
“So it is decided,” Maud said softly.
Agatha hunched deeper into her shawls. “Mm...” she murmured.
