“It is a symbol of the power we will drink from our enemies and from our prey, to grow strong. Only the strong survive.”
The crowd echoed: “Only the strong survive.”
Silence fell. The Coven waited for Tav to drink.
The Coven waited to feed. The Coven was hungry.
Tav smiled and raised the vial, keeping their eyes on the Witch Lord’s glowing orbs. The faint pink tinge was like a drop of blood in a cup of milk.
“To you,” they said, and raised their voice. “To strength. To unity. To power.” They turned to their bike, the inanimate contraption of gears and glass, filaments and spark plugs. “With the gift of this drink, and in honour of the Witch Lord, I christen you Ariel.” For you, Cam.
They smashed the glass over the motorcycle.
The drop of essence from a poor witch, long since forgotten by her sisters, crawled into the skin of the motorbike. Ariel purred, the engine revving on its own. It was good to have a body again.
Tav knelt down, exposing more of their spine for a brief moment before looking up at the statue of the Witch Lord who seemed to emerge from the throne like the figurehead of a ship. If she was angry that Tav had not fallen for her trick, she did not let on. Her face was as blank and beautiful as tumbled amazonite.
Tav spoke, willing their words to sound as light and creamy as the gauzy fabric that cascaded from the Witch Lord’s ethereal frame. “Will you honour me with a dance?”
The Witch Lord smiled. The needle-sharp teeth like sickly saplings promised imprisonment and starvation. She leaned forward, arching her long neck closer to the boi and their bike. The stench of salt was suddenly overwhelming, and Tav’s eyes began to water.
The Witch Lord waved a hand lazily, and a throng of witches materialized before the throne. They wore masks of silver and copper, satin and lace, slate and shale, adorned with scalloped shells and razor blades, colourful feathers and strips of duct tape cut into tassels. The witches were soft feminine, butch, androgynous, hard femme, hipster masculine, and genteel dandies.
And underneath their fleshy exteriors, Tav could see the curling smoke of purplegrey, the coiled yellowgreen, the airy and shimmering pinkgold essences pulsing and dancing and fluttering through every eyelash and strand of hair.
“Choose,” said the Witch Lord.
Tav turned again to take in the full brunt of those alien eyes, brimming with power — and something else. Calculation. Curiosity.
Clytemnestra told you that she likes to play games. You can’t let her get bored. Clytemnestra’s sending her soldiers into the Children’s Lair now, this very second.
What if Clytemnestra’s plan fails? What if we fail?
What will happen to Eli? To the Earth?
They already knew that this creature was not capable of mercy.
Panic flared up, hot and thick in their lungs. Tav bent over, gasping for breath. White candle wax splattered over a shining black square of polished onyx.
The witches watched silently and waited.
Tav stood and shook their head. “I choose you,” they said simply. Keep her interest. Buy them time. Kite will come.
The Witch Lord frowned. The assembled witches seemed to become even more still, even less alive. Then she hissed, and steam poured from the gaps between her teeth.
Ariel revved her engine again in warning, or perhaps in fear. She remembered the wrath of the Witch Lord. Tav placed a hand on the warm leather seat, but the bike would not be soothed. The vibrations jumped to Tav’s hand and jittered up and down their extended arm.
“You are not worthy,” the Witch Lord finally said, each word falling like a guillotine.
Tav had made a mistake. They had been too bold, too daring. The Witch Lord wanted a game, but they wanted to run it. Tav’s request had been too much of a challenge.
The air was thick with salt.
Tav’s vision swam behind a veil of tears.
“I’m not worthy,” they repeated, lowering their head. Maybe if they grovelled, they could draw out the execution.
A single tear fell from the damp, mucous membrane of their human eyes and plunged toward the ground.
Tav, keeping their eyes downcast in a show of reverence, watched the trajectory of the water droplet. It glittered under the pink chandeliers like a black diamond bathed in rose perfume. When it touched the onyx tile, it didn’t break. Instead, it wobbled for a fraction of a second, and then extended, stretching across the tile, shifting, fading, changing, until the single tear was gone.
In its place was a glossy black feather.
The smell of salt retreated. Tav glanced up — the Witch Lord had pulled back in surprise. She rested her elbow on the writhing spine of an eel and contemplated Tav again, looking them up and down.
She waved her hand and the witches vanished, flowing back to their poses behind pillars and next to tapestries. Everything in the room was art, a decoration for the Witch Lord’s palace.
Tav remembered the taste of witchfire, the ash and despair that had lingered on their tongue for days after escaping the Coven with the Heart. They wondered where the witches of the first ring were lurking, those closest to the throne, and most deadly — were they hiding in the underbelly of the Coven, waiting to strike? Were they leading malicious magics and enslaved essences into the Labyrinth?
Were they dressed in furs and wrapping paper, watching Tav behind masks of barbed wire and begonia, hiding among the sycophants?
The Witch Lord flowed down the throne, and Tav’s lungs struggled for oxygen as the sea washed over them.
“You should be careful what you ask for,” she said, and offered a hand.
Tav took it. The Witch Lord’s hand burned like ice and the kind of loneliness that turns geometry protractors and broken rulers into weapons in girls’ bathrooms.
Tav flinched at their touch, at the way the Witch Lord seemed to find their most painful memories and play
