Yeah, I’m not going to do that.

Instead, I steer my broom toward the ocean beyond the party.

Under the moonlight, the water looks like glass, and the closer I get to it, the greater the urge to touch it. I lower my broom until I’m no more than a couple feet above the sea’s rippling surface, the waves looking inky in the night. I tuck my legs in close to my broom and lean down and reach out, dragging my fingertips across the top of the ocean.

The water is icy cold, and moving as fast as I am, the sea sprays against me. I laugh at the sensation, something primal stirring in me. I’m still a ways from shore, and if I fell into the water, I’d probably have to use more magic to get out of the situation, but I’m not afraid of the possibility.

This is what it means to be a witch.

I lift my hand from the water and rise a little higher as the water swells, then crests into waves the nearer to shore I get. I fly over the churning surf, then will the broom to slow as, beneath me, sand replaces sea. Once I hit dry sand, the broom comes to a stop, and I hop off, walking over to the edge of the party. A dozen other brooms lean against the rocky cliffside that borders it, and I leave mine among them.

I use a wordless spell to dry my skin and clothes. My nose and hands are numb from the cold, but I don’t bother wasting more power on heating them up. It’s nothing that a bonfire and booze can’t fix.

On the far side of the party a group of musicians play the fiddle, the harp and the flute.

I walk over to the cluster of witches and mages and shifters mingling around the fire. Among them is Kane. My stomach drops at the sight of him. I hadn’t realized he would be here. I nearly duck when he turns his head my way.

I move deeper into the group, my eyes drinking in faces. I can’t help but search the crowd for Nero’s attackers. I don’t know that they’re here or what I’ll do if I do see them, but⁠—

“Selene!”

I turn at the sound of my name, thinking it’s Sybil.

Instead, I take in wild-haired Olga. I’m used to seeing the witch with her Ledger of Last Words tucked under her arm. But for the second time this week, the book is out of sight. Instead, my coven sister holds two drinks in her hands.

“I haven’t seen you since Samhain!” she says, looking genuinely happy to see me. “So good to see you. Here.” She thrusts one of her drinks at me. “Want this? I got it for Mai, but now I can’t find her.”

“Oh,” I say, taking the drink reflexively, “thanks. I can’t find Sybil either, so that makes two of us.” I glance down at the drink. “Does this have any espiritus in it?” I ask.

I’m still traumatized by the last time I drank the stuff.

“Not sure, if I’m being completely honest. A shifter was handing the drinks out. Why?” she asks.

I make a face. “Samhain was…an experience,” I say. “I ended up spending the night screwing my nemesis.” It feels weird calling Memnon that. My nemesis. Wrong somehow. Lately, he’s been something else entirely.

“Oooh, sounds threatening and very hot,” Olga says. “Well, cheers to making love in war.” She clinks her cup with mine, then downs her drink.

Tonight, the witch has put on makeup, and her wild hair looks more windblown than frizzy. All done up, Olga is stunning. One would hardly know that she’s unnervingly obsessed with people’s final words.

Olga finishes off her drink and breathes in the briny air. “Mmm…tonight smells like a night for reaping. I bet I’ll get another entry in my book.”

And there it is. Her witchiness making itself known.

I grimace at the glee in Olga’s voice and take a reluctant sip of my drink, which tastes like cranberries, cheap vodka, and spices meant to cover up said cheapness. But it lacks the bittersweet edge of witch’s brew, and I relax a little.

Sybil finds us then, slinging her arms around my neck and Olga’s. A bit of her drink sloshes onto Olga’s shirt.

“What’s up, witches?” she says, nuzzling my cheek, her lilac magic twining around my head before drifting up into the air above us.

Behind Sybil are Mai and another witch whose name I’m pretty sure is Cordelia. They move over to join our group.

Sybil glances at my cup. “How about you? You’ve hardly had any of your drink.”

“She’s worried if she drinks it, she’s going to screw her archnemesis again,” Olga adds helpfully.

I throw Olga an annoyed look, taking another deliberate swallow of my drink.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kane glance over sharply.

Fuck me. He must’ve heard that.

“Oh, archnemesis is it?” Sybil says, raising her eyebrows as she drops her arms and squeezes in between me and Olga. “We definitely wouldn’t want you to make the same mistake twice,” she says, knowing full well that I’ve made that mistake more than twice now.

Hell’s spells, that reminds me—I still have to ask her about the birth control potion.

I feel the press of a broad chest behind me, then an arm snakes around my midsection.

“We need to talk.” Kane’s voice is soft against my ear.

My heart leaps at the touch even as my stomach twists. I don’t want to talk to Kane. Not really. It was fine when things with him were simple, but now they’re messy. We’re messy.

I take another long swallow of my drink.

“Ohhh, her fiancé is not going to like how handsy you’re being,” Sybil says.

Kane doesn’t let me go, and I stare down at his arm, unsure whether the embrace is bothering me or not.

“I don’t remember having to answer to him,” Kane says smoothly. “He can fuck himself for all I care.”

“I don’t think he needs to. Not when he’s got your girl here to fulfill all his dark, depraved needs.”

“Fucking Furies, Sybil,” I say. This is her getting me back for the dad comments earlier.

Kane’s grip on me tightens, and I feel rather than hear a low, possessive growl vibrate in his chest.

My best friend looks delighted, and the witches around us watch this all avidly.

I turn in Kane’s arms and push him back, out of the group.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them over my shoulder.

“Take your time!” Sybil says, waggling her eyebrows.

To Kane, I say, “Get your shit together. You and I are just friends, and she is just teasing.”

“About your sex life.”

I lift a shoulder. “And?”

He grimaces, and I feel our different worlds colliding. Witches tend to be very sex positive. We like the act of coming together, it goes hand in hand with our magic, and it’s part of our ethos to celebrate it. It’s even incorporated into some of our rituals, such as Beltane.

Shifters, on the other hand, seem a bit more territorial about who they fuck and how they flaunt it.

Kane shakes his head and pulls me aside. I sway a little at the action, and the lycanthrope frowns. “You okay, Bowers?”

“What? Me?” I point to myself. “I’m fine.”

Kane scrutinizes me for another second, then moves on. “I wanted to apologize to you again. For not helping you when your familiar was hurt.”

Bile rises at the memory. Don’t want to talk about this. Don’t want to remember that night.

I have another swallow of my drink.

“I should’ve ignored my alpha’s orders,” he continues. “I could…hear the screams. I knew something was happening. All the shifters out there could.” Kane’s throat bobs, and he ducks his head, toeing a clump of sand. “I had admitted I liked you, and I didn’t help. I didn’t take care of you as I should’ve.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.” If I did, I would be sitting prettily in Memnon’s home, waiting on him to arrive.

Kane’s and my true differences creep up on me then. How we view intimacy, how we view relationships. A casual fling with Kane might’ve worked out, but anything more would’ve stifled me.

I don’t answer to anyone, not even Memnon. Memnon knows that. Fuck, Memnon likes that aspect of me. He’s been all too eager to goad me into my own power.