Slices of Midnight Chapter 12
A bruise proves what dreams denied. The witches’ lessons were real—and a letter promises far more than apprenticeship.
Read Chapter 11
After a deep, dreamless sleep, I awakened from my ordeal with demons, witches, and spiders to find myself tucked snugly beneath my patchwork quilt—the one I relied on to stay warm during winter’s chill. Immediately, memories flooded back: a sacrificed ram, sizzling bolts of lightning, and the sharp bite of spider fangs.
Melancholy settled over me. Such a fantastic night could only have been a dream. While I slept, the currents of my subconscious had carried me to that extraordinary place. Or so I thought.
Muriel and Morgan had been witches, and they had positioned me to embrace their art as my own.
“Damn,” I muttered, replaying the events of my supposed dream. It had felt so real. The pain of those spider bites would stay with me forever, even if I lived to be a hundred. “Damn, damn, damn. Damn it all to hell.”
Stretching to shake off my misery, I winced—a sharp soreness flared near my right knee. Then, it hit me. The fall I’d taken while dodging Morgan the Specter at the priory.
I tossed aside my quilt and inspected my knee. Sure enough, an ugly bruise—blue, black, and green—glared back at me.
It had all been real!
I leaped from bed, savoring the sting that shot through my injured knee upon landing. My bottom still ached, too—Priestess Nyomi had once again proven her skill with the rod of discipline. But no soreness could dampen my excitement.
Grinning, I hopped to my nightstand and snatched up my boots and clothes, neatly folded by unseen hands during the night. With them, I strode into the cottage’s front room like a newly crowned queen entering her court, eager for whatever the day might bring.
I leaped from bed, savoring the sting that shot through my injured knee upon landing. My bottom still ached, too—Priestess Nyomi had once again proven her skill with the rod of discipline. But no soreness could dampen my excitement.
Grinning, I hopped to my nightstand and snatched up my boots and clothes, neatly folded by unseen hands during the night. Clutching them to my chest, I strode into the cottage’s front room like a newly crowned queen entering her court, eager for whatever the day might bring.
“Father?” I called, glancing around the room. A fire crackled in the hearth, the logs barely blackened—someone had tended it recently. But the front room was empty.
Frowning, I stepped into the hallway. “Father, are you here?” I asked, peeking into his bedroom.
The bed where Muriel had taken him for a gallop was neatly made, and the rest of the room was in perfect order. Yet, he was nowhere to be found—not that I was surprised.
Father was nothing more than a puppet, his strings pulled by two masterful puppeteers. Muriel and Morgan had bound him through sex and sorcery, shaping his will to serve their own. Thinking back, I realized it must have been this way for years—ever since I had known them.
I ran a finger across the deep notch Morgan’s dagger had left in the door frame of Father’s bedroom. Now that I was poised to join the witches in my pursuit of magic, I wondered what would become of him. Would Muriel and Morgan release him from the spell that kept him in a stupor, or would they simply do away with him?
I had always blamed his aloofness on drink, but now I saw the truth—it hadn’t been just the liquor. Not entirely.
In the end, I doubted I would have much say in his fate.
I returned to the front room, ready to change into my day clothes when something caught my eye—a sealed letter resting on the table beside the glass orb Muriel had gifted me.
Forgetting my clothes, I tossed them onto a chair and turned my full attention to the letter.
“Oh my,” I murmured, studying the exquisite wax seal that bound the paper. Before departing, Muriel had left me a message. Her initials—M.B.—were pressed into the wax.
With the letter in hand, I retrieved the paring knife my father sometimes used to peel apples from the mantel above the hearth. But before breaking the seal, I hesitated. Deep down, I knew these words would change my life forever.
My hands grew clammy, my mouth dry. I paced the room, trying to steady my pounding anticipation. Only after a few moments did I finally manage to gather myself.
Wanting to preserve the exquisite seal, I carefully slid the knife’s edge beneath the wax, hoping to free it intact. But the magic within had other plans. For a fleeting instant, the seal lifted as I intended—then the sorcery awakened.
The scarlet wax unraveled into a flurry of tiny red bats. The winged swarm spiraled around me twice before plunging downward, slipping as a collective shadow through the crack beneath the front door.
Eyes still wide from the spectacle, I unfolded the letter and turned my attention to the words within. Muriel’s handwriting was the most elegant I had ever seen—a stately collection of perfectly formed letters.
If only your mother could see you now—I can only imagine her pride. On that fateful day when she perished upon Arinar’s murderous stake, I made a promise to Lydia Bonifay, my dearest friend in all the realm: to see to the raising of her daughter.
So I have. And so I shall.
Upon my initiation into the coven, I swore a solemn vow—to pass on all I have learned, to mentor young women, to raise them strong in the black craft.
So I shall.
The coven has plans for you, but there is much to learn. We will begin with the Orb of Myceen. Use it today, when the time is right. Trust me—you will know.
Auntie Muriel
When I finished reading, I clutched the letter to my chest, tears welling in my eyes.
“And so I shall.”
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