Beside her, Yemi moved behind Reagan, and they all looked expectantly at Brenna to continue.
“You’ll call the gods three times.” Brenna nodded at Yemi, who reached into her canvas bag and brought out what looked like two shot glasses. “You’ll drink the elixir.”
The brown tealike substance in the basin, Dayna knew.
“Then we’ll mark you as daughters of the gods,” Faye said.
Yemi pulled the canvas bag onto her lap and out came two long crow feathers. “Feather for your right hand,” she said, and then removed a pair of smooth black rocks. “Onyx for your left.”
The rocks and feathers were passed down, and Reagan shot Dayna an amused look, accepting her feather and rock with a glib smile. “We really need this stuff?”
Faye gave her a sharp look from across the circle. “Magic is about meaning. The symbolism behind each object has power. Together they give words strength enough to reach the gods’ ears.”
Reagan looked sufficiently chastised, but her eyes still sparkled when she peered at Dayna from beneath her lashes.
Trying to hide her smile, Dayna accepted the rock and feather. Each of the women did the same, palms upturned, eyes shut.
That flutter in her stomach was back again, but this time it was a good feeling. Excitement rekindling. She could feel the low, expectant hum of magic in the circle already. It sent goose bumps crawling over her skin.
“Circle. Chloch. Cleite. Déanaimid gairmí ort.”
It was Bronagh chanting. Beside her, Cora stared around the circle, expression strangely smug. Or perhaps that was just her usual expression. She seemed to wear it a lot.
The sun started to dip behind the tree line, and Faye lit the candle ring. Tongues of flames flickered and danced in the dimming light. Dayna shut her eyes again, trying to concentrate on the words, on the way they should roll off her tongue. She could only tell what some of them meant, something about stones and feathers and gods.
They repeated it three times, the names of their gods at the end. On the third repetition, something changed. The wind, which had been rustling the apple trees and blowing Dayna’s hair back, suddenly died. With it, the sound of the birds chattering in the trees dropped off. It was eerily silent, save for the sound of Bronagh’s voice.
Dayna shivered, feeling the electric hum of power in the circle grow with each word. Something was happening now, something that made her chest swell with excitement. Something good.
“Now,” Bronagh said. “Drink.”
The potion was bitter on her tongue and burned going down. When she had finished, Dayna dropped the cup on the grass, gagging. She’d tasted rum once. The burn was similar, though it tasted strongly of bergamot as well, like Earl Grey laced with strong liquor. She grimaced and then went still. Something had begun almost immediately. The fire trailed down her throat and into her belly, warming her entire body an inch at a time. Around her the orchard swayed, and the trees seemed impossibly tall.
The wind was back. At first, she heard the whisper of leaves, the sigh of the breeze rushing through the trees. She shut her eyes to listen, her hair caught by the wind, brushing her cheeks and throat. The distant sound of words came on the breeze, whispers in an ancient tongue.
She kept her eyes shut, feeling a heady rush of fear and exhilaration. Something told her not to look.
There’d been many times she’d brushed the edge of power. As a witchling she prayed to many gods and got a mere taste of the magic. Enough to do small spells here and there. Doing spells filled her with a kind of tingling electricity, but the results were subtle. A premonition here and there, a day that went especially well when you needed it to. But this…this was different. This was coming face-to-face with the source of her power.
As soon as the whispers started, the fire in her belly grew, extending tendrils of warmth through her arms and legs. Her limbs tingled, like she’d come in from the cold and sat down by the fire. It was the feeling she got doing magic, magnified several times over.
Bronagh had finished the chant, and now she said softly, “Hold still. Do not open your eyes.”
Dayna squeezed them shut harder. There came the rustle of someone moving, then something brushed her cheek. A soft touch. The scent of bergamot and the jingle of bangles told her it was Brenna. A waft of some acidic smell hit her next, and she felt the cool touch of liquid on her face as Brenna painted lines and swirls on her cheek. The tree of life.
A moment later Brenna’s touch receded.
“Thrice you will call on your gods.”
She felt Reagan shift beside her. Dayna took a deep, shaky breath; the breeze was still whispering, and she wanted to be still and listen, but she forced herself to recite the beginning of the chant with Reagan.
Even as she chanted, she felt gooseflesh creep over her arms and legs. The wind was blowing harder now, dragging her hair over her face. She didn’t lift a hand to brush it away. On the third verse the thing that had been stirring around her grew stronger, and the voices on the wind grew louder.
Now they were finished, and she could make out individual words. Stone and feather, the voices were saying. Oak and ash. We see you, daughters.
The burning inside Dayna’s skin had increased, so hot it was almost uncomfortable. Despite this, she forced herself to stand perfectly still.
The wind rushed in her ears, and then it spoke. I have seen the circle and I honor it. Will you accept me, daughter of oak?
The goddess’s voice was both strange and familiar. As though she’d heard it before, in a dream, maybe, or in the state between waking and sleep. Dayna’s breath came out in a rush, and on it was the word yes.
Something hit her, a physical blow that passed through her body and vibrated her bones. She was knocked backward with a startled cry. Someone caught her. Meiner, she remembered a second later. She felt callused hands on her bare arms, though they gripped her gently enough, helping her upright. She caught the scent of laundry soap again and knew somewhat distantly in the back of her mind that Meiner was the only thing keeping her upright. Her bones were liquid, her blood fire.
You are remade, daughter.
Dayna could feel the magic now, surging beneath her breast. It was an electric kind of energy, full of endless possibility. Bigger than anything she’d felt until now. A sense of peace drifted over her like a woolen blanket, heavy and warm.
And then something shifted.
The wind was the first warning. It died abruptly, and Dayna’s ears rang in the silence. Then the scent hit her, overpowering Meiner’s soap smell. It was burning hair and rotting flesh. The sickly scent of overripe fruit and the putrid skunk smell of still water.
The burning in her veins flared hotter in response, and Dayna shifted. Beside her Reagan gasped.
Dayna opened her eyes.
Cora was directly across from her. She was on her knees, her face pale and frightened.
In the split second before it happened, she met Dayna’s gaze. Cora’s eyes, usually wide and light brown, had changed. Shadows crawled and skittered behind them, like cockroaches running from the light.
Behind Cora, three of the pillar candles went out at once, leaving a gap in the circle, a thin slice of darkness. Trickles of smoke twisted into the sky.
The sight sent a flash of cold panic through her.
Cora opened her mouth and screamed, a high, horrible sound. Her entire body shook, and she snapped upright. Her body bent unnaturally, horribly contorted, as if some invisible giant was twisting her back on herself like a plastic doll. On either side the Callighan women stared in shock, and for a moment it seemed someone had frozen the circle members.