Witch Queen Rising

One

A surge of energy jolted Phine awake. Not the wake-up-refreshed-from-a-nap kind of energy, or the artificial high of too much caffeine. Instead, she woke to the universe mistaking her for a lightning rod . . . and by the Stars did it hurt. Joints locked, limbs twisting as muscle and sinew strained beneath her skin. A scream clawing up her throat, she tumbled out of bed onto cool floorboards. There, she thrashed like a catfish caught on a line while wave after wave of ancient power crashed into her body.

Without her Well, the vessel inside herself for magic, the power had nowhere to go. There was too much of it and not enough of her. Pain lit up her senses while she struggled to focus. Her mind's eye conjured the image of a deep stone well, its opening sealed shut with glowing chains. Long ago, she had sealed her Well to start a new life. Now that life depended on breaking those chains before this great and terrible power broke her body.

She hissed as the chains constricted around her in the real world. The crushing pressure bore down on her, building in her bones until she cried out. She needed the incantation to break the warding. She waded through memories, desperate to save herself. Just as her vision began to blur, she remembered. Reap what was sown. Release what was bound. Return what was lost.

The chains flared, then crumbled into glittering dust that floated away. With the floodgates open, the magic flowed home. Its unrelenting waves mellowed to soft ripples that tingled but no longer made her skin feel two sizes too small. She came back to herself with a deep gasp.

Still on her back, she dragged air into seared lungs and groaned. In the stillness after, the city roar found her through brick, mortar, and steel. Heavy metal blared from the apartment above her. But not loud enough to drown out the baby crying across the hall. Someone else yelled for it to be quiet between banging on the walls.

When she opened her eyes, the room was dark save for light dancing along the walls. But the sun had set hours ago and the color was wrong. Head throbbing, she brought her palm toward her forehead but stopped inches from her face. Her right hand was surrounded by shifting currents of midnight blue and black light. The light was radiating across every inch of her skin. It was coming from her.

No, she thought as a pit of dread opened inside her.

It should be impossible. This power, the power of the Prime, should never have come to her. She was lucky to be alive. But that was more than could be said for someone back home. For her to be cresting on this ocean of magic, someone who should be near and dear to her was now dearly departed. One does not become the Prime by choice. The Heart of the Land chose a successor when the old Prime returned to it. Which meant she was in big trouble. Because if the magic found her . . . her family could too.

Phine crawled to her feet, stumbling across the room in search of and then finding a switch. Muted light flickered on in the tiny studio. It wasn't much to write home about: a full-size mattress on a box spring, a bureau, and a nightstand just feet from a tiny, outdated kitchen. No TV or photos. No knickknacks or homey touches. Those were for people who weren't always a moment away from skipping town. And that moment was now.

She threw open drawers and tossed clothes back onto the bed. Dragged on jeans and a tank top, and grabbed her jacket. The scent of old leather grounded her, helping her push away the instinct to panic. She started ticking off the steps she'd planned for this moment. Rent was already paid. The landlord knew if she wasn't there the first of the month, she wasn't coming back. Her emergency bag was in the car, already stocked with two weeks of toiletries, water, and nonperishable food. She would call work once she was out of the city as they'd otherwise be expecting her in a few hours.

As she scanned the bare room, nothing stood out as essential. There wasn't anything she couldn't do without, which was good, because she could never come back. As a dark presence from the south broke over the horizon of her mind's eye, she faced that direction. The feeling crept closer like storm clouds rolling in. They're already in the city.

She stuffed everything she could grab in a carry-on bag and bolted for the door. Outside her building, her 1970 Plymouth Barracuda waited for her. She tossed her bag in the trunk and climbed in. The monstrous engine roared to life, and she sped off into the night. She went from waking to on the road in twelve minutes flat. She hoped it would be enough.

Heading north with the single-minded focus of the hunted, she wove through traffic as fast as she dared. As the presence got closer, the shadow she'd sensed earlier became a pressure in the back of her skull. By the time she was halfway out of the city, it loomed like a tidal wave. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened until the leather creaked beneath her fingers. She'd spent the last ten years hiding. Now, despite all that careful, calculated seclusion, it had taken them only twenty-five minutes to find her once she reopened her Well. But if she could just make it across the river, she could find her safe house and ward it with her new power. She could . . .

Stop the car, Seraphine.

A man's voice in her mind made her jump and she narrowly missed rear-ending a cab. Cursing under her breath, she got the car under control and accelerated again.

"Seraphine Barreau. Stop this car."

"Saints and Stars!" she yelled.

This time the voice wasn't in her head. It was right next to her in the passenger seat. She veered down a side street and parked. When her heart crept down from out of her throat, she glared at her new guest. Sharply dressed in a patterned tuxedo and top hat, her mother's steward regarded her with equal parts scorn and satisfaction. A sigh heaved out of her. Of all the people they could send to ferry her back, why did it have to be him?

"Time to go home," he said, his Yat accent thick.

He grabbed her hand, and the static tingle of magic surrounded them. Every cell, every fiber of her being charged just before she was pulled back to the one place she dreaded returning to. She closed her eyes against the nausea of teleportation, so it was her nose that told her where she landed. The air was rich with the scent of mossy trees in deep water, jasmine, and witch hazel. She was back in New Orleans. She was home.


If home is where the heart is, Seraphine Barreau had played the part of the Tin Man all her life. New Orleans had more ghosts than a graveyard, with painful memories worn into every cobblestone and wrought iron fence. For the last ten years, she had stayed as far north as she could to avoid even the idea of coming back here. And yet here she was, being driven down streets she remembered from another life.

New Orleans was as beautiful and dark as the night sky. Its bustling streets full of starlight. But as they drove with the windows down, something was . . . off. Something in the air was different. The wind carried a sickly sweetness that danced just out of reach of her perception any time she paid too much attention to it. It nagged at her thoughts. But the steward was either unaware or unbothered by it while he drove Phine's mother's car.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom IV was Maxine Barreau's pride and joy. A car fit for a Queen, her mother liked to say. The aged leather was soft as silk under her fingers, which flexed and released each time she forgot and remembered to breathe. Each time she did, she caught a whiff of cedarwood and roses. The haze of her mother's scent was thick enough to make her chew the inside of her lip. The Barreau matriarch wasn't in the car; couldn't be, truth be told. But the threat of her presence had Phine stroking the scar along her right palm. Its smoothness soothed her while she studied the man she knew only as Charles.

He was six feet tall, with a wiry frame and pecan brown skin. The Ankara suit he wore was starched within an inch of its life. Bushy brows framed eyes so deeply brown they melted into the black of his pupils. He had narrow, hard features like someone had pinched them onto his face. His mustache and beard were trimmed with exacting precision to frame lips set permanently in a frown. If one could get past his grim stateliness that eerily reminded her of a vulture, he could even be called handsome. But Phine couldn't recall a single time he had smiled or laughed. This was the man to whom her mother had left the care of her two daughters.

"Where are we going?" Phine asked, daring to break the silence.

"To your mother's house."

She chewed her lip, considering a question she didn't know if she wanted answered. "Have the Heads of House been informed of my arrival?"

"If they didn't know before, they knew the moment you crossed into the city." His eyes moved briefly to meet hers. "The power calls to them."

For anyone else he would have said Your power, and the distinction was not lost on Phine. A crack of lightning drew her eyes back outside as it split the sky. She rolled the window up. Thunder growled while dark clouds chased behind them like wolves. By the time they pulled up to her mother's house in the French Quarter, the sky poured rain. They arrived at a beautiful double-gallery home with ivory paint, rose red shutters, and a black roof. The front porch was enclosed by complementing red rosebushes in full bloom. The sight of them made Phine want to shudder. Charles opened the door for her while holding a golf umbrella open for them.

The Barreau house stood proud and unfazed by the storm, dwarfing her in its shadow. The windows were dark save for the flickering of candles in a few and firelight in one lone room on the second floor. For a moment, Phine swore a figure stood outlined in the window of her mother's study. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. That was their destination. But the idea made Phine swallow the bile trying to creep up her throat. Bad things happened in that room.

Charles cleared his throat, drawing her from her thoughts, then led her up the grand porch. When he ushered her inside, the house was as still and quiet as a tomb. But for her, it echoed with memories. It was just in her mind, but the giggle of young girls tickled her ears before images of two little girls rounded a corner. Xiomara. They couldn't have been more than six, but one of them looked like a little version of her. As they ran, mischief glinted in her younger self's eyes. Even as her older sister came hurtling after them threatening to tell their mother, young Phine still laughed carefree as a breeze. The images faded, but a lingering ache in her chest did not. Phine knew they weren't real, but she feared what other ghosts of her past this old house would conjure.

Original hardwoods creaked underfoot, breaking the heavy silence as they walked. When they passed the large French country kitchen, more images from her memories gripped her. An elderly woman with an easy smile to match her kind eyes stood behind the counter. The younger version of Phine, this time maybe nine or ten, balanced next to her on a stool. She and her Gigi Rosaline had been making biscuits for dinner, which her mother said were horrible. Later that night, Gigi comforted her while Phine cried herself to sleep.

Phine lost sight of them after she and Charles passed tastefully opulent room after tastefully opulent room. The Barreau house was supposed to reflect its witches: elegant, stately, traditional. The house was spotless, and everything had a place. Curated, she grumbled to herself. But what struck her most was, from the antique moldings to the decorative furnishings, everything was exactly as she remembered. Not one thing had moved or changed. It was like the Barreau house had held its breath for ten whole years. It felt more like a museum than a home.

After climbing the grand mahogany staircase, Charles led her down familiar hallways to her mother's formal study. Phine's pulse began throbbing in her ears. With each step, her pounding heart drowned out the creak of her steps. Charles stepped aside as they reached the doors to let her pass and made no move to follow. Phine stared at the doorknob where a Barreau B stared back at her. She couldn't bring herself to touch it. Memories of that room reared up to consume her. The tightness in her chest spiked as her vision started to blur.

The groan of the door snapped Phine back to herself with a gasp. It opened and waited for her to walk through it. Just enough tension eased out of Phine so she could breathe. Bracing herself, she squared her shoulders and stepped into the room she had nearly died in.