“I’m just glad I could help.”
“Ruthie,” she said, her eyes glistening, “she wants to join the coven.”
That must have been a big deal because Gigi stilled and placed a look of delight on her friend. “Oh, Serinda. Congratulations.”
“I know we’ll need the approval of the rest of the cove—the inner circle—and that she’ll be in a probationary period for a year and a day while she studies, but I was hoping I’d have the doyenne’s vote.”
Gigi shook her head softly, her smile warm and genuine. “I’m so happy for you, Serinda. Of course you have my vote, but—”
“The doyenne?” I asked, unfamiliar with that word as well.
Annette straightened her shoulders like that student in class who always had the answer. She pointed at Gigi. “Ruthie. Your grandmother.”
I fought a grin. “Yes, I know who Ruthie is.”
“She’s the doyenne. The senior member of our coven.”
“Your coven?” I knew she’d gotten to know the members of Gigi’s coven. I wasn’t aware she’d become a full-fledged member.
“Well, you know, hopefully. Right now, I’m a novice. A neophyte. I’m a member, but I have to complete a year and a day of study, of which I’ve completed five months, but maybe someday I’ll be invited into the cove.” Her expression went from prudent apprentice to aspiration-filled dreamer as she imagined that day.
She’d been swearing she was psychic since we were kids. I’d always had my doubts, even when she accurately predicted the rise and fall of Nathan Blomquist’s popularity in the seventh grade. Once the other kids found out he wasn’t the real Prince of Genovia—he really liked The Princess Diaries—the attraction waned.
“So, you studied while I was in that whole state of suspended animation. You are way ahead of me, then.”
“As usual.” One corner of her mouth twitched.
“And the cove?” I asked, ignoring her.
Serinda nodded. “Our upper echelon, so to speak. The inner circle and senior members of the coven.”
“So, like the board members?”
The woman’s glistening smile bordered on starstruck when she answered me. “Something like that, Sarru.”
“Serinda,” Gigi said, her tone softly admonishing.
As though realizing what she’d said, she blushed prettily beneath the white powder on her face and dropped her gaze as though embarrassed. “I apologize.”
“It’s not your fault.” Gigi patted her hand. “I apologize for not bringing it up sooner.”
“Sarru?” I asked. “It’s oddly familiar. What does it mean?” I looked at Annette, since she seemed to have all the answers, but she lifted a shoulder and fixed her inquisitive gaze on the two elder women.
“Familiar?” Gigi asked, seeming impressed. “The literal translation is king. It’s Mesopotamian.”
“Mesopotamian?” A charge ran along my spine. “That’s the time period the charmlings were first created.” I’d had a vision of that creation when I first came into my powers. Of the witches who’d banded together to create three powerful sisters to protect their fellow witches, though they weren’t called that back then. They were sorceresses. Shamans with magical powers. But kings and paupers alike would abuse their powers. Use them for personal gain. So, they created the charmlings to protect both witches and humans alike.
Sadly, the practice didn’t stop there. Unscrupulous witches and warlocks had learned centuries ago how to harness the powers of a charmling. Warlocks, no matter how powerful, can never absorb the power themselves, but they can control a witch who’d killed a blood heir and stolen her powers.
Still, any witch who did that risked almost certain death. Others would come. Others would do the same to them. Eventually, another witch would try to take from her what she took, the power that was never rightfully hers. Apparently, corrupt witches abound.
Those who did manage to hold on to the power were usually protected by a dark coven who used the magics for their own gain. The witches themselves were essentially chattel. Very well-guarded chattel with a startling lack of free will. Thus, either road led to tragedy.
It was all so new to me. Six months ago, I would’ve sworn magic wasn’t real. Witches didn’t exist. Warlocks were a myth. Admittedly, I still had a lot to learn, but I couldn’t help but wonder about the term king. And why Serinda would be addressing me as such. And how I could get her to stop immediately.
“Defiance is fine,” I told them both. “I’d rather not be addressed as royalty.”
“Defiance,” Gigi said, my turn to be admonished, “you cannot deny your heritage. Or your destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“To do so would be suicide.”
“Nobody said anything about a destiny.”
“I doubt the sorceresses called their creations king—”
“Or suicide.”
“But over time, they became known as such by those they protected. For the members of our coven, of any coven, to address you otherwise would be impudent.”
“Gigi,” I said, trying to keep the frustration from my voice, “I’ve only just come into my powers again.”
“Which is why I didn’t bring it up sooner.”
“How about I get used to them before we start throwing titles around willy-nilly?”
She pursed her elegant mouth. “Fine. But there is something we must consider. The other two charmlings—”
“You mean the faux charmlings?” None of the current-day charmlings, save me, were from the bloodline. For decades, the other two charmlings had gained their powers by stealing them. One after the other. The stolen powers were passed from witch to witch. At least, that was my understanding. So, there were two other charmlings out there, but both were murderesses and servants.
“Be that as it may,” Gigi said, “they are protected by very powerful covens and even more powerful warlocks.” The sideways glance she directed toward her best friend contained more than a hint of worry. “You are now part of our coven whether you like it or not, and the other members need to know you are to be protected at all costs. They must be prepared.”
I tugged on an ear, trying to wrap my head around it all. “I thought the whole reason for my creation was to protect you, my sister witches.”
“It was,” Serinda said, “thousands of years ago. The rules have changed.”
Gigi agreed. “You are simply too powerful, Defiance.”
“Then I should be able to protect myself.”
“That power,” Serinda explained, “is something witches and warlocks alike would do anything to get their hands on. The black arts are nothing to take lightly.”
“Once the powers are stolen from a blood heir—”
“Exactly,” I said, interrupting my grandmother. “Maybe that’s been the problem the whole time. The witches who stole them aren’t powerful enough to protect themselves, because the magics weren’t theirs to begin with.”
They exchanged perplexed glances before Gigi asked, “What do you mean, love?”