TENN WOKE EARLY, but a quick glance around the tent told him he wasn’t the first to rise. Devon was missing, though Dreya was still fast asleep.
He slipped from the tent and stood by the edge of the fire, the snow drifting around his ankles in a breeze. It was a clear day, and fresh snow blazed white in the bright morning air. It looked beautiful—frost on the trailer windows, snow against tires and sloping on roofs. No Tomás in the night, no Matthias in his dreams—at least, not that he could remember. Even the weight of Jarrett’s death seemed lighter, though that didn’t actually make him feel any better.
He didn’t want to forget. He wouldn’t.
Devon sat on the opposite side of the fire pit, his legs crossed and body turned toward the rising sun. Fire flickered in his chest, and sparks danced about like motes of dust, the heat melting a perfect circle in the snow around him. A part of Tenn wanted to walk over and try to talk, but he had a feeling that would be a mistake. If meditating was the only thing keeping the rage of Fire in check, Tenn wouldn’t do anything to interfere.
The door of the trailer behind him opened and Rhiannon stepped out, a thick quilt wrapped around her. She smiled when she saw him, then caught sight of Devon. The smile slipped as she walked up beside Tenn.
“He is deeply hurt,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Tenn replied.
“Do you know why?” she asked.
He shook his head. Even though their voices were muted, they still carried in the thin morning air. If Devon heard them, he didn’t show it.
“You hurt, as well,” she said. “You, most of all.”
Tenn shrugged. “We all do,” he replied, but his words didn’t carry the resoluteness he wanted. He was quickly growing tired of all these people seeing inside his head, speaking like they were from some other century. Rhiannon shuffled her quilt tighter around her. She smelled like wildflowers.
“You lost someone dear to you,” she said. It wasn’t a question, and the statement hung on the air like a specter.
“How do you know? Did the spirits tell you?”
She looked at him. He’d expected the bitterness to cut, but she just smiled softly. “No. It may as well be tattooed on your face. I know you don’t fully trust us or our beliefs—not many do—but I have lived long enough to know one thing: pain is what lets us know we are alive. Without it, we are ghosts. Accept it as a gift. It will give you strength. Otherwise, pain will consume you, and then you risk losing sight of what life has granted you.” She looked at her trailer briefly, then went back to staring at the trees. “I’ll introduce you to Luke after breakfast. He’s quite excited to meet the three the gods have been speaking of.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You, especially. Our Circle is soon. You are welcome to join if you’d like.”
“What’s a Circle?” he asked.
She smiled. “You will find out.”
The rest of the community woke up shortly thereafter. The moment the first door cracked open, Devon started and stood, wiping invisible dust from his jeans and disappearing into the tent.
One by one, the Witches gathered around the fire, silent and solemn; unlike the citizens of Outer Chicago, the people didn’t look ragged or run-down. Their clothes looked secondhand, sure, but they were colorful and upcycled, a little more vibrant and bohemian than he was used to in this dismal world. The twins appeared much later, neither making eye contact. Rhiannon walked into her trailer and brought out a large brass bowl. When she returned to Tenn’s side, she struck the bowl with a mallet wrapped in leather, creating a low, ringing tone that echoed through the clearing. Immediately, the timbre of the morning changed. Silence grew, and even Tenn felt compelled to stand at attention. Rhiannon stepped forward with the bowl held before her.
“We give thanks,” she said. “Today, we give thanks for warmth and shelter, for food and family. We give thanks for new friends,” she said, glancing at him and the twins, “and we give thanks for old traditions.” She struck the bowl. “We call to the ancient ones, to the spirits of the earth and air, the gods of fire and rain, and pray for guidance as we navigate this new world. We offer our prayers and our lives. Lead us back to balance, and we shall follow willingly.” Another ring.
“We are your messengers.” Her words were echoed by the group. Strike.
“We are your workers.” Strike.
“We are your vessels.” Strike.
“So mote it be,” she whispered. The group repeated her words just as quietly, a whispered prayer.
She drew the mallet around the bowl in a slow, circular motion. At first Tenn couldn’t hear anything; everyone and everything had gone completely silent. Then, low at first, he heard the tone of the bowl, the hum of metal as it vibrated in the chill morning air. Or maybe it wasn’t the bowl. There was another sound, another pitch, as the people around him began to hum as well, matching their voices to the drone of the bowl. Devon and Dreya joined in. No magic was used, but the tone seemed to pull at his Spheres. Before he could wonder what was going on, he began to hum, as well.
In that instant, warmth spilled through him, an electric, comforting spark that made his skin tingle with life. Earth pulsed joyously in his gut; Water swirled in his stomach—for once without dredging up the horrors of his past. And even though he’d never been attuned to them, he could feel Fire and Air, the barest brush of their powers stirring in his body: a heat in his chest, a cool breath in his throat. There was even a tingle at the top of his scalp, the barest brush of energy where Maya rested in all its enigmatic power.
He couldn’t tell how long he stood like that, swirling among the elements that pulsed in his veins like lifeblood, surrounded by others who surely felt it, too. Then the sound began to die down, slow and natural, a quiet fade into silence. He could still feel the tingle of the song.
Rhiannon struck the bowl again, softer this time. The Circle was over.
“What was that?” he asked as everyone began to go about their morning chores. Despite the horrors of the last few days, something about the Circle had lightened his mood, made the burden seem a little more bearable. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”
Rhiannon smiled at him.
“That, dear Hunter, is the true magic of the Spheres.” She turned and began walking back to the trailer. “Come on in, you three. It’s time to learn.”
* * *
The translator, Luke, wasn’t what Tenn had expected. Somewhere along the way he figured the man who translated runes would be old, much older than him. That he’d have gray hair and wizard’s robes, or else he’d look like some knockoff Norse god, all blond and muscular and mean. So when Rhiannon answered the door and welcomed in a guy not much older than Tenn, he was a little disappointed. Luke looked like every other hipster guy he’d seen—scruffy facial hair, messy brown hair pulled back in a man-bun and even the ubiquitous black-and-red check flannel. So much for a grand old wizard.
“So,” Luke said. “You’re here to learn about the runes.”
Tenn nodded.
“Why?”
Tenn opened his mouth and realized quite quickly that he had no idea what to say. An answer to why he was being targeted. To how the runes could undo the undead. To why his magic was taking over, and the runes whispering in his head. Thankfully, Dreya chose that moment to step in.
“Our commander sent us,” she said. She didn’t meet anyone in the eye—strange, especially for her. She just stared at the table, one finger tracing nervous circles against the surface. “A jar covered in runes was found at the scene of our last battle. It’s how the necromancers have been creating Howls. We believe...” She took a deep breath and glanced up, looking Rhiannon straight in the eye. “We believe that if the runes could be understood and reversed, so could the condition.”
Silence filled the trailer. And for the first time since they’d been there, Tenn felt wholly unwelcome.
“Impossible,” Luke finally said. His word broke the tension, but it didn’t make Tenn feel any better. “We have known for years that the Howls were birthed using runes. How else could necromancers tap into such devastating power? But those runes won’t help you. Nothing can.”
“Why?”
Luke folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.
“To understand, you have to grasp the nature of magic. The runes are the language of the gods. They are, quite literally, the words that created our existence. This language is the magic that keeps the cosmos spinning, the threads and the loom on which everything is woven. The runes themselves are just markings, but they allow us to tap into that language, to harness its power.” He reached over and pushed up the sleeve of Tenn’s coat, revealing the twining Hunter’s mark. “The runes of your mark allow you to use the elements, but you aren’t really creating anything new. You’re just using the powers that have already been built into the world. You’re speaking a language spoken for centuries.
“And just as there are many races of man, there are many types of god. Each god has their own language. The language of the Dark Lady is as old as time and was spoken by countless other tainted souls before the Resurrection—the Dark Lady was merely the most recent, and perhaps the most successful. It is a language of evil gods, of forces that wish to rip the world apart. Every use of that power is another tear in the weave. You wish to reverse her work by twisting the words She used, but that will simply cause more destruction. The language of her gods is one geared entirely toward chaos. Any attempts to change it, to control or reverse it, will only unleash more evil. The repercussions could destroy the world.”
“How do you know all this?” Tenn asked.
“Because we have tried,” Rhiannon said. “In the beginning, when the Howls first formed, we begged the spirits for a solution. A cure. But not even the spirits we served were willing to delve into those darker mysteries. So we attempted on our own, tried to reverse or mute the language. It only made things worse. And, in our hubris, the spirits we served turned their backs on us.” She sighed and stared out the window. “There was a time, years ago, when we could hear the gods in every sigh of wind, in every drop of rain. Now they have grown almost silent.”
“Hearing the gods is my calling,” Luke continued. “For some reason, the gods chose me to be their vessel. I’ve become the one person in all the clans who can hear their voices and translate those words into runes. That’s how we learned to cloak ourselves from danger, how to purify water and grow food in barren soil. But it was like hearing a melody from far away. They were whispers from the past, old skills. The spirits refused to speak anything new. No matter how much I begged or tried to prove myself, they refused to speak the greater magics. I wasn’t... I’m not a suitable vessel for their power. They refuse to help us do anything more than scrape by and survive.”
“If that is true,” Dreya said, “why did the spirits tell you to wait for us? Why do they want Tenn?”
And, Tenn wondered, why didn’t you tell anyone else? You could have saved millions! The anger rose in his chest, but Rhiannon’s words stamped it out.
“Because they need a host who can handle the power these words would carry. To speak the full language of the gods, one must be godlike.” She looked at Tenn.
For a moment, his heart refused to beat.
“I’m not godlike,” Tenn whispered. His words caught in his throat. If he had any special power, he would have been able to save Jarrett.
“So says the one toward whom the elements bend.”
Tenn swallowed hard. Water seemed to curl in his stomach at the words; instantly, all he could think of was the battlefield only days ago, when the Sphere opened against his will. As if to keep him alive. As if the element itself was trying to protect him...
“How did—”
“I felt it the moment you stepped into our camp,” she said. “The elements swirl around you like moths to the flame. You don’t wield power. You attract it.”
For a moment he envisioned Tomás and Matthias; he was attracting a great deal of power. Most of it, he wanted to avoid. He shook his head and tried to keep the memories down. He didn’t need them to be acting up. Not here. Not with everyone watching.
“Water...” he said, trying to stay in the present, “it’s been acting up. Taking over. Sometimes it’s almost like it wields itself. Like it’s trying to survive.”
“The greatest vanity of our time has been the belief that we can control nature,” Rhiannon said. “We manipulate the elements, but they always fight back. Look at what has happened to the earth. Rivers boiled, mountains moved, forests turned to deserts and deserts crumbled to the seas. We don’t control or wield the elements—only those who serve the Dark Lady would be so vain as to think we could truly change creation. No, the elements allow us to work with them. But humanity has always tried to claim dominance. The elements have been waiting for years to find someone that they could work not with, but through.”
“Why me?”
She smiled, as though she’d been waiting for him to ask that question the entire time.
“Because you never asked for power. Power asked for you.”
Tenn wanted to say that they were insane, that he wasn’t special or chosen or anything like that, but before he could voice his concerns the trailer door slammed open. A boy burst in, his face bloody and a mangled arm held to his chest.
“Mother,” he panted, gripping the doorframe. “We were attacked. Howls in the forest where we were playing. Near the final barrier. They took...they took Tori.”
Rhiannon was there in a moment, her arms embracing the boy as he broke into sobs against her chest. Luke stood.
“I reinforced those runes myself,” he said, shocked and staring out the window, as if waiting for the Howls to seep through.
It wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.
“We’ll find her,” Tenn said. He was on his feet and already heading toward the door, blood pounding in his ears and guilt riding his heart. It didn’t matter how the Howls broke through, only that they had. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. We do. We’re the ones who brought him.”