Looking pleased, Derrick lifted his stack of papers and began to read aloud from the first page. “‘Every thirteenth generation, a child is born. Into this child, the light will be implanted—’”
Implanted?
“‘—by one trained to wield it. That child will become the bringer of light. Through her, compassion and empathy will be reborn. Through her, harmony in nature will once again be restored. Through her, evil will be extinguished—’”
“Sorry to interrupt.” My heart, which had already been drumming at the possibility of my having contributed in some way to the formulation of this supernatural fault line, was beginning to slam inside my chest. “But was this fact-checked by anyone? Because it seems a bit—”
“There’s more.” Derrick pointed to his paper.
“I’m sure. But—”
“Just let me get to the end. ‘Without her, hope dies. And without hope, humanity dies itself. And because there will always be those who prefer evil,’” Derrick continued reading, “‘she must be protected by the one who is chosen. When the Bringer of Light is joined by the Chosen One, her power will increase tenfold. Because it is only with light that evil can be destroyed, and it is only with light that life can flourish.’”
I realized my hand had crept toward the amethyst stone I always wore on a silver chain at my throat—or had worn, at least, since the trouble with Billy. Amethyst had protective properties, and the stone had always worked.
Up until now.
“There,” he said. “That’s it. This is your copy to keep.” He laid the folded pages on top of the pile of lacy bralettes between us. “You can ask your questions now if you still have any.”
“Um,” I said, the cheesiest of the supernatural horror movies I’d watched obsessively as a teen now replaying on a loop in my mind. “Listen. I’m sorry. But if the Council sent you here to implant the light into me so that you can protect it, I’m going to have to give that a hard pass.”
He stared. “Pardon?”
“Not that I don’t think you’re attractive, because I do.” Like, majorly attractive—except for the part where he worked for the WCW. “I like the witch hunter vibe you have going on there with the hair and the leather jacket and the boots and everything. And I love that thing you do with your fingers—you’re going to have to show me how you do that. But the whole reason I’m on continuous birth control is so no implantation-type situation can ever take place. And before you say anything about how I’m missing out on the joys of motherhood, I don’t consider myself childless as much as child-free. I love kids, but I tried the relationship thing, and it really didn’t work out, so I’m done with all of that. I’m happy to be a single, prosperous, child-free business witch with my own home and a cat. So while I’m sorry about this rift thing, I have to decline your invitation. Do you want your parking validated? Because I can do that.”
The corners of Derrick’s mouth twitched. I wouldn’t have said he was smiling, though. That seemed beyond his emotional range. “I’m not here to implant anything in you, Jessica.”
“Oh.” I had to admit that, despite having meant every word I’d just said, I felt a little disappointed. Derrick Winters may have been with the WCW, but he was hot. Living in a village as small as West Harbor, the dating prospects were appallingly slim, especially when you were looking for someone who was supportive of entrepreneurial businesswomen and uninterested in any kind of long-term relationship. If I’d had to have sex with him—in order to save my town—it would not have been the worst thing imaginable. “Then I don’t get it.”
“You are the Chosen One.” He tapped the parchment paper. “The One selected to implant—and protect—the light.”
I shook my head. “And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?”
He reached for the papers he’d laid on the pile of bras and unfolded them again. On the second page was what looked like a bio that included a full color photo—a school photo, from the looks of it, and not a very good one—of a shyly smiling brown-skinned girl, a teenager in glasses and braces.
“Esther Dodge,” he said, and tapped the photo. “Through forensic genealogy, we believe she’s the Bringer of Light.”
“She’s supposed to save West Harbor from the rift?” I gaped. “She’s just a kid!”
“She’s sixteen. But even so, if she’s the witch we seek, her powers—coupled with yours—are all that can save this town.”
I studied the photo skeptically. “Really? What type of witch is she?”
When he looked blank, I prompted, “Storm witch, cottage witch, hedge witch, sun witch?” There were almost as many kinds of witches as there were spells. Each of them drew their power from different types of energy, but they were all legitimate practitioners of the Craft—in my opinion. As a member of the WCW, he might disagree.
“Right,” he said quickly. “Right. Well, the truth is, I don’t know if she’s even aware of her powers. That’s where you, as the Chosen One, come in. Only you can determine if Esther truly is the Bringer of Light, by awakening that light within her yourself.”
Awakening sounded a lot better than implanting, but it was still pretty vague. “How do I do that?”
“In my experience,” he said, “if you’re truly the Chosen One, it will come naturally. According to my sources, her family isn’t magically inclined, so you’ll probably be the first witch she’s ever met.”
Great. No pressure. All of this sounded horrible. “But why me? Why am I the Chosen One? Why not you, since you obviously know so much about it?”
He scowled, though at the calendar on my wall, not at me. “I don’t have the necessary skills. You do.”
“Necessary skills? But I don’t know anything about—” Then I realized what he meant by necessary skills. “Is it because I’m a woman and she’s a sixteen-year-old high school girl, and you’re . . .” My gaze strayed from his eyes to his whiskers and leather jacket. “. . . you?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, flatly refusing to acknowledge what I was saying. “Our research says the Chosen One is you.”
“Uh-huh.” Typical Council member, never taking accountability for anything. “Your research. Tell me this, then. Since when has the WCW been using forensic genealogy to test members of the public—minors, I might add—for proof of supernatural ancestry? Besides the fact that it’s stupid, is that even legal?”
Now his scowl was definitely directed at me. “Ms. Gold, you do realize that every moment we spend here, arguing over this, is another moment the forces of evil are able to gather strength, don’t you?”
“Oh, the forces of evil.” I widened my eyes at him mockingly, but truthfully, his words gave me another chill—enough so that I reached for a mini chocolate bar. Suddenly, I needed the comfort of a quick hit of sugar.
I hated the World Council of Witches, but I loved my town—obviously, since I’d moved back to it after college, and was sitting here listening to a WCW member explain to me how I could save it from ruin when every instinct in my body was telling me to run—run far away from him.