“Viorica, my mother, is dead at the hands of Lucifer the Devil,” Ágota answers. “I am her heir and the new Archwitch.”
Balázs’s fierce look softens, and he takes a hesitant step forward. “Ágota? Truly?”
“More lies! Kill her!” the blonde woman orders.
The men and women standing behind her shift their gaze to Balázs, waiting for him to confirm this command from his wife.
“Soffia, she must be tested! She knows the name I gave my daughter,” Balázs responds. “She knows the name of the Archwitch.”
“A pretender! There have been others!” Soffia pivots toward her husband and meets his worried gaze with her own venomous one. “Viorica is long dead and her bastard with her. Do not fall for the lies of your enemies.”
Balázs regards Ágota with a thoughtful, yet dangerous expression upon his scarred face. “She looks like me.”
Soffia scoffs at him. “She looks like a peasant.”
“Who is that?” Balázs asks, pointing at me.
“My younger sister,” Ágota replies. “Erzsébet.”
“She looks like Viorica,” Balázs says to his wife.
This remark does me no favors for I witness raw hatred fill Soffia’s eyes when she regards me.
“Kill them. They are pretenders. This is a ruse of your enemies. Viorica is dead. There is no longer an Archwitch.”
I tilt my heard to observe my sister’s fury plain on her face. Fingers flexing in the air, the air shifts and distorts about them. I can feel her magic building, fully expecting for her to unleash it. I take another step back, accidentally stepping out of the circle.
A burst of red magic engulfs my body and sends me hurtling through the air. The magic fills me, boiling my insides, and the agony is unbearable. Soffia’s laughter rings in my ears as I burn. I try to call out my sister’s name, but all that comes from my lips is a shrill scream. Instantaneously, I am released from my torment. The magic flows back out of me, pouring through my mouth like a red flame, and engulfs Soffia in an inferno.
Held aloft in the air by the magic, I am stunned.
Have I finally manifested magic?
“Stop!” Balázs commands me.
Soffia staggers as the magical assault vanishes. One of the other male witches hurries to catch her as she falls. The terror in Soffia’s eyes matches her loathing. She will not be so easily dissuaded from attempting to kill me again.
I float to the ground and land at my sister’s side. My clothing and flesh are unscathed, the magical assault leaving no wounds. My forefinger tingles where the ring rests, revealing the purpose of it. It was not I who deflected the attack, but my sister through me.
“If my little sister can do that, imagine what I can do,” Ágota says haughtily.
Balázs chuckles. “Ágota, my daughter, Archwitch of the Lost Witch World, I welcome you home.” Throwing out his arms, he approaches her slowly and warily.
Ágota smirks and hugs the massive man. “And what a welcome it was!”
I gaze past Ágota and her father to the other witches and see that they are not so inclined to receive her. The faces of these lower male and female witches are suspicious and aloof. Soffia climbs to her feet and is steadied by the other witches.
I clasp my hands before me, my fingers tracing over the engraving on the enchanted ring. Over and over again, I trace the delicate lines, memorizing them as I watch my sister embrace her father and a new life.
My vision dims, so I close my eyes to the past.
Drawing the shears from beneath my skirt, I set the sharp point against the surface I am lying upon. Carefully, I carve the symbol into the stone. Will it help protect me? I am not certain, but I must do all I can to escape this place. I run my finger over the carving, then set the instrument to its task again.
If there are any remnants of Ágota’s power in this world, perhaps I can summon it to me so I can at last find freedom.
Chapter 12
I awaken in my mausoleum to the clatter of Magdala’s shears striking the ground. Disoriented, I sense that the sun has fallen below the horizon. I had fallen asleep while etching Ágota’s protection sigil into the bier, the shears still clutched in my grip. My fingers must have twitched as the vampire slumber released me. I lament the loss of the instrument, but I am satisfied with how deep I managed to carve the symbol. My fingertips lightly trace over the lines. It is crude, but perhaps it will gather whatever is left of Ágota’s magic. She made a promise, wove a spell, and I hope it still remains embroidered into the fabric of this world.