The Impaled Bride (Vampire Bride 3)

Chills flow down my spine despite the warmth of the fire as the magic rises around us and seals us in its protective embrace.

“Summon the power.”

We release our hold on the people next to us to raise our hands over our heads. My fingertips tingle as magic fills the circle. Sparks

of light float before my eyes and a warm breeze ruffles my hair. The light continues to grow until its golden illumination obliterates all darkness within the circle. I have never seen the magic manifest so vividly when Balázs led the coven ritual. Scrutinizing the faces around me, I am satisfied to observe the others are astonished by the manifestation of Ágota’s abilities.

“Siphons, follow me,” Ágota orders, surprising the coven.

Ágota steps into the circle with me close behind. Balázs, Henrietta, and Soffia obey her while the others move to close the gap. Soffia gives Balázs a questioning look, but he shrugs in response. Henrietta, meanwhile, appears eager to do whatever Ágota asks of her. Though I an uncertain as to what my sister will do with the magic building around us, I know it will leave the coven breathless. My sister has always been a bit of a braggart and she will use this moment to her advantage.

Ágota’s dark hair flows about her, rippling like water. Arms still held aloft, her feet lift from the floor as she spins about very slowly to face the siphons. The magic swells in the circle as it answers to her beckoning. The magic never felt like this potent when Balázs summoned it. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, and eyes lifted to the heavens, Ágota floats before us. The sweet fragrance of magic fills my nostrils and a low hum vibrates in my chest. Ágota is terrifying to behold, and, from the expressions on the faces of the coven, it is apparent that they are frightened by this exhibition of her power.

Ágota swings her arms toward her waiting siphons and the golden speckles filling the air rush toward us. I draw in a sharp breath an instant before I am flung into the air. I have not even finished my gasp when I find myself standing on a hillside alongside the other three witches with Ágota standing a few feet in front of us. The enemy camp spreads out at the base of the hill with banners fluttering in the wind over the sprawl of tents. While the chill in the wintry air turns our breath to frost, I blink against the harsh glare of the sunlight gleaming off the patches of snow.

“How?” Soffia exclaims, her eyes darting about our surroundings. Turning about, she looks back toward the castle and the town. “I have never seen such magic!”

“She is the Archwitch,” Henrietta says with a grin.

“Well done, Ágota. Now we must deal with our enemies,” Balázs says to his daughter.

With a nod, Ágota swivels about to face the camp. Fingers flexing at her side, she draws in a deep breath. “Summon the elements!”

“I call forth the earth,” Balázs intones, and the ground rumbles beneath his feet. Sharp spikes of stone rise up to encircle him.

“I call forth fire!” The snow sizzles as a ring of fire forms around Soffia and the flames reflect in her eyes giving the impression that another inferno burns within her.

“I call forth water!” Henrietta sweeps her arms upward and a flurry of ice and snow spins around her.

I swallow the hard knot forming in my throat. I am no witch. I am weakening the Archwitch in this vital moment. I am failing my sister and myself and guilt gnaws at my bones. Ágota gives me a sharp look over her shoulder so I will continue with our farce. “I call forth wind!”

A gust of wind snatches me up and lifts me off the ground. Suspended in the air, I am startled by the sensation of being held aloft by great invisible wings.

“Well done, Erjy!” my sister exclaims.

I am surprised to see the pride in her gaze. Certainly, she is the one who is hanging me on the winds by an invisible thread? I could not possibly be doing this on my own.

There is no time to ponder my question for we have drawn the attention of our enemy. What a sight we must be up on the hillside! Rough-looking men in long tunics over battered armor emerge from the tents. The few horses with them snort and paw at the ground, unsettled by the magic swelling in the air. “Ágota, do not draw this out,” Balázs says, his voice sounding like an earthquake. “Do not give them a chance to attack. No survivors.”

“What about the horses?” I ask worriedly.

“Do it, Ágota,” Soffia hisses, smoke unfurling from her lips. “Slay our enemies! It is your duty!”

“You can do this!” Henrietta’s small snow storm obscures her face, but she sounds encouraging and not afraid.

I cannot see my sister’s expression, but there is tension in the set of her shoulders. Long dark hair whipping about her, she lowers her head. “I have never killed mortals before.”

“There is always a first time,” Soffia retorts.

“You wield death in defense of your people. There is no shame in that.” Balázs’s words of comfort are punctuated by more spikes of stone rising at his feet. “Without a Battlewitch, the duty is yours.”

One man steps forward, the captain I assume, and draws his sword. He stares at us without an expression on his long, narrow face. The soldiers behind him also draw their weapons despite their fear. A few do not move from where they stand, transfixed by the sight of the witches.

“Do not be afraid. It is a trick! Balázs is known for his illusions on the battlefield!” the captain of the king’s army shouts. “Kill them!”

The mortals lift their shields and raise their swords, preparing to attack. The captain gestures with his arm and archers unleash a barrage of arrows. My sister holds out her arms and magic rushes out of me in a great wave. I gasp as the four elements pour into Ágota. Fire and snow swirl around her form while the earth rises up before her as a shield. The arrows slam into the stone barrier, bursting into splinters of wood.

Flicking one hand, Ágota sends shards of ice flying through the air at our enemies. The soldiers lift their shields, and the ice daggers burrow deep into the metal. A few men are too slow and fall dead to the ground. Blooms of red blood spread across the snow. Another wave of Ágota’s hand and orbs of fire rain down on the tents, setting them aflame. Men scream in terror as they burn, thrashing around on the frozen ground, attempting to quench the flames.