Hannah pulls me through the twisting halls of the Ossuary’s depths, away from the central chamber and past private nooks. The music falls away and is replaced by echoing voices, whispering and indistinct, some crying out in pain or in pleasure. The air is cool, almost cold, and I can feel a light breeze that comes from nowhere. It’s obvious how the Ossuary can be used for sexual encounters, especially those of a more fetishistic variety; in that respect it really isn’t different from any normal kink club. The thing I wonder about, though, is what else it’s used for. I know the Syndicate as a whole hasn’t been banned from the Ossuary, even if individual members have broken its rules in the past, and there’s nothing in the Ossuary’s laws to prohibit witches of any faction from recruiting for supernatural familiars and mundane agents alike. You don’t need to resort to mind control to convince someone to serve you, especially if that service comes with a taste of magic that they can’t get anywhere else. It’s almost a shame that my transformations likely wouldn’t appeal, though my creation magic could arm a pack of would-be minions well enough. Although, given the nature of my ultimate desire—the reason I became a witch—I don’t think it would be a good idea to involve anyone else in my activities. With the exception of my teacher, of course. The understanding we’ve reached on the subject of Strix Striga is a relief to me, even if I’m still a little nervous about Ferromancer digging into my personal affairs and finding Sophia. The halls of the Ossuary are made of the same living bone as the central chamber: the impossible material that gives the place its name. Hannah leads me to a metal door like I entered through, except this one is covered in a thin sheen of glowing teal energy. At first it looks like a flat barrier, but as we get closer it resolves into chains of light crisscrossing the door, meeting in the dead center behind the glowing depiction of a raven in flight. Hannah places her hand on the raven and both the raven and the chains disappear. I notice, before we go inside, that there’s something off about the doors and the room they hide. When I look away, I can’t really remember what was on the door, and no matter how hard I try I can’t picture the inside of the room until we’ve crossed the threshold into it. “This room has an extra dose of veiling,” I say in wonder as I look around at breathing bone, a handful of leather armchairs, and a mahogany dresser. “That’s incredible. I knew from Ferromancer’s explanation that the Morrigan can manipulate the veil directly, but to have such fine-tuned control over it is truly impressive. Just what is that woman capable of? And how did she figure this out in the first place?” Hannah shrugs. “Theory isn’t my thing. But hey, you can ask her yourself, right?” That sends a chill down my spine. Oh god, I’m going to talk to the Morrigan. That was a critical item in Ferromancer’s itinerary for the evening. The final item, in fact. That’s not ominous at all, nope. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine! Hahaha no, I’m scared shitless. Which means I should stop thinking about it. I have a first impression to make with a much lower stakes audience first. Hannah becomes Bombshell again and I follow suit. I call the flames of Prometheus and let them envelop me in soothing heat. I’ve only known my power for a few weeks, but already it feels like an old friend. The form of Archon replaces the form of Rachel Emily, and immediately I relax and regain the confidence that left me in the chaos of before. With Prometheus burning in my chest—the furnace of power that is mine and mine alone—I know I have nothing to fear from a room of ordinary humans. Thanks, buddy. Glad to have you. The furnace pulses with emotion mirroring mine and a vision of my own face smiling back at me. “Okay,” I tell Bombshell. “I’m ready.” I soar through the Ossuary’s halls back out into the main room, Bombshell following close behind me. The crowd greets us with a fresh cacophony of screams and shouts, but this time the sound doesn’t bother me. A few people take out their phones and are inevitably disappointed when they fail to get a photo, but most of the crowd is just cheering and waving. I wave back, laughing, while Bombshell poses next to me. These are my people, now. My adoring masses. They all want me or want to be me, and most of them probably know my name after the bank job. To other witches, I know I’m still the new girl on the block; to these people, I’m a demigod. I can’t tear the grin from my face. I blow a few kisses at random before diving toward the crowd and sweeping just over their heads, mindful of stray limbs. I do a few flybys, enjoying the wind on my wings and the way a hundred voices collapse into one unified chorus as I soar past. I’m probably giving most of the crowd a view up my skirt, but who cares? It’s probably all dark void down there anyway. Bombshell’s doing something similar on the other side of the room, joined by her simulacrum familiars flying in formation. Then, as I’m pulling back around, one of the women I blew a kiss at—a punk girl with pink hair and piercings—does something that catches me completely off-guard: she pulls her shirt up and flashes me. For a few precious seconds I’m stun-locked by the two wolves in my brain having very contradictory reactions. Wow! Nice tits! Bet they feel great to squeeze. Love this novel? Read it on NovelHub to ensure the author gets credit. Is it creepy of me to look at her chest? I mean, I know she literally flashed me, but should I look away anyway? Or would that be rude? The poisonous whisper of lesbian guilt is burned away as quickly as it comes. Right now, I don’t care about whether anything I’m doing is ethical or whatever under anyone’s framework. I put in the work, I nailed my performance, and I won two separate fights against magical girls. This is my victory lap, goddammit, and I deserve to enjoy every moment of it. I stop in front of the flasher, wings spread, and hold out a hand. “Wanna fly?” I yell over the roar of the crowd and the pounding music. Her squeal is enough of an answer, so I scoop her up in a princess carry—thank fuck for witch strength, my scrawny nerd arms could never have done this on their own—and take off. The pretty pinkette—I know that’s not a real word, and you can fucking sue me over it—screams in delight as I swoop and swish through the air. She holds me very, very tightly, which I very much appreciate. Life cold and hard, tiddy warm and soft, as they say. I earned this, I repeat to myself in my head. If I still can’t have what I really want, I deserve to enjoy the next best thing. Because, of course, as cute and plush as the girl clinging to me is, she’s still not Sophia. She’s pretty, and she’s attracted to me, but it’s not like I was so much of a wreck before becoming a witch that I couldn’t have hit the apps or the gay bars and fished for a one-night stand. I live in a city on the West Coast, there are plenty of thirsty lesbians in my area. I just… never cared. I have a realization: the girl I’m holding, I could easily get her number. For a witch, it would be trivial to find a girl that’s interested in me, probably even one that shares my hobbies and tastes. I might be busy tonight, but I could come back to this club any time and have my pick of the crowd, just because I’m a witch. Because I’m powerful, and supernaturally pretty, and I have real magic. I’m special. But not to her. Not to Sophie. Not to Striga. Bombshell flies over to me and shouts, “We should get going. Can’t keep the others waiting, as fun as it is to play around down here.” She winks at me with that last line. Good timing. My mood isn’t what it was a moment ago, but I’m not going to let a little ideating keep me down. I nod at Bombshell, then return my attention to the girl I picked up. She still seems like she’s having the time of her life, looking up at me with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. I tug on her chin, get my thumb on her lip, and tilt my head questioningly. When she catches my meaning, she nods enthusiastically and leans in, so I kiss her rough and slip her tongue. The taste of her mouth is cherries and whiskey, which pair surprisingly well. I enjoy our sloppy lip-lock all the way to the floor, and then I release her gently and blow another kiss as I float back into the air. There’s an impish part of me that wants to make a few copies of my crown and throw them into the audience before I leave, but the Morrigan might take offense if I start a riot in her club, especially if that riot is over gold that’ll go away before anyone can bring it home. So I restrain my mischief-making impulse and follow Bombshell up, up, and out of the ribcage chamber into the realm of witches above. I was expecting the upper layer of the Ossuary to stay on-theme with the rest of it. Perhaps it would be the inside of a giant skull to go with the giant ribcage, or maybe a heart chamber, or anything to keep the appearance of a dead leviathan. At the very least, I was expecting it to be inside a structure. The top layer of the Ossuary is a moonlit beach. A circle of bone rises out of a sandy shore by lapping waves, the full moon reflected on the water. The hole we passed through to reach this layer is a pit in the middle of that bone circle. Stairs are carved into the ossified platform, leading down to the beach proper. “If you pick a direction and fly,” Bombshell tells me, “you can keep going forever, and all you have to do to return is to take one step back. That seems like the kind of detail you’d like.” It very much is, but my nerdy love of magic is briefly eclipsed by my fandom shock at seeing the clientele of this strange, impossible space. The platform is laid out : on the side closest to the beach, just next to the stairs, is another bar like the one below, staffed by skeletons and boasting compliance with regional health standards. Arrayed across the rest of the circle are sofas, lounge chairs, and benches, and next to each cluster of furniture is an expensive-looking widescreen television fixed in the air just outside the platform. Seven witches inhabit this space—nine, now that Bombshell and I are here. Sweet Tooth and Kira Kira, two VisageCorp witches, are cozied up on a couch together, with Kira playing a game that looks like Dark Souls but with lower resolution and clunkier movement. Sweet Tooth watches and plays with Kira’s hair, while Harlequin, a Coterie witch, hangs upside down over the back of the couch and chats animatedly with both. The four other witches are clustered around the bar. Two Coterie witches are there, Riddlemaster and Wavecaller, but Wavecaller is slumped over the counter, maybe passed out, while Riddlemaster chatters on with Priscilla of the Syndicate. A few seats away, a witch by the name of Howl drinks alone, her great white wolf curled up at her feet. I recognize them all, of course. Riddlemaster, Sweet Tooth, and Kira Kira are local to Forks, but the other four reside elsewhere or roam. All three factions of witches in the Pacific Northwest are represented here, and one independent. I’ve had my debut to the civilian populace, first at the bank and then down below on the ground floor of the Ossuary, but now it’s time to make an impression to my peer witches. Time to prove that I am a peer, perhaps. And then, before I can start running through the introductory speech I had planned, I’m being dragged along by Bombshell as she waves at the pair of Visage witches and calls out, “Hey hey! Kira, Sweetie, meet my new friend!” Well then. I guess this is how we’re starting things.