The basement air flashes from radiator-warm to the bracing chill of a New England October. At the center of the chalk circle, the fat beeswax candles gutter and die, leaving only the sharp, electric scent of ozone and old dust. Sigrid grips her grandmother’s silver pentacle as the floorboards groan under a weight that wasn't there a heartbeat ago.
“It’s not working,” Mae snaps, her voice tight with a fear she’s trying to mask as authority. Beside her, Reeti steps back, her sneakers scuffing the painted concrete. They were supposed to be calling for a solstice blessing, a gentle nudge for a prosperous winter. Instead, the shadow in the middle of the room thickens, swallowing the weak moonlight filtering through the high window. Sigrid’s skin prickles; the thin C-section scar at her belly hums with a sudden, localized heat.
A man’s silhouette tallies itself against the dark, broad-shouldered and impossibly still. He doesn't look at the coven elders or the trembling candles. His dark eyes find Sigrid, throwing warm amber sparks in the gloom. From the center of the unbroken salt ring, a heavy wool coat swings into view, approaching the edge.
