She stood. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and wet clay—the smell of creation being unmade and remade.
And somewhere, deep in the earth, the old magic stirred and smiled. Dominant Witches
She swept into the Grand Conclave, her velvet gown trailing like a pool of midnight. The delegation—three men in expensive, ill-fitting suits—stood huddled by the hearth, as if the fire’s warmth could protect them from her. She stood
The younger man, mouth still sealed, made a muffled, desperate sound. She stood. The air grew heavy