"What?" My resentment for my mother roused fast, deep and sharp.

"When a situation looks like it's too much to handle, you go meet it head-on. Baseball bat in hand. When things get hard, Persephone, you don't run away." She reached out and took my hand. "You could've slipped out the door without coming in here, knowing I've disagreed with you about this Eximium. Still, you came to face me."

She didn't know that I had run away. I'd fled from Johnny and the Rock Hall like a cat fleeing a junkyard dog.

She said, "You're going to do the right thing today. I know you are."

"Thanks."

"Watch the others, Persephone, the ones around you when you go to the Eximium—and not just the other competitors. Watch the Elders. You are the Lustrata and, like it or not, they will eventually look to you for your service. So watch them, and see who is worthy to have the Lustrata call upon them."

After I arrived at the Covenstead, Mandy directed me from the office to a back hall. I had the feeling I was going back in time.

The walls were stone, the floor slate, and every fifty feet we went down three steps. The hall was curved, so we were probably following the perimeter of the Covenstead. Every six feet, half of a giant amethyst geode was set into the stone wall. A candle burning in the cavity of each geode illuminated the lavender spikes and lit the way. We ended up in a sub-basement level where all the doors were oversized and made of oak, with iron workings reminiscent of a castle or old church.

"There is plumbing and electricity down here, right?"

Mandy flashed me a smile. "Yeah. It is deceiving, though. Vivian—" She stopped. Mastering herself, she went on, "She wanted it to feel ancient, like it had been here forever."

"It does."

A few steps later, she paused before a door similar to all the others. "Here's the holding room. The restroom is across the hall, there," she said and pointed behind her toward an alcove farther down the hall. "Modern flushes, running water, heated-air hand dryers, and everything."

"Thanks." Lifting the door's handle, I pushed hard and entered a space about the size of an average school's classroom. Other contestants were already waiting. Everyone looked at me, evaluating me as they surely did everyone who walked through the door. It made me uncomfortable. We weren't here as friends, we were here as competitors all vying for the same prize. Well, they were, anyway.

The room was also stone-walled, and—being twenty-plus feet underground—it was cool, like walking into a cave where the temperature was maintained naturally. The scene made me think of a candle party at Goth boot camp. Black military-style cots sat in rows to either side, with a wide central walkway in the middle. Each bore a folded black name placard with silver calligraphy, atop a small pillow resting on a folded gray blanket with black-tasseled corners. Candelabra provided enough light to be functional, but didn't do much to relieve the overall gloom of the place.

I found my name and sat on the cot. The women returned to whispered chatting, cross-armed pacing, or fidgeting. I counted cots. Twenty-one. More than I'd expected. About fifteen were here already; Hunter was not among them.

They were an eclectic group; all shapes, sizes, colors. They all seemed a little older than me, early thirties or forties. Three of the women I'd have guessed were in their fifties. The attire was mostly jeans and sneakers, though a few went for dressy office style with pantsuits and low heels and a few others wore jog suits. One of the fifty-ish women wore a loose broomstick skirt and long-sleeve tee. Her skin was tan and the rust-colored shirt suited her well. Her long hair, some brown but mostly gray, was braided. The name card at the foot of her cot read: Maria Morrison.

At least my jeans and sneakers weren't a faux pas. I'd considered wearing a flannel overshirt again just to rankle Hunter, but ended up in a plain black tank under a copper Henley, and a zippered, dark-green sweatshirt with a wide collar. Layers, practical.

The door opened and another woman came in. She immediately struck me as Welsh: thick, shoulder-length blond hair in a bob style; pale skin; and brown eyes. A little over five feet tall, she wore camel corduroy pants, a yellow V-neck tee, and a khaki-brown hoodie. She was all the colors of a wheat field.

Like me, she glanced around, realized there were names on the cards, and began searching for hers. It was beside mine. She whispered quietly, "Hi."

"Good morning," I answered. She was young; barely twenty. It surprised me that anyone so young would be ambitious enough to compete for high priestess.

She picked up the placard. "I'm Holly." She flapped the paper once, peered at mine. Her brows puckered and I knew she was stuck on the pronunciation.

"I'm Persephone," I said.

"Oh, right." She smiled. "Apt name for a high priestess."

I shrugged. "Guess so."

Holly sat. Her knees bounced. She repositioned her feet. Her hands ran over her hair.

I yawned.

Everyone else here was excited and nervous. They wanted to be here. They wanted the title and position and believed they had a good chance of winning it. My preference would have had me in bed sleeping. My mind was reeling and my eyes didn't want to stay open. If Hunter didn't show up, maybe I could just go home.

Of course, as soon as I thought of her, the door opened and speak-of-the-devil walked in. No, actually, she strutted in. Her hair was fluffed and bound up in a stylish way, and her expert makeup enhanced the striking beauty nature had blessed her with. It was impossible to ignore her and, even dressed conservatively in sky-blue yoga pants and spandex shirt under a matching jacket, her arrival held the spellbinding quality that a high priestess's entrance should never lack.

It took longer for the others to resume their chatter than it had after Holly and I had entered. Hunter had likely hand-jolted everyone here, or tried, so we all took a moment to think something begrudging toward her.

"She zap you too?" Holly whispered.

I shook my head. "She tried. Nothing happened."

Her brows shot up. "Really? Wow. You're probably the best bet to win against her, then."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm sure this test isn't going to come down to the best hand jolt." I glanced around. "And so is everyone else, or they wouldn't have shown up." I examined Hunter for a moment. "If all is right and fair it won't come down to that."

Holly leaned closer. "I've heard the Elders at the Mother Covenstead are fighting among themselves. WEC is supposedly in danger of falling apart and they are vying to create alliances with the Covensteads, hoping to create power bases for themselves. Someone who can tap into power like that could be helped into position and then, of course, their loyalty to the Elder who put them there would be expected."

I faced Holly again, my expression darkening in irritation. Political maneuvering pissed me off and witches should know better. Our history was laden with being on the tortured end of such idealized endeavors. "I have no interest in what the rumor mill says and it won't sway my opinions."

Holly gaped at me. Despite the warm light from the candles, her Welsh features turned icy. "That's noble of you, Persephone, but I hope you're not noble and blind. You do see how they hate us out there, don't you?"

I certainly did, but the meek, small woman transforming into a crouching tiger surprised me. I utilized my newfound blank expression. "Us?"

"Witches, waeres, vamps, the fey. All of us. After twenty years, the novelty of having real monsters among the populace is wearing thin."

That notion wasn't unfamiliar to me but, from her, it was unsettling. Unless she retained lucid memories of being an infant, this was how the world had been her whole life. It wasn't a novelty to her.