Forty-four
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Rebecca shook mud off her paws, stepped up on the front porch, and shifted to human. On still-muddy bare feet, she went inside. It had been a short run; it wasn't nearly as much fun when the moon was dark.

From the living room, she heard Moira's voice, chanting. Rebecca frowned, trying to make out the words. Neither English nor French, she realized in sudden anger.

She strode into the living room, and jerked the terrified white cat out of Avryl's hands an instant before Moira's knife descended—the blade came away with fur on it, but no blood. The cat yowled, scratched her arm, and bolted for the shadows behind the couch.

Within the pentagram painted on the black silk stood a tall woman whose delicately-scaled skin was covered only by her own golden hair; her expression of anticipation turned utterly neutral, impassive.

“What are you doing?” Duayne demanded. “We're right in the middle...”

“I told you no more! I don't care what you're right in the middle of! Is this why you've all been so cooperative lately? Because you've been doing this behind my back?”

Moira winced away, but Avryl stood very still, arms crossed, lips pressed tight together.

“It isn't at all reasonable for you to be giving commands that don't relate directly to you,” the witch said. “We aren't promising the coven to anything, we've been taking care of everything ourselves.”

Rebecca snatched up a glass of what smelled like wine, and flung it at the large mirror on the wall. Both shattered dramatically, spreading bright shards and red liquid all over the floor. “I lead this coven. You do as I say!

“We're going to keep doing it. We just have three options how. You could see the logic in it and agree that it's our choice, or we can do it behind your back, or you can go find another coven to bully.”

Rebecca stared at her, shock driving the anger away, turning it into ice. “Excuse me? Find another coven? I formed this coven!”

Duayne shrugged. “It would amount to the same thing if we all left you. Don't make us do that, Becky, please.”

Again. This was all happening again. Rage surged, hot and blinding: she'd kill them all for this insult!

No. She'd lost her temper completely the first time, in fury at the sudden betrayal. It had gained her absolutely nothing, and in fact she suspected it had been a major factor in Bane's decision to intervene long-term, costing her Kevin permanently. She'd be stupider than a human to make the same mistake twice.

Very likely, the consequences of their own actions would turn out be sufficient revenge. Clearly, there was nothing further she could do to influence matters. It seemed they'd chosen their course and very likely would only accelerate along it, passion and zeal overwhelming any caution or reason, until it came back to bite them.

But she didn't have to stay here and watch it happen, or be part of it.

“Fine. I don't know how long you think you're going to last with only Karl to protect you, but have a good time with your demons. May they eat the lot of you.” She turned away, and climbed the stairs two at a time to her room. Her large, bright-patterned shoulder bag was in the closet; she stuffed into it such things as she'd need right away, closed the door behind her, and went back downstairs.

“Please, Rebecca, don't go,” Moira said entreatingly.

“Since my authority apparently counts for nothing anymore, I'm hardly going to hang around and be insulted.” She reached behind the couch, caught the cat by the scruff of the neck, and dragged it struggling out. She wasn't about to leave it here so they could finish their ceremony in peace as soon as she was gone. Without another word, she left the house, grabbing jacket and shoes on the way.

Outside, it was harder to hold the cat. She finally wrapped it tightly in her jacket.

Though her reputation was bad in certain circles, she still had a few friends. One was her aunt Sylvia, with whom she'd lived for a time when she'd first come to the college.

Sylvia opened the door, wrapped in a fuzzy brown robe almost the shade of her hair; she didn't look like she'd been in bed.

“It's late for visits, Becky. Is something wrong?”

“Can I stay here? I just had a rather major fight with my coven. I'd rather get away from them for a couple of days.” Not even Sylvia would she tell the truth, that if Whitethorn still existed, it was without her. She'd have to think of a way to hide the fact that she wouldn't be celebrating Beltaine with her coven in a few days.

“Of course you can.”

The white cat squirmed madly, and mewed plaintively.

“Gods,” Sylvia said, startled. “What have you got in there?”

“Just a cat. I'm going to take it to Samantha tomorrow.” She hadn't even realized she intended to, but there was a certain sense in it. This cat would never become a sacrifice to a demon once it was safely in Sam's hands. In that small way, at least, she could triumph.

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