Free A Witch's Feast by C.N. Crawford Page B

anything weird going on outside? I can’t sleep. I thought I felt an aura nearby.”
    “Something drew me here tonight.”
    I knew it. She pulled her hair into a quick ponytail. “Who’s conducting spells?”
    “I don’t know. Something by the river, but I didn’t see what it was. The spell is drawing in magical creatures.”
    Fiona shivered. “Shall we go out for a look?” She stood, cracking the window wider to peak out into the misty night. A few guards stood watch around the back of the house. Near the drawing-room exit, the pale behemoth stood as still as a mountain. On the other side of the door, a mustached man shuffled from side to side, looking out into the gardens.
    She chanted the transformation spell, bracing herself for the painful metamorphosis. A s she uttered the last word, her skin tingled with the magical aura. Her skeleton condensed. Wings erupted from her fingers, her muscles contracted, and a downy fur blossomed on her back as she rose into the air.  
    In moments, her agonized body felt weightless. She circled the room. As her throat emitted high-pitched squeaks, the space transformed, its crevices and protrusions now wrapped in ultrasonic waves. Mariana’s chest rose and fell in sleep, and a mosquito wavered near the ceiling. The clock’s ticking was almost deafening.
    She darted through the window after Byron, the night air exhilarating on her wings. She swooped over the gardens, her heart leaping with the thrill of flight. The grounds were dark at this time of night, but it didn’t matter. Echolocation allowed her to perceive every contour below—flowers bending in the breeze, insects flitting through the air.
    She flew to the river in a low arc. Frogs croaked along the riverbank, and crickets chirruped in the tall grasses. As she circled back over the shore, two things caught her attention. To one side of the bank, a small fire blazed in a magnolia grove. There was at least one person there, maybe two. But she was more alarmed by the frantic howl rising from the other side of the gardens, accompanied by a wild banging sound. Is it coming from the cemetery?  
    With Byron close behind, she glided toward the forbidden graveyard. The air filled with a ragged keening sound. Alongside Byron, she passed over the hedge labyrinth toward the stone walls. It was a square cemetery, fifty feet across. Crooked statues of forlorn angels wept in a variety of poses—an angel appealed to the heavens with grief, another threw herself in despair on a grave. One appeared to rend at her hair in utter devastation. Moss covered the walls and lichens climbed up the melancholy statues, threatening to suffocate them. But what the hell is making that wailing noise?
    A large stone crypt stood near the furthest cemetery wall, its door barred with a wrought-iron grate. Behind the grate was a glass door, and the sound came from there. Someone was locked inside the crypt, banging on the gate, but the glass prevented Fiona from sensing any contours within.  
    Byron fluttered her way. “Mrs. Ranulf is coming.”
    Fiona flew higher above the labyrinth. Munroe’s mother was sprinting through the hedge maze in her silken bathrobe. Her strawberry blond curls bounced over her shoulders, her feet crunching along the gravel path. The wailing from the crypt only rose in volume. When Mrs. Ranulf reached the entry to the cemetery, she pulled a skeleton key out of her bathrobe pocket. Panting heavily, she swung open the wooden door.
    Her chalice necklace glinted in the cool evening light as she trotted through the grief-stricken angels, making her way to the crypt. She slotted the key into the lock on the wrought-iron gate. Fiona circled closer, hoping to get a view of the person locked inside.
    Still gripping the key, Mrs. Ranulf paused. Her pale, moonlit face turned toward Fiona. Icy, iron-gray eyes stared directly at the two bats. She pointed at them, growling the word, “Witch!”  
    Her tiny heart pattering, Fiona soared