Anya Bast - Witch Fury

Thomas hushed the excited murmuring of the crowd once again and raised his glass. “To the future of the Coven.” He paused. “To us!” Everyone raised their glasses and repeated the toast.

Magick flickered and flared all around them, the crackle and spark of all four elements in harmony and proximity, rising and falling, blending and twisting again. Up and up it all went to the ceiling of the ballroom and beyond — a combined expression of the Coven’s current shared state of mind and emotion.

Lightness and joy filled Sarafina. Smiling, she reached out and took Theo’s hand in hers. Fire sparked from Sarafina’s chest and curled downward to twine around their hands and wrists in licks of harmless but pretty blue fire.

Theo looked down at her with love lighting his dark eyes instead of the coldness that had filled them the first time they’d met. He lowered his head and caught her lips with his. “You’re so beautiful, Sarafina,” he murmured against her mouth.

She glanced down at her dress. “Thanks. It’s new.” He tipped her face up to his. “I didn’t mean the dress. I didn’t even notice the dress. You’re just beautiful, everywhere. Inside and out. Up and down. Every single inch of your body and your soul.” She tipped her head to the side a little and smiled. “Theo, is that you? Where’d the poetry come from?” He took a long moment to answer. “It comes from you, Sarafina.” He kissed her. “You gave it all to me.”