Stefan braced her shoulders, and she tried to fight him as he pulled her upward. Her muscles just wouldn't cooperate. Another few minutes and the stupid drug would wear off, but she sensed she didn't have that kind of time.

No more minutes for her.

"The tranquilizer did not work very well on you, did it, ma chéri?" he murmured into her ear. "I was not sure how much to use on a witch like you. Bon, no matter.”

He plopped her back down in position, and she panted from the exertion of trying to fight her body's paralysis. She looked at the other three witches in the circle as Stefan backed away. There were two women and one man. The man was perhaps in his early forties. His hair was clipped so close to his head she couldn't tell if it was gray or blond.

The two women were both brunette and appeared similar in face and body, sisters perhaps. The Duskoff sure did like to take families. Maybe they'd been a two-for special.

Crane began snapping orders at everyone to get into position. "Hurry up," he groused. "Once we get the spell started, we'll be safe. No Coven witch will be able to penetrate the barrier of the magick.”

Oh, shit. There went their last chance at rescue.

The two women fought their bonds, their wide eyes glancing around the room, still hoping, perhaps, for a last-minute reprieve. It wouldn't come. The man had gone incredibly still and knelt with his eyes downcast, resigned to his fate.

Near them, the warlocks organized into a separate circle to their left and the chanting began. It was a foreign language, nothing that Mira could place. It sounded and felt old, powerful, and very, very dangerous.

At first their voices were separate, like a badly timed chorus. Little by little, they merged and became one single voice.

The magick rose in the air and soothed her. It felt soft against her skin, smelled like rich vanilla or sugar cookies baking. It was nice, nothing to be feared. Mira relaxed into it, suspecting it was an illusion to make her passive, to allow the warlocks to rape her, but, strangely, she didn't mind.

Then the magick changed, became aggressive.

The power shifted, prickling over her skin. The chanting became louder. The comforting, pacifying magick had been a lure for this more powerful trap, and now all the witches were locked inside it.

Mira grimaced. This is what her mother had felt, what her father had endured. This was the power that had killed them.

The magick pulled her to her knees like a puppet, and the texture of the power changed further. Now it tasted like a fine wine on her tongue, filled her nostrils with an old, faintly musty smell. The flavor of the magick held the nutty hint of earth infused with a clear, light note of water, shot through with threads of spicy fire.