T*Witches: Kindred Spirits by H.B. Gilmour, Randi Reisfeld Page B

Karsh had written.
    Even her old friends, impatience and glee, had returned for the occasion. She could hardly wait to lead Cam and Alex into her father’s fortress.
    Ileana whirled away from the mirror. She’d spent a good part of the afternoon getting ready for this evening. To that end, more important than her makeup and clothing, had been reading Karsh’s journal.
    You have met your grandmother Leila, met her in spirit, which I assure you is but a pale imitation of her fierceness in life
, Ileana had read.
Had she been less determined, the curse might have ended
.
    Your grandfather, Nathaniel, and I had devised a means for it to end. We were only boys when we came up with our plan. But as there is genius in simplicity sosimple, children may find solutions that evade their complicated elders
.
    Nate and I met preparing for our coming-of-age celebration, our initiation. We were fifteen, Camryn and Alexandra’s age as I write this. Nathaniel DuBaer was an only child, the only living male DuBaer on Coventry Island. And I, also an only child, was the last male Antayus of my generation
.
    Nate lived on the northern cliffs of the island at Crailmore. My parents’ home, Harbor Haven, was south of where my cottage now stands, on the leeward side of Coventry. If we’d laid eyes on each other before, neither of us recalled it. But we could remember in detail every moment of our first day together
.
    We were introduced by our guardians — Cristof was mine, Gentian was Nate’s. Both old warlocks knew what we did not and tried to discourage our friendship. But something stronger drew us together. Back then, I thought it was admiration, the promise of adventure, the excitement of finding a high-spirited equal. Too late I learned that it was fate
.
    From the first day of our training, a remarkable friendship grew between Nathaniel DuBaer and me. Each of us felt we’d known the other forever. We could talk and joke easily, were equally good at most events,could hear each other’s thoughts as clearly as if we’d spoken aloud, and often knew in advance what the other was thinking
.
    In casting and creating spells, summoning spirits, using concentration and telekinesis to move objects at a distance and even to pick up small creatures and move them out of harm’s way, we were evenly matched. Showing off, we knotted snakes without touching them, caused snails to speed past trotting ponies, and cats to happily ride the backs of dolphins. Nate once willed my ears to flap while I made his thick, dark hair stand on end with a focused glance. In some areas, we excelled individually. My hearing was far more honed than Nate’s; his ability to find hidden objects was keener than mine. Separately or combining our talents, no one could touch us in any category
.
    When we learned of the curse — which was shortly after our initiation ceremony — we were undaunted, idiotically unafraid, arrogant. Our solution, our pitifully childish response to a blood curse that had succeeded for two centuries and six generations, was that it would end with us. We would not marry, not father children, and so there would be no sons to kill. And since we would never kill each other, in fact, had pledged to protect each other, the curse, we reasoned, would end
.
    Enter Leila. Leila and her best friend, Rhianna Noble. Of all the young witches of Coventry, they were the brightest, the most powerful, and the most attractive. Yes, dear goddess mine, the one you called “Lady Potato” when you were a disrespectful child, was the most sought-after girl on Coventry Island, second only to the glamorous and willful Leila Tavisham. What Leila lacked in soft beauty, she more than made up for in brains, personality, and determination. She literally swept Nate off his feet
.
    We were in the square one evening walking past an outdoor café at which the young witches were having tea. Rhianna, who I knew and liked well, waved, inviting us to join them. But Nate was deep in