The Witch and The Priest

POV Rowan

The alarm shrieked at 4:47 AM, three minutes before I actually needed to wake up. I'd been awake for hours anyway, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked different in the dark—less like a butterfly, more like a bloodstain.

My fingers automatically went to the crumpled bills I kept under my pillow, counting by touch. Enough for another week's rent on this shithole room above the laundromat, maybe some ramen if I was careful.

Five weeks. I'd survived five weeks since fleeing the Briar Estate, which felt like both an eternity and no time at all. And four more months until the Winter Solstice, until Mother would perform her ritual with or without me—though we both knew she needed me specifically.

Because my worthless, weak, pathetic blood suddenly mattered more than anything else in the world.

"The magic demands blood of my blood. Rowan has been preserved for this purpose."

Preserved. Like I was some kind of specimen in a jar, kept alive just long enough to be useful. What a fucking bitches, all of them.

I swung my legs over the edge of the narrow bed and padded to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass. No black sedans, no figures in expensive coats watching from doorways, no sisters with fire dancing around their fingers and murder in their eyes.

Another day survived. Well done, Ro.

The shower down the hall had been broken for two days, so I settled for splashing cold water on my face from the tiny sink. My reflection looked back at me—hollow-cheeked, dark circles under gray-green eyes, auburn hair that needed cutting hanging limp around my shoulders.

I looked exactly like what I was: a girl barely surviving on borrowed time.