I shifted under the weight of the heavy black velvet cloak I was forced to wear to such witchy occasions and tried not to make my discomfort obvious to the gathered coven. Namely, to my mother who stood, similarly dressed, beside me. Surrounding me, suffocating me, was the press of the coven, about a hundred odd men, women and children, tied together by magic, chosen allegiance and blood lines.

At least the cloak was warm. It helped I bundled on a turtleneck and wool sweater ...