《A Legacy of Magic》 Prologue The clock on the wall tick-ed and tock-ed with agonizing slowness. Every jerky motion of the second hand was like a gong echoing through the room. The only thing louder was my heart pounding against my rib cage. It made my chest ache. It made my stomach roil and my palms sweat, my muscles tense and my legs itch. The desire to run intensified. If I hadn¡¯t been so nervous, that might have been funny¡ªI hated running. A hand touched my shoulder, giving me a jolt. ¡°You okay, Sweets?¡± my mom asked from the space beside me on the leather sofa. ¡°A little nervous, I guess¡­¡± We sat in the reception hall/sitting room to the Headmaster¡¯s office at Abbey Hill Preparatory Academy, and sweated. The sitting room was small; barely large enough to fit a pair of twin Chesterfield sofas flanking an oval coffee table, a secretary¡¯s desk, and a few ornaments. A hand-painted porcelain tea set covered the table before us. Chickadees fluttered over the pale porcelain, alighting on eucalyptus branches. The rims of the tea cups, saucers, and other holders shimmered with a delicate gold inlay. I tried to focus on the painted birds and not the horrible anxiety coursing through me. I hadn''t touched the steaming, strong smelling tea (even though it probably would have helped to settle my stomach). I was too nervous. Knowing my luck, I¡¯d drop the delicate cup, and shatter any chances I had of getting into this school with my clumsiness. This room had been designed to intimidate, and it was working. The expensive furniture was in excellent condition despite their antique appearance. To me, that spoke of money, of control, of power. It gave the impression of sumptuous libraries and gentlemen''s lounges. Everything from the School of Athens painting in a gilded frame on the wall, to the thick Oriental rug covering the polished hardwood floor spoke of old money and old traditions. The room was pristine and beautiful and completely out of my league. Without saying a single word, it told me everything about the people I was going to need to impress. The pinstripe skirt suit I wore had been ironed twice and brushed with a lint roller several times to rid it of any residual cat fur. It was tight about the bust, waist, and thighs, but it was the nicest outfit Mom and I could come up with. A little clever accessorizing made it hard to tell how ill-fitting the suit was, but it was difficult to feel comfortable or confident. I¡¯d washed, dried, and styled my straight, strawberry blonde hair until it shone like a girl on the cover of a magazine. I wanted to look like the most responsible student on the planet. My mom and helped me keep my makeup tame, demurred. It gave me that ¡°fresh-faced-girl-next-door¡± look that bespoke eagerness and opportunity. It had taken us more than an hour just to decide whether we wanted to cover up my freckles for the interview. They covered me from head to toe and back again (which made finding a good foundation all but impossible). I was worried these freckles of mine would make or break the look I wanted to affect for this moment¡ªthis interview that could decide my future. Guess we¡¯ll find out¡­ Mom gave me a sympathetic look. ¡°You¡¯re going to do great,¡± she assured me, as though sensing my thoughts. Which she probably was. Her hand slid from my shoulder to my upper back where she began to make clockwise circles with the flat of her palm. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. ¡°Amber Perkins?¡± called a saccharine voice. ¡°Y-Yes?¡± A pretty blonde woman in a mauve skirt suit smiled at us, her hands folded in front of her. She lifted a pale hand, flashing manicured mauve nails to match her suit and indicated the open door beneath the clock. ¡°The Headmaster will see you now,¡± she said sweetly. Mom gave me a winning smile and two thumbs up. ¡°Knock ¡®im dead,¡± she mouthed. I swallowed, hard, and stood too quickly, staggering in the three-inch heels I wore. I felt Mom reach out to steady me, but I waved her off. I realized I was trembling. I can¡¯t go in there, I thought. Not like this¡­ I closed my eyes and breathed, filling my lungs to bursting. With an effort, I visualized the stress, the dread, the anxiety pooling on my hands in thick, tar-like globules. My hands began to feel heavy and greasy. Exhaling, I shook my hands as though to throw off moisture. I visualized the goo dispersing with the gesture and evaporating into little puffs of smoke wherever they hit the floor, sofas, or walls. To anyone else, it have looked like I was trying to psych myself up for what lay ahead. To the Mom and me, it was different. We were different. When I opened my eyes again, I felt steadier. I flashed my mom a smile over my shoulder, and walked into the Headmaster¡¯s office with my back straight and my head high. Like the sitting room, the Headmaster¡¯s office made every effort to show off how much money went into the academy. Hardwood floors stretched from wall to wall, like the rest of the campus I¡¯d seen thus far. They''d been buffed and polished to a sheen. There was hardly a scratch on them to mar the brindled wood. One could almost mistake them for new. Along one wall was a fireplace accented with a plush Oriental rug and two leather wingback chairs that matched the sofas outside. The d¨¦cor around the room matched the portentous, masculine energy of the space¡ªa marble bust of Plato stood on a pedestal in one corner, a shield with (presumably) a family crest and two crossed swords hung above the mantle, a coat rack, umbrella stand, a wet bar, and so forth. The room smelled of leather, tobacco, sandalwood, and cardamom. It was precisely the kind of study you¡¯d expect the Headmaster of the most prestigious academy in the nation to have. Abbey Hill was one of the hardest schools to get into¡ªharder than some college universities. Being good wasn¡¯t enough, you had to be great. Have great grades, great extra-curricular activities, great recommendations, great everything. You even had to pass a drug screen and a background check to even be considered for enrolment. It was a school whose mere name carried the weight I needed to make my dreams a reality. If I could get in here, I could get in anywhere. Just looking around the room was starting to make me nervous all over again. I dug my nails into my palms and reminded myself to focus. This was no time to balk. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Three floor-to-ceiling bookcases along the eastern wall caught my attention. Each book appeared more ancient than the last; this one bound in leather, that one bound in cloth. Each one was perfectly preserved behind the glass of the bookcases. A sound, fainter than a whisper, reached out to me from across the office. It was like a breath filled with dust and ash. A gasp of pain stifled before it could become a scream. Something in my chest began to hurt. My brows knit, but as I opened my mouth to speak, another''s voice filled the study. ¡°Miss Perkins, I presume...¡± My attention snapped away from the books and settled on a man seated behind a large desk. The Headmaster. The books fell back into stillness and silence. The Headmaster was old with a thick mane of white hair combed into a style that reminded me of the actors in old black-and-white movies. He stood, straightening his charcoal-grey three-piece suit. Despite his apparent age, he looked athletic. Robust. His broad shoulders tapered into a sturdy waist supporting long legs to match his long arms. He was singularly handsome, with a bizarre quality about his face that I couldn¡¯t quite put my finger on. The Headmaster had dark eyes, like a shark, with thick black eyebrows, cheekbones that could cut glass, a chiseled nose, and a thick black mustache. He had the air of an aristocrat about him and looked as though he had stepped right out of Richard Connell¡¯s The Most Dangerous Game. I couldn¡¯t help but imagine him practicing swigs with the swords above the mantle, and telling me she would have a five-minute head start before the hunt began. ¡°Headmaster Hathorne,¡± I said in a voice that sounded more confident than I felt. I held out my hand to shake his. If he noticed the quivering of my limb, he didn¡¯t show it. His hands were hard, calloused, not the kind of hands you¡¯d expect to see on the Headmaster of a school. The idea of him holding those swords seemed less unlikely. My right arm felt numb to the shoulder as Hathorne released my hand. I blinked at the sudden and bizarre sensation, and resisted the urge to roll my shoulder. He must have pinched a nerve or something, I thought. Hathorne grinned down at me, but said nothing as he indicated the chairs by the fireplace. He led me to a chair and waited until I was seated before taking his own. ¡°Will you take tea?¡± he asked. ¡°No, thank you.¡± ¡°Very well, to business then. I have your transcript folder right here,¡± he said, holding up a manila folder I hadn¡¯t noticed before. He started flipping through it absently. ¡°You are obviously a bright girl, Miss Perkins,¡± he said sounding, at best, bemused. ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°Good grades, the teachers like you. Not a lot of social activities, though¡­¡± I tried not to let my self-consciousness show. ¡°I was on the Hollybrook High Forensics Team,¡± I mentioned, hoping it didn¡¯t make me sound contradictory. ¡°So, I see¡­¡± Hathorne set the folder aside and leaned back in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other and regarded me over the tips of his steepled fingers. ¡°This folder can tell me a lot of things about you, Miss Perkins, but it cannot tell me everything. That is why I called this interview. So, tell me, what are your aspirations?¡± I sat up a little straighter. This I was ready for. ¡°I want to go to Harvard and study Law and Speech and Debate,¡± I declared honestly. ¡°On your way to being¡­¡± ¡°A public defender.¡± One of Hathorne¡¯s dark brows perked up. ¡°Really?¡± he asked. There was something about his tone that didn¡¯t sit well with me, but she couldn¡¯t say what or why. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And why is that?¡± I could tell he was psyching me up for something significant. I needed to be smart about my next answer. I forced myself to meet the man¡¯s hungry shark-eyes; forced my body language to ooze eagerness, my expression into one of determination, and my voice to be firm and confident. ¡°I want to help people. We always hear ¡®everyone has a right to a fair trial¡¯ but I don¡¯t think everyone gets a fair trial.¡± ¡°And you think you can make a difference?¡± Hathorne asked, sounding as though nothing could be more laughable. ¡°Why not become a nurse? Surely you could help people there.¡± He said ¡®help¡¯ as though it were the kind of four-letter word not meant to be spoken around children. My face grew hot. I opened my mouth to say something, but Hathorne wasn¡¯t done. ¡°There¡¯s always humanitarian work. Meals-on-Wheels. If all that matters is helping others, then why not simply donate to charity, Miss Perkins? Why become a public defender?¡± I licked my lips. Anxiety prickled in my veins. The room felt cold, almost wintery. I shivered. Hathorne must keep his office especially air conditioned. A/C was rare in the Pacific Northwest¡ªanother testament to Hathorne¡¯s wealth and status. What was I going to do? I felt so nervous, and yet looking at this man¡¯s eyes, at the hunger twinkling all along their dark edges, at the way in which he delighted in making me squirm, I knew I couldn¡¯t back down. If this was a test, then Hathorne was in trouble¡ªtests were my specialty. I can do this¡­ ¡°I want to be remembered as someone who used whatever talent she had to do her work to the very best of her ability,¡± I answered, meeting his gaze. ¡°I realize that admitting this may hurt my chances of getting into this school, but I don¡¯t have very many talents, Mister Hathorne. There isn¡¯t much I¡¯m good at, but there are many things I care about, and one of those things is the truth. Not only telling it, but finding it and protecting it. I care about honesty, and I want to do whatever I can to help those who tell the truth receive the justice they deserve. I know in my heart that I can achieve that best as a public defender, but I don¡¯t want to be just any public defender. I want to be the best public defender, and to do that, I need the best possible education.¡± ¡°Well,¡± he said at length, ¡°I would say that is quite ambitious for a young lady like yourself.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± I said, trying not to sound intimidated. Hathorne studied me for a pregnant moment before rising to his feet. He strode about his office, hands behind his back. ¡°None of this, however,¡± he said, ¡°will be of any benefit to you. Abbey Hill has one of the highest academic standards of any school in America. You may have been the smartest girl at Hollybrook High, but this is a different place. The pressures are greater, the rules are stricter, and the expectations are higher. If you make it through, you will have received one of the finest educations one can get, and there should be no reason why you should not achieve all your goals. However, there is a good chance you will fail.¡± I blinked. He¡¯d said it so matter-of-factly that I almost physically recoiled from the words. He hadn¡¯t even bothered to look at me as he said it. I kept my gaze firmly on his shoulder, not trusting myself to meet his eyes. ¡°That is fine,¡± he continued, undaunted. ¡°Failure is a part of life, but not a part of Abbey Hill. Do you understand?¡± I swallowed audibly. ¡°I do,¡± I said feebly. Hathorne nodded. ¡°Very well,¡± he said, opening the door for her. ¡°We will be reviewing your application, Miss Perkins. Expect our answer by mail.¡± I stood, grateful that my legs held up beneath me as I crossed the room. I forced myself to stand and shake Hathorne¡¯s hand one last time. ¡°Thank you for your consideration,¡± I said and tried not to look eager to leave. My arm was numb again. The moment I stepped out of the room, I felt lighter. It was as if a weight that had been pressing down on me had suddenly lifted. I took a deep breath to steady myself. Even the air seemed different outside of the office. Mom was already on her feet, bounding across the room. She took my hands in her own, grinning from ear to ear. ¡°How¡¯d it go?¡± she asked, threading her arm through mine and leading me out of the room. I was all too eager to follow. We didn¡¯t give the secretary a second glance. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I answered truthfully. ¡°It was¡­weird¡­¡± ¡°Weird how?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. It was like¡­he was trying to intimidate me or something.¡± Mom scoffed. ¡°Ugh, men!¡± she groaned. I bit my lower lip and let Mom launch into a small tirade. I wasn¡¯t sure how to tell her that it didn¡¯t feel like it was a ¡°man thing.¡± The truth was, I didn¡¯t know what to make of Hathorne or the interview. Sunshine spilled through the painted glass along the corridors as we made our way towards the vestibule. Glistening rainbows colored the polished hardwood and Tuscan columns of the school building. They caught the gilded picture frames that wreathed portraits of past headmasters and alumnus. Our heels were muffled by thick carpets that filled the space with color and rich texture. I¡¯d never been somewhere so beautiful in all my life. I couldn¡¯t help but begin to daydream about what it would be like to go here every day, to wear a smart uniform and sit in beautiful classrooms and learn about things I couldn¡¯t learn about anywhere else from some of the best teachers in the country. I wanted it. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything. I released a yearning sigh as I watched the school grow smaller in the rear-view mirror of my Mom¡¯s baby blue Prius. What would I give to go to a school like that? What would I do? ¡°Hey, Mom,¡± I said slowly, an idea forming in my far reaches of my mind. ¡°Yeah, Sweets?¡± ¡°Do you think Grandma has any, um¡­any spells for good luck?¡± A vulpine grin stretched Mom¡¯s lips, her eyes fixed on the road ahead of us. ¡°You know, I¡¯ll bet she does.¡± Chapter 1: All Good Things... They say that when you''re unhappy, time slows to a crawl. On the other hand, when you¡¯re happy...well, my summer must have been very happy, then, for it was over in the blink of an eye. I strode through Hagan¡¯s Books and Music with my best friend, Ben. Late afternoon sunshine trickled in through the glass storefront bringing the natural aromas of the shop to life¡ªthe vanilla and almond scent of vintage paperbacks, the chemical and oil scent of vinyl LPs. Niveous, golden dust drifting through lazy afternoon sunbeams giving the shop an ethereal, holy characteristic. I found myself humming along to the music that played over the speakers as I thumbed absently through the paperbacks in one corner of the store. ¡°Hell yeah!¡± my best friend, Ben, suddenly exclaimed a few rows down. ¡°What did you find?¡± I called. ¡°Where are you?¡± ¡°Modern classics.¡± A moment later, Ben appeared at the end of the row, holding up a Florence and the Machine album and grinning from ear to ear. ¡°They have Dance Fever,¡± he said. ¡°Now I have them all.¡± ¡°At least until they put out a new one,¡± I goaded. Ben Hoang and I had known each other since third grade when his family moved into the house next to mine. We¡¯d grown up passing goodies between our bedroom windows which faced each other over a short privacy fence and sharing everything from secrets to ghost stories, heartache, and homework answers. He was the only person outside of my family who knew I was a witch¡ªthe only person I trusted with a secret that big. ¡°You ready to go?¡± Ben asked as he tucked the album under his arm where at least five other LPs awaited purchase. ¡°Almost.¡± Ben eyed the stack of books in my arm and raised a skeptical brow. ¡°Someone¡¯s allowance is getting a work out,¡± he snorted. ¡°You sure you don¡¯t need a basket? Or a wheelbarrow?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been saving up since I found out the release date for the next Dresden book,¡± I replied with mock haughtiness. I passed him an armful of paperback novels, freeing up my hand to continue searching. Hagan¡¯s was a trove of new and used books, music, and local art, and while there were plenty of other shops that could boast the same, nothing beat Hagan¡¯s for location, price, or service. Ben insisted that Hagan¡¯s was the best place to get new vinyl albums (a new hyperfixation of his) because the owner kept the store at a reasonable temperature, and took such care with how he handled the vinyl. Personally, I liked Hagan¡¯s because the owner was a kind man, and because his organizing system when it came to books was flawless. So few people appreciated the subtle differences and overlap between genres the way Mr. Hagan did. Sometime later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out to see the alarm I¡¯d set earlier buzzing angrily. ¡°Crap! I¡¯ve got to go,¡± I gasped. I hurried to the front of the store, Ben on my heels with the books I¡¯d passed him and two more albums in his hands since I last looked up. ¡°Already? But I was going to see if the old man had any new Nada Surf. I¡¯m still a few albums short of the discography.¡± ¡°It¡¯s my turn to cook dinner, and I need to stop by a Plaid before I go home.¡± ¡°We could just pick something up on the way back.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any take-out places that could live up the Hazel Perkins Standard of Health Food,¡± I snorted. ¡°Euell Gibbons doesn¡¯t live up to the Hazel Perkins Standard of Health Food¡­¡± ¡°No shit. Why do you think I hide all my junk at your house?¡± Laughing, we made for the register. ¡°Hey, Mister Hagan,¡± we said conversationally, setting our items on the counter. The shop owner set aside his newspaper and checked the watch on his wrist. ¡°Two hours. That¡¯s a new record for you kids,¡± he chuckled, ringing up the albums and books. ¡°Thought you¡¯d be here a lot longer.¡± Mr. Hagan picked up one of the slimmer paperbacks I had selected¡ªa copy of Howl by Allen Ginsberg¡ªand examined it skeptically. ¡°Hm, isn''t this a little...much for someone your age?¡± he asked, eyeing me. I looked away, chuckling nervously, and fidgeted with a strand of hair. How was I supposed to answer something like that? Thankfully, I didn¡¯t need to. Ben cleared his throat pointedly and Mr. Hagan seemed to remember himself. He continued ringing us up with a little smile. ¡°Well,¡± he said, ¡°I suppose kids these days are rather mature.¡± I didn¡¯t say anything through the rest of the paying process. Minutes later, Ben and I stepped out into the afternoon sunshine with the chiming of little bells in our wake. ¡°Tck! Screw that old man¡­¡± Ben grumbled. ¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± I said ruefully. ¡°Mister Hagan is just¡­old fashioned.¡± Ben rolled his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re too nice for your own good, Freckles.¡± He rapped his knuckles on my shoulder. ¡°You gotta learn to stand up for yourself once in a while.¡± ¡°I do when it counts!¡± ¡°Oh, yeah? Like when?¡± ¡°Uh¡­¡± I racked my brain for an example, but came up empty. No surprise there. I wasn¡¯t exactly the most assertive person, despite living with and around a number of people who were. Ben scoffed and shook his head. ¡°What am I gonna do with you?¡± ¡°Love me unconditionally and buy me lots of coffee,¡± I offered. ¡°Yeah, right! You owe me from the last time!¡± ¡°Nuh-uh, because¡ªoh! Wait¡­I do owe you¡­¡± Laughing, Ben sauntered toward his car. I started running calculations in my head about how I was going to pay for our next cup of coffee, but math always had a funny habit of making me dizzy, and I quickly gave up. We climbed into Sunny, Ben¡¯s banana-yellow ¡®98 VW Beetle parked nearby. As acting co-pilot, it was my duty to man the radio. I plugged the AUX chord into my phone and thumbed through my playlists as Ben shifted into gear. I finally settled on one with a lot of Paul Simon in it and hit shuffle. ¡°Oh, this is a good one!¡± Ben proclaimed and cranked the stereo. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. It was the kind of summer day that made it seem like there was no tomorrow. All that existed was the here and now¡ªan endless moment of sunlight, inside jokes, music, and convenience store popsicles that stained our lips with the colors of sunset. Eventually though, as with all good things, it had to come to an end. We all lived in the Hollybrook district. It was a picturesque neighborhood tucked away in the suburbs of NE Portland; the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and people rarely saw fit to lock their doors at night. It was just far enough away from the action of the ¡°Big City¡± that it could have been a town unto itself, but just close enough to Portland proper to prevent such a thing. The result was that it had none of the big city amenities, or any of the small-town charm. Still, it was home. Colorful Foursquare houses with perfect lawns and patios and shrubberies rested in the shade of Pacific yew trees like assorted candies waiting to be plucked from a box of sweets. The houses were packed together, mere feet apart, and separated by little more than a privacy fence. Each house was a different color with complimentary-colored trim, door, and lattice-covered porch. You could definitely see the influence of the HOA here. My house was no different¡ªa soft blue Foursquare home with virgin white trim dripping with wisteria and ivy. The red-brick chimney towered over the sloping dark grey roofing (which almost never leaked). Planters of roses in every color sat in front of the porch and wound their way up through the white latticework of the porch banister. On the porch sat a worn but comfortable sofa and an iron bistro set. They had to go on the porch because there was no room for them in the backyard. The backyard was reserved for herbs, fruit, and vegetables. My grandmother, Hazel, maintained an impressive twelve square-foot garden with just about everything one could think of¡ªparsley, tomatoes, basil, pole beans, peppers, cucumbers, squash, and so forth. Whatever we didn¡¯t eat, Grandma either made into preserves or gifted to the neighbors. What little space in the backyard wasn¡¯t dedicated to the garden was filled with firewood, which came in handy during the winter when the heat inevitably went out. It was far from a palace, but it was home¡ªthe only one I¡¯d ever known. Harvard had been a dream of mine since I was little. If I was accepted, it would mean moving to Massachusetts¡ªa new State, a new time zone, a new life¡ªand leaving behind everything that I had ever known. I¡¯d miss the simple joys of reading a good book under a heavy blanket on the porch sofa on a crisp autumn day or curling up in the bay window of my bedroom with a book and listening to the rain. Harvard may be the dream, but it would be hard to say good-bye to me life with Mom and Grandma and Ben. Anywhere else wouldn¡¯t be a home-home, filled with memories and the gentle intimacies that came with them. This was home. My home. Ben pulled the Beetle into the driveway of his house, right next door to mine. He went about gathering his bag of albums and my bag of sweets from the Plaid Pantry to hide with the rest of the cache I stowed in his bedroom. ¡°Dinner should be in an hour or so if you want to come over,¡± I offered, gathering up my books. ¡°Nah, mom¡¯s making larb tonight and I don¡¯t wanna miss that.¡± ¡°Ah, no fair. Save me some.¡± ¡°She makes it spicy,¡± he said in a mocking singsong. ¡°Oh¡­never mind,¡± I said, pouting. Just then, I saw my mom¡¯s car pulling into the driveway next door. Out stepped a women with all of the rebellious beauty of an Alanis Morissette song. Silky, auburn curls bounced on her shoulders as she waved off a cloud of cigarette smoke with her free hand. The other was laden with a bag of cat food. She wore the same skirt suit that I¡¯d worn the day I interviewed with Silas Hathorne because, in fact, it was hers. ¡°Hey, Mom,¡± I called. She raised a single brow at me and smirked. ¡°Cutting it a little close for dinner, eh, Sweets?¡± ¡°Not as close as you¡¯re cutting it with that -you-know-what. If Grandma sees you¡ª¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah. I know,¡± Mom said, waving off my words as surely as she waved off the smoke from her last cancer stick. ¡°Trust me, if you had the day I did, you¡¯d be smoking, too.¡± ¡°Why do you think she has all this?¡± Ben asked, holding up the plastic bag of candy, cakes, and soda. ¡°Well, well, looks like the pot is calling the kettle black,¡± Mom teased. ¡°Hm? What was that?¡± I asked, feigning nonchalance as I pretended to be interested with something at the corner of the property. Mom and Ben shared a laugh at my expense before Mom snuffed out her cigarette and motioned me over. I waved goodbye to Ben and fell in-step beside my mother. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we made our way inside. Little bells chimed like fairy sounds as we opened the plum-colored front door. The moment I crossed the threshold, whatever unnoticed tension I¡¯d built up eased out of my body, and a sense of calm and belonging washed over me. This was the power of our threshold¡ªan invisible and intangible field of energy surrounding our home, keeping out unwanted magical forces, and offering us a layer of protection and comfort. Whenever I crossed it, I knew down to my bones that this was my home, and here I would always be safe and welcome. ¡°Hello, house,¡± I sang sweetly¡ªand old habit and joke from childhood. The threshold of the Perkins home opened up into a mudroom¡ªa kind of secondary entryway to remove and store footwear, outerwear, and wet clothing before entering the main house. Directly opposite the front door was a black-framed mirror with a sconce beneath. A black candle was always kept burning there to ward away negativity and malicious energies. Mom and I went about removing our shoes so as not to bring outside energies into the home, and set them on the shoe rack under the mirror. Mom set the bag of litter down and started going through envelopes on the mail table, muttering, ¡°Junk, junk, bill¡­¡± to herself. ¡°Anything from Abby Hill?¡± I asked hopefully. Mom thumbed through several envelopes, making a thoughtful, ¡°Hmm¡­¡± sound. ¡°Not yet, Sweets,¡± she said. ¡°But don¡¯t worry. It¡¯s only been a few weeks, I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll get back to us soon.¡± I nodded, trying to push thoughts of the school from my mind. I took the time to deposit my new books on my bed before making my way into the kitchen to get started on dinner. Where most families would have pots, pans, or utensils hanging from a rack over their kitchen island, we had drying herbs. Braided strands of garlic and onions hung from hooks to either side of the stove, where a cast iron pan, Dutch oven, and kettle waited patiently. I took up my apron from the hook by the doorway where it hung beside my mom and grandma¡¯s aprons, and moved to wash my hands at the sink. As I did, the back door opened to admit a woman of about fifty, her long pale red hair tinged with grey and pulled into a loose bun atop her head. She wore and pair of faded dungarees, rolled up to reveal the ankles of her unshaven legs and sloggers, and a sleeveless tie-dye shirt that showed off her muscled biceps and myriad tattoos set into her skin, bronzed from long hours in the sun over the course of a lifetime. ¡°Hi, Grandma,¡± I sang as I scrubbed. ¡°Ah, there¡¯s my little witch,¡± she sang back. Her smile brought her laugh lines and crows feet to life, as if they only existed because of her joy. She set a basket of lettuce and other veggies on the kitchen island next to a bowl of fruit, and pulled a handkerchief from her back pocket. ¡°The romaine came in so fast this year,¡± she said, mopping her brow. ¡°I was worried it would flower before I¡¯d have time to pick it.¡± ¡°Sounds like salad for dinner to me.¡± ¡°Right you are, sweetheart.¡± She kissed my forehead and toed off her sloggers, setting them on the rack next to the back door, and informed me she was going to take a quick shower before dinner. As she left the kitchen, I could hear her and mom talking, their voices fading as they followed one another up the stairs. Alone for the first time that day, I took a moment to relish in the quiet. I loved Ben, and my mom and grandma, but it was times like this, when I could be alone with my own thoughts and energies, that I felt most at peace. After drying my hands, I synced my phone to the Bluetooth speaker on the island and put on my ¡°cooking playlist.¡± Music filled the kitchen, and I bopped along to it as I washed the romaine, peppers, and tomatoes grandma had brought in from the garden. Whatever vegetables I didn¡¯t use went into the fridge or fruit bowl, depending. I seasoned three chicken thighs from the freezer and put them in the air fryer, chopped lettuce and vegetables as I sang, and mixed up a quick and easy salad dressing. I was by no means a great cook. My skill set was confined to simple salads and pastas, but I enjoyed the ritual of it. I was a kind of active meditation for me, where I could lose myself in the routine of it, give my mind and emotions a break, and just zone out for a bit. The music helped, too. I was chopping the cooked chicken when a sudden weight settled on my shoulders, along with the gentle scratch of claws and tickle of black fur. ¡°Hello, Bast.¡± The cat curled closer around the back of my neck, purring gently. I picked up a sliver of chicken, determined it had cooled enough to be safe for her cat¡¯s tongue, and offered it to her. The cat ate greedily on my shoulder as I returned to the task of finishing up the meal, adding pepper, parmesan cheese, and olives to the mix. By the time Grandma was done with her shower and Mom had taken off her makeup and changed into her house clothes, dinner was done and plated. That evening seemed like all the nights before and all the anticipated nights to come¡ªfilled with a quiet joy as we gathered around the table, talked about our day and ate, made jokes, laughed together. After the meal, it was Mom¡¯s turn to do dishes, so she took our plates to the kitchen while Grandma went to the living room to continue her latest crochet project, and I padded upstairs to grab one of my new books. Everything seemed as if we¡¯d be settling in for another idyllic evening, when there came a knock at the door. Chapter 2: ...Come to an End ¡°Not it,¡± Grandma and I called in almost perfect unison. ¡°Not it,¡± Mom cried a fraction of a second later, followed by an annoyed swear. I heard her moving across the hardwood toward the front door as I continued to my room. Grandma cackled like a cartoon villain, and I could just picture her snuggling deeper into the couch. Just as my hand closed around my doorknob, a cacophony of sounds erupted from downstairs¡ªa boom and a crash, the sound of something shattering, a scream of rage and fear. ¡°What the¡­¡± I murmured, allowing my voice to trail off. I turned on my heel, loose hair whipping around me in a flame-colored blur, and ran back down the hall toward the top of the stairs. I leaned over the banister, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on. From my vantage point, I had a view of most of the living room, but only a fraction of the mudroom. I could hear the sounds of struggle coming from beyond the dividing wall, but couldn¡¯t see what was happening. The smell of ozone was in the air¡ªthe pungent chlorine-like smell of Magic. Capital M. This wasn¡¯t some simple spell for cooling coffee or finding a lost key. This was big. ¡°Mom!¡± I could hear my mother shouting from the mudroom. ¡°Go!¡± Several things happened at once. The shouting downstairs intensified, growing louder as more voices added to the chaos. It was as if thunder roared through the very house, shaking the foundations. In the same moment, my grandma had leapt over the back of the couch, vaulting like some kind of Olympic athlete and landed with the grace of a cat on the other side. By contrast, I clung to the railing in a desperate attempt to keep my footing. ¡°Mom?¡± I called out, panic rising in my voice. Was she in danger? Was she hurt? What exactly was going on? Whatever it was, I had to make sure she was okay and help her if I could. I started for the staircase, but just as I placed my foot on the top step, my grandma dashed toward the staircase. I reeled back as Grandma took the steps two and three at a time. I could still hear the banging and crashing of whatever was happening in the mudroom, but even when I strained my neck, I couldn¡¯t see what was happening. ¡°Grandma?¡± I gasped as she reached the second landing. ¡°What¡¯s¡ª¡± Below, Mom screamed. My words caught in my throat. A flash of motion below caught my eye. I watched as my mother flew bodily out of the mudroom and into the living room. She landed hard against the back of the sofa which moved across the floor with a sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Mom let out a grunt, still conscious¡ªstill alive. I opened my mouth to call for her, but Grandma slapped a hand over my mouth and dragged me toward the back of the house, her grip like a metal vice. ¡°Keep low and keep quiet,¡± she hissed into my ear. My blood froze in my veins. I¡¯d never heard her so serious, so¡­angry. I did as I was told, too afraid to argue. Grandma closed her eyes briefly and made a motion like tossing a blanket onto a bed to make it. I felt an invisible weight settle around my shoulders as the world around me became a little duller, as though some of the color had been leached out. A reluctance spell. It wouldn¡¯t make us invisible or anything, but it would make whoever was in our house less likely to notice us¡ªless inclined to look in our direction. I could hear them moving downstairs as grandma and I crept toward her bedroom. Four voices. Two masculine, one feminine, and one belonging to my mother. They were arguing over the sounds of blows¡ªfists hitting flesh like a slab of meeting hitting a marble counter. Please be all right, please be all right, please be all right, I chanted over and over in my mind like a litany. After what felt like an eternity, we made it to my grandma¡¯s bedroom. I stepped through the open doorway and pressed myself against the wall, trying to make myself small as Grandma twisted the knob of her door with agonizing slowness. All the while, I could hear shouting downstairs. The stench of Magic was overwhelming, crackling through the air as my mother punctuated it with screams of something between rage and fear. Wood splintered, and an acrid, smoky aroma tinged the chemical scent of Magic. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Grandma pressed her door into the frame, releasing the knob slowly, silently. The moment she did, the smells and sounds from downstairs dampened, as if they existed only on the television playing in the living room. Moving quickly again, she engaged the lock and grabbed my hand again, pulling me toward her closet. ¡°Grandma, what¡¯s going on?¡± I asked, unashamed of the quiver in my voice. I was damn scared and I didn¡¯t care if she knew it. ¡°Is mom okay?¡± She didn¡¯t answer me. Instead, she scrambled to the back of her closet and pushed against the wall. I opened my mouth to ask what she was doing, when the wall moved. A square section of drywall depressed then slid aside revealing a crawl space. ¡°Is that a hidden room?¡± I gasped, blinking. ¡°Amber, listen to me very closely,¡± Grandma said, taking me by the shoulders. Her grip was like ice, mirroring the hard look in her normally soft, kind eyes. ¡°Those people down there are Witch Hunters¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªWitch Hunters? But¡ª¡± ¡°Just listen! Please. Your mom is keeping them busy, but we don¡¯t have much time. They¡¯re here because we have something they want. I¡­I have something they want.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have time to explain, honey. For now, just repeat after me: magicae in omnibus nobis.¡± ¡°Magicae in omnibus nobis?¡± Grandma¡¯s shoulders visibly relaxed, her expression melting into the soft and compassionate face I knew. Slowly, she began speaking, the words flowing into one another like water flowing downhill. The words seemed to vibrate through the air, becoming corporeal, bringing with them the smell of Magic unlike any I had known before. As she spoke, the words flowed around us, not quite visible, but there all the same. ¡°What is¡ª¡± I began to ask, but the words came at me with a sudden rush. I threw my hands up but it was useless. Whatever scream I might have given died on my lips as the words pushed into my skin. I didn¡¯t have time to expect it to hurt. Each word and syllable pressed into me with physical sensation, melting beneath my skin and into my blood, into my bones. They seeped honey-like into everything that was me, filling cracks and empty places I never knew existed until I felt full. Whole. Wave after wave crashed into me¡ªthrough me¡ªuntil I was filled with and surrounded by a nameless sensation. I felt something tighten in my chest. My breath hitched painfully as the air was pushed from my lungs. I gasped, trying to catch breath that wouldn¡¯t come. My chest felt as if it were collapsing. Ribs tightening to drive the breath from my body. It felt like drowning. It felt like dying. My face burned with the strain of it as blood rushed to the surface, panicked by the lack of oxygen. I felt my eyes water, and tears roll down my puckered face. I was suffocating, my body screaming out for air. I tried to breathe, but I couldn¡¯t. I couldn¡¯t so much as think the word ¡®breathe.¡¯ I was trapped¡ªfrozen in an eternal second of suffering. I was not of my own mind at that moment. Even if I had been, I doubted I could have given name or voice to what I was feeling. Pleasure fell short. Pain was too kind. It was everything and nothing. It was light. It was darkness. It was harmony and balance, but also discord and madness. Magic. Power. Knowledge. All these things and more. I felt full to bursting, as though the words were somehow replacing what I had been before¡ªpushing me out of my own skin. Something deep inside me gave way. It was like a heavy bolt falling out of a lock¡ªI felt it in the clenching of my solar plexus, in the pressure beneath my sternum, in my chest, in my hands. Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. Weight after weight lifted off of me¡ªboth without and within my body. Tension eased out of my neck and shoulders, pain evaporated from the crown of my head and brow. My bones vibrated with the power coursing through me, marrow humming, blood signing. I was alive in ways I had never before dreamed. I could feel the world around me, not just as a being passing through it, but as a part of it. My flesh was the flesh of the Earth, my blood the Fire beneath the Earth¡¯s crust, my tears the Water of life, my breath the Air through the trees. Light flooded my vision, my thoughts, my senses until I was indistinguishable from it. Bliss washed over me. I was adrift on a current of pleasure and exhaustion. Feeling it was the right thing to do, I let the current take me, releasing myself from my inhibitions, my fears, my doubts, my anxiety. Even my flesh. I was no longer Amber Perkins. I was something more. I fell forward, my body limp, and into the embrace of my grandma. Somehow, she seemed smaller. Everything did. I tried to speak with tongue as solid as honey. Little spasms of something wonderful coiled and uncoiled in my belly. It sparked at my mouth, my fingertips, my hair like static electricity. ¡°You did so well,¡± Grandma cooed, stroking my hair. Her voice was quiet, gentle as a lullaby. Distantly, I was aware of her coaxing me into the crawl space. My mind was too preoccupied with the way the stale air in the crawl space felt against my skin, the way every fleck of dust felt as it touched me or entered my lungs, or the feeling of the splintered wood beneath my hands and bare knees. ¡°Stay in here until we come for you,¡± my grandma instructed. ¡°We¡¯ll explain everything.¡± Weary in a way I never imagined possible, I lay down. Grandma smiled at me, and closed the secret panel to her crawl space. I sighed and shut my eyes. All the world dropped dead. Chapter 3: Burn the Witch I awoke with sputtering coughs, my lungs and throat burning. I tried to breathe, but the air tasted like ash. Something was wrong. I was hot. Too hot. Something primal in me responded, sending adrenaline thundering through my veins, and with it a single, crystal clear thought: GET OUT. I slammed my hands clumsily against the wall, desperately searching for the panel Grandma had hidden me behind. Something gave. The panel slipped aside on silent hinges, admitting a wave of black smoke into the crawl space. I hissed as the smoke burned my eyes. It seared and rubbed at them uselessly until I began coughing again. I had to get out of here. Had to get somewhere where the air was clear, where I could breathe. Choking, I scrambled out of the crawl space. Grandma¡¯s closet was full of the thick, black smoke, carrying with it the smell of burning wood and ash so strong I could taste it. I choked on it, sputtering until I thought I would vomit. Suddenly, something flashed behind my eyes. A memory. Mine and yet not mine. Fragmented like a corrupted computer file. Other crawl spaces, other hiding places. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Each of them alien and familiar all at once. I recognized none of them and yet they were mine. Each time I emerged, the room was burning. Smoke. Flames. Ashes. D¨¦cor spanning centuries, and yet each time there was a clear path. A planned escape. Pain seared across my skull and a scream that seemed to hold a thousand voices and one erupted from me. My knees buckled and I found myself amongst a sea of sparks seeking purchase on the ground. It felt like someone had dumped a pack of Pop Rocks into my cerebrospinal fluid, sizzling across my brain. I heard my screams long before I realized they were my own. Whatever that was¡­hallucination, or dream¡ªI didn¡¯t have time to contemplate it. If I didn¡¯t get out of the smoke soon, I was going to die. On my hands and knees, I crawled toward the window. My eyes watered, fighting in vain against the smoke. Through the haze, the landscape seemed to shift. One moment, I was in my grandmother¡¯s second story bedroom, the next I was in a single story Craftsman style home with flames licking the walls, then back again before finding myself crawling through a smoky parlor with singed Victorian furniture and peeling arsenic green wallpaper. I pushed the images from my mind, clinging to the here and now as I felt my way across floor boards hot as coals. I stumbled into the wall and gasped, relieved, until I began coughing again. My body tried to curl in on itself, wracked with spasms as it fought to expel the smoke from my lungs. I pushed against it, forcing my muscles to obey as I reached for the window. It had to be around here somewhere¡­ there! The glass shattered at the slightest touch, glass exploding outward. Smoke billowed into a dusky sky as though leading the way for me. I clambered onto the windowsill and out onto the roof that overlooked the front porch. Coughing, I crawled away from the smoke and glass. I needed to stay away from the edge so I didn¡¯t¡ª If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The next thing I knew, I was falling. Someone screamed, but it wasn¡¯t me this time. The ground rushed up to meet me. There was a sound like a branch breaking, and pain laced up my arm, snapping me into the present with jarring clarity. Swirling, flashing emergency lights from two firetrucks and half again as many police cruisers and an ambulance cast dizzying voltaic light across the neighborhood, stretching and diminishing shadows so that all the world beyond them were indistinguishable from dancing black figures like something from a nightmare. The ground beneath me was wet¡ªsoaked with water from hoses mounted to the firetrucks as they sprayed water toward the flames. Oh, the flames. They licked the first story of my home like hungry tongues, devouring the structure and all the memories within, and belching great clouds of smoke into the twilight. Wood blackened, splintered, and cracked under the lash of their heat, the whole house groaning in anguish. All around me, there was shouting, discordant voices that wove together to create a white noise beneath the roar of the fire. ¡°Hey, you can¡¯t go in there!¡± a voice called over the din. Another voice cut through the madness¡ªa voice as familiar to me as my own. ¡°Fuck you, pig, that¡¯s my friend!¡± ¡°Ben¡­¡± I groaned. I turned toward his voice, searching. Reaching. Ben¡¯s form emerged from the chaos, growing more solid with each step as he sprinted to me. ¡°Ben!¡± I called again, voice on the edge of tears. I reached for him like a lifeline. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve got you.¡± He took hold of my outstretched hand and lifted me to my feet. I clutched my broken arm to my chest as Ben pulled my good hand over his shoulder to support me and hauled me away from the burning building. ¡°Mom,¡± I coughed, half-turning as I realized she must still be back there. ¡°She¡¯s okay,¡± Ben assured me, holding me closer so I couldn¡¯t do something stupid (like run back into a burning building with a broken arm). ¡°I saw another ambulance take her away.¡± ¡°What about¡ª¡± I started to ask, but a fit of coughing overtook me. Ben pulled me along, my feet weak and clumsy on the wet earth. A pair of paramedics jogged toward us. They said something to Ben that didn¡¯t quite reach me. Everything was starting to go sideways again. The paramedics¡ªno, they were my cousins. My cousins. They fussed, expressions pinched with worry as they helped me to the sofa¡ªI mean into the back of the ambulance. The overhead lights flashed. Candlelight, gas lamps, antique bulbs, lanterns, then back again. Something covered my mouth. There was a pinch in my arm. I struggled to stay in the here and now, but the present seemed lost amongst a torrent of names and faces. Words from strangers were a jumble with those from allies, a thousand mouths moving as one. ¡°Stop,¡± I tried to say, but my tongue felt clumsy and foreign in my mouth. My vision blurred. Everything was starting to go hazy. The color leeched out of the world. Images blurred together until nothing was indistinguishable from the next. I couldn¡¯t move. I couldn¡¯t breathe. Everything was happening too fast, and yet standing still. There was an eerie kind of nostalgia to it, as though this nightmare was one I¡¯d had before. Again, and again, and again¡­ And again¡­ And again¡­ And again¡­ Chapter 4: Mary Mary sat herself in the circle of candles. Black for protection. Black for secrets. They were the only light in the dim shack in which she¡¯d hid herself. The only light with which she could illuminate her reflection in the silver hand mirror she¡¯d managed to steal. The only light by which to read the Grimoire. Focus, she told herself. The stars were in alignment, the moon was at it¡¯s peak. If the time was not now, then when? The Grimoire was open before her. Atop it, the mirror. Focus, she reminded herself. Carefully, Mary took up the mirror, and examined her haggard reflection. Dirty from days without wash, drenched in sweat from the effort of concentration and preparation for the spell. Irritated, Mary brushed muddy strands of fiery hair away from her freckled visage. Sadly, the life she¡¯d chosen afforded her little time for vanity. ¡°I am the Witch, Mary Bradbury,¡± she proclaimed to her reflection. ¡°Tomorrow, I stand trail for the crime of witchcraft. But magic is no crime, no matter what the God of this new world or those who worship Them think. What they truly seek is not my confession, but my Grimoire, and the power it holds¡ªspells from the old world, knowledge that cannot be found anywhere else, and more. These people fear what my magic can do¡­and fear makes people more dangerous than magic ever could. They seek to control it so that it can never be used against them. And if they cannot control it, they will destroy it.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Mary paused to wet her lips. She released a shuddering breath, steeling herself for what was to come. ¡°For this reason¡­for this reason, I have chosen to hide the Grimoire where no one will ever find it: inside myself. ¡°In this way, the secrets it holds shall avoid capture or destruction from mortal hands¡­¡± she placed a hand over her heart, ¡°¡­it will be as safe as my own life. It shall live on with me and all those of my blood. The witches of my line shall cultivate and refine this power over their lifetime, before passing it to their next descendant. In this way, the secrets of the Grimoire shall be protected and grow. In this way, our legacy is secured. In this way, our magic lives on. Magic is in us all. Magicae in omnibus nobis.¡± The face in the mirror blurred into the face a young girl¡ªMary¡¯s niece¡ªwho repeated the words, ¡°Magicae in omnibus nobis,¡± her voice ringing out in place of Mary¡¯s. Then the reflection changed again, this time to show a man with long sideburns and greying at the temples. ¡°Magicae in omnibus nobis,¡± he said. Then again, and again, the face in the mirror changed, showing four hundred years of descendants, each intoning the phrase, ¡°Magicae in omnibus nobis,¡± like a litany. Faces and words blurred into one another, until, at last, it was my grandmother¡¯s face, and then mine. ¡°Magicae in omnibus nobis,¡± my reflection said, and then I woke up. Chapter 5: Out of the Fire I¡¯d never been in the hospital before. I mean, I¡¯d been in a hospital, but usually only when I was due for a vaccine. I¡¯m not known for being the most coordinated person, but I¡¯ve never broken a bone before and I don¡¯t get sick often. When I do, it¡¯s usually something that can be treated at home. Most of what I know about hospitals comes from TV or movies. Like how when the main character suddenly finds themselves waking unexpectedly in a hospital room and immediately starts tearing out IVs and breathing tubes and whatnot until alarms start blaring and a whole host of doctors and nurses come flying into the room to sedate them. But when I woke up in a hospital bed, I didn¡¯t panic. I¡¯m not really sure I would have been able to¡ªthere were so many drugs running through me that my body hardly felt like my own. It felt heavy, numb, and filled with a cloying heat that caused droplets of sweat to bead on my brow and pool in all of the most uncomfortable areas possible. The light overhead was blinding. I winced as it tried to permeate my closed eyes. A whimper came unbidden from the back of my throat, alerting me to just how dry my mouth was, and how fat my tongue felt. ¡°Looks like someone¡¯s awake,¡± said an all-too-cheery voice beside me. I turned my head toward the voice as much as I could manage and squinted through the glaring lights of the room. Through the haze, I made out a pleasantly plump nurse in lavender scrubs sitting beside me in a large room, the edges of which were fuzzy beige blobs with little multicolor blobs moving around inside. I didn¡¯t seem to be the only one in the room. Other beds were filled with other patients sleeping or chatting quietly with nurses sitting in attendance. By the time I realized where I was, the nurse at my bedside had busied themselves with looking over a series of IVs stabbing into my arm and punching information into a tablet. ¡°How are you feeling, hon?¡± they asked. I opened my mouth to respond, but all that came out was a croak. The nurse grabbed a cup of water with a straw from a small table beside the bed. I started to lift my hand, but before I could they were already pressing the straw to my lips. I accepted the drink with slow, awkward sips. Even at my sickest, no one had ever fed me from a cup like this. The cool water washed down my throat¡ªchilling and soothing and painful all at once. ¡°There you go, hon,¡± the nurse said with a warm smile. ¡°How¡¯s the pain?¡± ¡°Pain?¡± I rasped. ¡°In your arm.¡± I looked down, confused. There was a cast on my left arm, which confused me even more. I¡¯d never had a cast before. I¡¯d never broken a bone before. Why was there a cast on my arm? I was about to start begging the nurse for answers when I remembered: the fall, the snap, the pain¡­ The fire. ¡°My mom¡ª¡± I began when a fit of coughing hacked my sentence to pieces. ¡°Easy now, hon. Easy,¡± the nurse soothed. ¡°You¡¯ve had some bad smoke inhalation and your throat may still be sore from the anesthetic. You just rest your voice while I check you over, okay?¡± I licked my lips, tongue dry and rough over the cracked surface, and forced a nod. The nurse began their work, and I closed my eyes again. *** Time felt¡­strange. I wasn¡¯t sure what was happening from one moment to the next, only that one moment I was one place, and the next moment I was somewhere else. It was like I was jumping between key points in time and skipping whatever lay between. I wondered if this was what video game characters felt like when you kept loading one save file and then the next trying to find the one you left off on. In one moment, I was in the recovery room and in the next I was in a small room next to a large window. The world around me blurred in and out of focus as I woke slowly, clawing my way toward consciousness with what little strength I had left. The drugs and pain didn¡¯t make it any easier. Whatever they were pumping into my veins certainly did its job of making me sleepy, but did little for the ache that had wormed it¡¯s way into each of my joints, or my throat which had been scoured raw as someone had taken steel wool to it in an effort to remove a particularly stubborn stain. Not so fun fact about redheads: our brains process pain a little differently, so many pain killers don¡¯t work as well on us as on others (if at all). Warm sunlight penetrated the glass, alighting on my skin, hair, and blankets like a mother¡¯s kiss. Reflexively, I began to inhale and open myself up to the healing light, but the rush of air through my chaffed esophagus caused my lungs and throat to seize and sent me into a fit of painful coughing. It lasted for what felt like eons, every time I thought it was done, another fit would wrack my body, forcing it to curl into an awkward ball. When at last the coughing stopped, I lay curled up with the blankets up around my shoulders despite the sweat beading on my forehead. My heart was hammering, begging for oxygen, but I forced myself to take slow, shallow breaths to avoid another coughing fit. Honestly, it was a miracle I hadn¡¯t thrown up in all that time. I moved to wipe my brow, and that was when I noticed the cast. Thick plaster covered my right arm from knuckles to elbow. Inside, my arm was a bloated, red thing I hardly recognized, swollen as it recovered from whatever surgery I¡¯d undergone. It made the cast fit snugly, and even a bit painful. I shut my eyes against the soreness in my arm, my throat, my chest, and tried to focus on my breathing. Slow, shallow breaths in¡­and out¡­ As my heart found its way back to an ordinary rhythm, memories flashed through my mind¡ªthe magic that raced through my blood before grandma hid me away in her closet, and the dream of Mary and her Grimoire. The Grimoire that was now in my head. Grandma put it there to hide it from whoever came to the house, I supposed. Whatever secret the Grimoire had¡ªor, has?¡ªmust be a doozy. But Mary wasn¡¯t exactly forthcoming with what it is, so¡­what is it? Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. My thoughts were sluggish as I tried to puzzle out the meaning of it all. All I succeeded in doing was making myself tired. Well, more tired. Distantly, as if it were being shouted to me from across a gapping chasm, it occurred to me that none of what had happened in my dream¡ªmemory?¡ªabout Mary had frightened me. And I should be frightened. Shouldn¡¯t I? Or, at least angry? Worried? The medicine is making me numb, I decided, and resisted the urge to rip the tube from my arm like in the movies. To be honest, though, I wasn¡¯t sure I could have done it even if I wasn¡¯t resisting that urge. I knew I needed to get up, to get moving, to find my mom and grandma, and start answering the myriad questions I had about what the heck had just happened. But it was a herculean feat just to stay awake. The sunlight was so warm, soothing its way across my skin, making my limbs feel heavy and sluggish. Maybe just a quick nap¡­ *** Something tickled its way across my cast, sending gentle vibrations through the plaster that made it feel like a colony of ants had taken up residence in the cracks between my bones. I felt a groan leave me and tried to shift my arm, but it was useless. Whatever was messing with my cast was also holding it in place. ¡°Gerroff,¡± I slurred through a haze of sleep. My mouth felt as if it had been filled with cotton balls that had been set near some very smelly garbage. I ran a dry tongue over my dryer palate and lips. My mouth twisted into a grimace as a flavor I can only describe as YUCK crawled over my tongue some kind of furry mold. ¡°Well, well, well,¡± came a dulcet voice, ¡°look who finally woke up.¡± Blearily, I opened my eyes. The room was dark now, the only light coming from the fluorescent overhead LEDs¡ªthe kind that somehow seemed made specifically to give people headaches and for no other reason. Leaning over me, phoenix eyes pinched from a crooked grin, was Ben. ¡°Hey,¡± I croaked, voice still raw. ¡°Hey back,¡± he said. He leaned back a bit and capped a black Sharpie, then asked, ¡°How are you feeling?¡± ¡°Like I fell out of a two story burning building.¡± He snorted a laugh through his nose. I tried to do the same, but it only resulted in another of those coughing fits. Ben pat my back with the flat of his palm, chiding, ¡°Dumbass,¡± under his breath. When the coughing finally stopped and I was able to breathe again, he handed me a cup of cool water from the side of my hospital bed. I slurped it up through a straw, the icy water burning its way down my throat. ¡°Okay, real talk,¡± Ben said, his tone leaving no room for levity. ¡°How are you feeling?¡± I licked my lips, taking my time to respond. How did I feel? How in the world was I supposed to put what seemed like an impossible experience into words? I worried at my chapped bottom lip with my teeth, but that didn¡¯t help me come up with a response either. Eventually, I settled on, ¡°Tired. Scared. Have you heard anything about my mom? My grandma?¡± It was Ben¡¯s turn to worry at his lower lip. His brows creased as he considered how to tell me whatever he needed to say. Anxiety skulked up from my gut and sat heavily on my chest¡ªas if it wasn¡¯t already hard enough for me to breathe. His hesitation couldn¡¯t have lasted more than a second, but in that time an eternity of worry wound its way through my guts, turning them as cold as the ice water on my bedside. Did they not make it out? Or could their injuries have been so bad that they succumbed to them in the hospital while I slept¡ªwhile I slept instead of doing something? I opened my mouth to plead with him, to tell me what happened and put me out of the misery of guesswork, but I needn¡¯t have bothered. ¡°You mom is in the ER,¡± Ben explained slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. ¡°I don¡¯t know much about her condition because the doctors and nurses would only tell me so much. I even put the ol¡¯ Ben Hoang charm on them, and got nothing! It sounds like she¡¯ll be okay, but they¡¯re waiting to talk to you about it all directly, I think.¡± The hand that had been clenching my heart loosened its grip a fraction. Mom was alive. She was hurt, maybe badly, but she was alive. She¡¯d made it out of the house. ¡°Grandma?¡± I asked, voice already growing sore from use. Ben hesitated again, filling the silence by taking my uninjured hand in his. He met my eyes mirthlessly, soberly. Anxiety began to give way to panic, the emotion thundering through my veins. I could feel my pulse in my throat. My lungs didn¡¯t want to expand. I was breathless. Paralyzed. O Gods, O Gods¡ª ¡°No one seems to know,¡± he finally said, voice coming out in an infuriatingly calm. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard of them finding anyone else¡ªno¡­no body or anything.¡± He said ¡®body¡¯ like it left a bad taste in his mouth. ¡°I mean, they¡¯re still looking,¡± he added quickly, ¡°but they just haven¡¯t been able to find her. Yet.¡± Missing. Hazel Perkins was missing. But how? If she¡¯d made it out of the house, then she¡¯d have come to the hospital. She¡¯d be with mom or me. If she hadn¡¯t¡ªNo. I turned away from the thought before it could finish forming in my mind. I couldn¡¯t consider that possibility any further than I already had. They would have found her by now. They would have had to have found her by now. Those people¡­the ones who broke in¡­could they have taken her? Are they the ones who started the fire? I hadn¡¯t seen their faces. Even if I had the chance to speak with the police, there was nothing I could give them to go off of. Three people wearing black? That could be anyone. Memories flashed through my head, fragmented and sharp. Ancestors who had been attacked by people just like the ones I saw, some in suits like they were the MIB, others dressed like plague doctors, or other likewise ridiculous costumes. With the memories comes a name¡ªa knowing. Witch Hunters. A very real, very primal fear prickles across my scalp. The hairs all over my body stand on end with the alertness of all prey when faced with their main predator¡ªthe thing that could spell their demise in an instant. But the sensation is snapped short like the breaking of a bough in a windstorm. The recall feels like being struck by lightning and pain sears into the hollows of my eyes. I wince and reach up to pinch my brow with my wounded hand on reflex¡ªwhich did nothing to help the pain I was in, of course. Before my fingers could make contact, I caught sight of a doddle marking the otherwise white plaster¡ªa little cartoonish cat face with a wide kitty grin and a little pointed hat. I can¡¯t help the little smile that flits across my lips. The drawing is cute, and so very much like Ben that I can¡¯t help it. Even in the midst of what feels like the weirdest and absolutely worst day of my life, he somehow manages to find a way to make me smile¡ªto make me feel sane and whole and cared for. He catches my expression, and another crooked grin slides into place on his face. ¡°If you like that, you¡¯ll love this,¡± he says and reaches for something on the floor. He comes up holding an open back pack and holds it up so the maw of the bag is facing me. Out of the bag pops furry, little black head with two very large very yellow eyes. ¡°Kismet!¡± I cry, voice cracking with emotion as much as disuse. The sleek black cat leaps from the bag and into my outstretched arms, curling into my neck and nuzzling. I stroke her dark fur and hug her close, not even bother to fight back tears. Kismet, our obligatory witches¡¯ black cat, was okay. In truth, I hadn¡¯t thought to worry about her. Kismet is an indoor/outdoor cat and likes to hunt at odd hours. All this time, I¡¯d assumed she¡¯d been off doing her little cat things while the hunters had broken in, and, naturally, she stayed away during the fire and everything that came after. Even so; even without having feared for her all this time, seeing her safe and sound, being able to hold her next to me like this fills me with such relief that it¡¯s like I can suddenly breathe normally again¡ªI can¡¯t, but you get what I mean. ¡°Where did you find her?¡± I practically blubber. ¡°She found me,¡± Ben says, scratching Kismet behind one ear. ¡°After you were admitted there wasn¡¯t a whole lot I could do. They sent me home, and I figured I could try to sneak into your place while no one was looking and grab some of your things, but there were too many firefighters and cops. Anyway, while I was looking for an opening, I heard her basically yelling at me and I looked down to see her ready to climb up my pant leg. I figured, even if I couldn¡¯t bring you any of your books or a picture, I could bring you your cat.¡± Gratitude swelled in my chest. Gods, I don¡¯t know what I did to deserve a friend like Ben, but I sure am glad I did it. I reach out with my good hand and squeeze the one he isn¡¯t using to pet Kismet. ¡°You¡¯re a good guy, Ben Hoang,¡± I tell him in my croaky little rabbit voice. Normally, Ben would scrunch up his nose at a comment like that and maybe mess up my hair. Instead, he just smiles a soft kind of smile and says, ¡°Don¡¯t go spreading that around, okay? I have a reputation to uphold.¡±