“Hey!”
“Watch it, weirdo!”
“Out of the way, loser!”
When did preteens get so rude? I was terrified of seniors when I was their age. I consider tripping them with a crack in the sidewalk, but I shake the thought away. Elementals don’t interfere with the lives of Regs; only Blood Witches do that. Besides, Lady Ariana would skin me alive if she found traces of magic someplace with such a heavy Reg presence. I’m not letting my training get pushed back another second, especially not because of some snotty middle schoolers.
Up ahead, Evan crosses the intersection and heads for the Witch Museum—the one with those creepy wax figures that explain the witch trials—and I hurry after him. On second thought, maybe preteens have always been little shits. Abigail Williams was only eleven when she turned an entire town on its head.
Thankfully, the light is red as I race through the intersection at top speed. I ignore the people who give me strange looks and reach for Evan before he passes the small crowd in line for tickets. “Evan, wait.”
Evan jumps, startled, and pulls away from my touch. The Cauldron bag swings from his hand as he spins to face me. “What do you want?”
“You—” I suck in a lungful of air, my chest heaving. I am so not a runner. I press my hands into my thighs and double over, which totally ruins the fierce vibe I was going for. “You do not get to threaten me and walk away like it’s nothing,” I say when I finally catch my breath.
“Whatever.” Evan rolls his eyes, dismissing me.
“I’m serious,” I hiss. “You don’t get to hurl curses as threats.” My magic flares with my temper, kicking up a breeze in the cramped square. I press the reflex down.
“I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He glances at the tourists around us and leads me away from the line by the elbow. His thumb digs painfully into my bicep.
“Get your hands off me,” I snap, but I catch myself keeping my voice low, like I’m afraid to cause a scene. I tear my arm from his grip and shove a finger toward his purchase. “That bag is full of cursing supplies. Whatever you’re doing, it has to stop. And you’re sure as shit not going to curse me or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll do what?” Evan raises an eyebrow at me, and I hate that I can’t show him the magic I could unleash if he tried to hurt me.
I force myself to take a deep breath and switch tactics. “I’ve worked at the Cauldron since I turned sixteen.” I pause as a woman drags two young children past us. Only when they’re out of range do I continue. “I know the beginnings of a hex when I see one. Hurting people is not the way to get what you want.”
“Some people deserve to be punished.” His eyes flash, glimmering in the sunlight. His voice is thick with hurt. “Some people deserve to watch their lives fall apart. Why shouldn’t I be the one to make that happen?”
His question catches me off guard, and I don’t have an immediate answer beyond that’s not how life works, and somehow I doubt that will suffice. I search for a Wiccan explanation, hoping all his time in the Cauldron means he gives a shit about more than the magic. “Whatever evil you conjure, the Law of Return will send it back three times worse. Are you willing to risk that?”
“That’s all I’m trying to do, make sure he gets what he deserves.” Evan curls his hands into fists, squeezing so hard his arms shake, but he doesn’t clarify who he is. “I don’t care what happens to me.”
“Evan—”
“Does your boss know you’re here?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“Didn’t think so.” Evan steps closer, until I have to crane my neck to meet his stare. “Leave me the hell alone, Hannah, or I will stop coming to the Cauldron. And I’ll tell your boss exactly why she’s lost my business.”
This threat actually lands. I can’t lose my job. As much as I complain about the tourists, the Cauldron is the only reason I can afford my clunker of a car and the insurance to keep it on the road. The extra cash pays for art supplies and midnight diner trips with Gem and even my half-assed excuse for college savings. “You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t want to. Your boss has the best supplies in town.” Evan’s eyes go hard; he leans in close. “But I’m not going to let you harass me every time I walk through the door. Stay out of my business.”
I really want to tell him to go screw himself, but the thought of getting fired and losing my only source of income—meager though it may be—silences my tongue.
“Understood?”
“Fine.” I cross my arms and return his stony glare. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Whatever.” Evan acts tough, but he can’t hide the tremor in his voice. He may be desperate enough to break one of the fundamental tenets of Wicca—harm none—but he clearly knows he’s playing with fire.
I lean against the rough exterior of the Witch Museum and watch as Evan slips inside. I consider asking Lauren why she even stocks the supplies for hexes and other negative spellwork, but I can practically hear her response in my head. Something about balance and the importance of letting people make the mistakes necessary to find their true path. Nonsense, really. Lady Ariana would never allow so much freedom.
There is no room for mistakes in the Clans.
A warm breeze drifts past, pulling strands of hair across my cheeks and rustling the low bushes beside me. I glance down.
It can’t be . . . I jolt away from the building, my heart hammering against my ribs, adrenaline preparing my body to run. Lady Ariana said we were safe. She said there was no Blood Witch here.
She was wrong.
On the side of the Witch Museum, behind a row of bushes, shines a series of runes.
Drawn in blood.
In an instant, I’m transported back to a tiny apartment. Bloody runes cover the walls, and a girl with blue hair is desperately scrubbing them away, trying to erase them before the magic can take hold.
And then I’m in Central Park, where the Blood Witch finally finds me. Where she wraps her fingers around my throat—
Laughter cuts through the memory, bringing me back to myself. Behind me, a small child toddles down the sidewalk, squealing with delight as their two dads chase after them. The trio passes the Witch Museum, and the taller of the dads scoops up the curly-haired kid and reaches for the other man’s hand. The family walks across the street to where a row of food trucks is serving lunch.
I smile after them and find the courage to study the runes more closely. Nothing bad will happen to me around all these people. I recognize Jera—two interlocking capital Ls, twisted on a diagonal—and Peorth, which looks like an hourglass tipped on its side with the top missing. I don’t recognize the other runes, but I know Jera deals with time and change while Peorth refers to things hidden. Usually magical things.