Mom tenses, but a slow smile spreads across the Elder’s lips. “If you can recruit both witches and prove yourself suitable for that kind of fieldwork, we will find you a place on Archer’s team.”
I can feel the arguments building inside my mother without even looking at her, but she doesn’t give a voice to any of them. An Elder’s ruling is final and immutable. It’s the highest law of our society. Only another Elder could overrule her.
“Deal.”
A heady mixture of fear and anticipation flows through my veins. I promised Dad that we’d win this war.
And now I’m finally allowed to fight.
5
MOM DOESN’T SPEAK TO me the rest of the weekend. Every time I see her, I catch this moment of unguarded grief—hurt that I caused—before she notices me and shutters her feelings behind a scowl. I run through practice apologies, but none of them ring true.
Because I’m not sorry, I think, because I want to fight.
After I finish my homework on Sunday, I try texting Zoë again to learn more about what happened to her coven. She still doesn’t respond, leaving my messages marked read, and guilt twists my insides into knots. Zo tried reaching out to me this summer, but I let all her texts go unanswered, too.
Memories I don’t want to face claw their way to the front of my mind—so many tiny, imperfect moments, like Dad teaching Zo and me how to make snow when we were upset over a green winter solstice. He snuck us sweets later that night, too, after Aunt Camila kicked us out of the kitchen.
Zoë and I aren’t technically related, and it’s not just that we’re both Elementals, either. My mom was best friends with Aunt Camila when they were growing up. Now, whenever I visit, I spend most of my time with Zo and her brothers.
Since we usually visit Mom’s family around the winter solstice, I haven’t seen Zoë in almost a year. Mom said Aunt Camila wanted to come to Dad’s funeral, but her high priestess wouldn’t let the coven anywhere near Salem. Not when Hunters could be watching for new arrivals. In the end, staying away didn’t protect them, and I haven’t talked to Zoë at all since Dad died . . .
I shove each memory down and drown out their voices beneath screaming vocals and angry drums. I open the sketchpad Morgan gave me, but every time I press my pencil to the soft paper, nothing comes. I can’t stop thinking about Dad and Zoë and the witches Elder Keating needs me to recruit. About tomorrow’s meeting with Archer to plan for my first mission. And the most terrifying question of all: How could an entire coven lose their magic without anyone knowing how it happened?
When sleep finally claims me, my subconscious supplies a highlight reel of horrifying theories. Assassins picking locks to slip into Elemental homes, armed with long-needled syringes. Snipers hiding on rooftops, tranq guns held steadily in their grip.
Benton with a warm grin as he douses me with gasoline.
That last image, more memory than dream, always sends me jolting out of sleep, gasping for breath. I can still feel the smoke choking off my lungs, the fire pressing against my skin as it searched for a way past my caged magic. His cruel smile lingers, melting into a thousand other grins, ones full of affection, ones from before he knew I was a witch. When we were friends. When I cared deeply for the boy with an artist’s soul whose parents forced him into pre-med instead of letting him follow his passions.
When the alarm goes off on Monday, I have to drag myself through my morning routine. My magic still won’t answer my call, and it’s starting to impact every part of my life. When I turned thirteen and no longer had to wear a binding ring all the time, it was the tiny reflexive bits of magic—like drawing energy from a shower—that I loved the most. Magics so small that the Council didn’t bother banning them, mostly because they come so naturally they’re basically impossible to prevent. Without those daily bits of magic? I don’t know who I am anymore.
And now everyone in Mom’s old coven feels like this, too.
That thought follows me to school, where I wander the halls like a zombie. Morgan texted me earlier to say she wasn’t coming, and by the end of homeroom, I wish I could have skipped with her. I’m so on edge that when Gemma appears beside my locker, I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Sorry!” she says, leaning on her cane. It must be another of her bad days. She never complains, but it has to be exhausting to get around school when her leg aches. “Ready for lunch?”
My startled pulse refuses to slow, but I nod and follow her to the cafeteria. As we eat, I can’t help but study my classmates with new eyes. Benton hid easily among them for three years.
Are there more Hunters stalking the halls of Salem High?
The cafeteria is packed and loud and just . . . too much. Shoes squeak against the dingy linoleum floor. Chairs screech. Laughter erupts in one corner and cascades in the other. I feel everyone’s eyes on the back of my neck, judging. Waiting for me to snap.
“I need to go,” I say to Gem, pushing my chair back.
“But you’ve barely eaten.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ll talk to you later.” I dump my tray in the trash and slip out of the cafeteria, desperate to get away from the crowded, claustrophobic room. I find myself heading to the art studio, which is where I have my next class anyway.
The room is still empty, and I take a hesitant step inside. It’s blissfully quiet. The chemical tang of thick oil paints and the rich, earthy scent of clay brings back a rush of memories. Ghosts of laughter whisper in my ears as I search the cupboards for a set of brushes and watercolors.
You did not fall off Veronica’s bed. An echo of Benton’s voice rings through the room, his laughter filling the empty space. How did her parents not catch you?
My own laughter joins his, so loud that it hurts my chest and makes it hard to breathe. Her parents didn’t, but her little brother almost did. Thankfully, we remembered to lock the door.
I grab a piece of thick watercolor paper and shove the memory away. I hate that he was my friend. I hate that I told him about my relationship with Veronica and my dreams of art school. I hate that he knows how I crushed on Morgan. I can’t believe I trusted him with so much of myself.
The bell finally rings to signal the end of lunch. I ignore the shuffle of feet and settle at the table closest to the window, the sun warm against the back of my neck as I work. I wet the paper to make the paint glide smoothly across the surface and swirl my brush in red paint.
My classmates trickle into the room, their noise filling the space with a gentle hum as I spiral the red down my paper and add highlights of orange and gold. The second bell rings, and our teacher starts class. I ignore the scrape of chairs, the rustle of paper, and the slamming of cabinets. I block it all out. But they don’t acknowledge me, either. No one sits at my table. No one asks for my permission before they steal chairs for their own groups.