“What about it?” Morgan prompts when I’ve stayed quiet too long. Her expression is carefully neutral.
“Is it . . . instinctual? Like, do you hear my heartbeat whenever I’m close, or do you have to listen for it? And what about right now? Are you making me feel calm on purpose, or is it just . . . happening?”
Morgan drops her gaze. Her forehead creases. After a moment, the steady thrum of her magic disappears from inside me. A dull ache blooms in my ribs, and I hastily release my hold on the air. When I let my magic go, the pain goes with it.
“I guess it’s a bit of both,” Morgan says finally, looking at me again. “Sometimes I do it on purpose, like at school that first day when you were so stressed out after seeing Nolan. But I didn’t realize my magic was affecting you now. I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No!” I say, probably a bit too fast. “You don’t have to stop. It’s . . .” The only thing that makes my magic work. “It’s nice.”
“You don’t think it’s creepy?”
I reach for her hand and thread her fingers between mine. “Of course not.”
We settle into the couch to watch the news. The meteorologist forecasts storms early next week, and Morgan leans close to rest her head on my shoulder. “I can’t hear your heartbeat, by the way. I feel it like a second pulse next to mine. Mostly in my wrists, and only when you’re close.” She turns and presses a kiss to my neck, giggling when she returns to using my shoulder like a pillow. “Your heart always skips when I do that.”
“Hey, that’s cheating.”
“What? You have more experience kissing girls than me. I’ll take any advantage I can get.”
I laugh and lean close to kiss her, but everything in me goes cold when Benton’s picture appears on the screen. Seeing his smiling senior portrait makes my entire body recoil. I should be used to it by now. They never show his mug shot. He’s always this clean-cut, grinning boy. This is why Mom tried to ban me from watching the news.
“Turn it up?” I point to the remote beside Morgan. She does.
“The court trial for local Salem High graduate Benton Hall is expected to begin with jury selection on September thirtieth,” the anchor continues. “He’s accused of the kidnapping and attempted murder of two local teens, fellow graduate Veronica Matthews and a current Salem High senior. Sources close to Hall indicate the young man intends to plead innocent to all charges. Jenny Cho has more of the story.”
The studio fades, replaced by a shot of the courthouse where Benton’s trial will take place. The image pans right, where the on-scene reporter waits with a microphone.
“Thank you, Shannon. In just a few short weeks, Salem’s district attorney, Natalie Flores, will begin prosecuting the town’s most unusual case since its seventeenth-century witch trials. Speculation has infiltrated legal and public circles alike, some referring to the defendant, Benton Hall, as a modern-day witch hunter.”
I stiffen even though this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this particular theory. It was popular online first—dozens of memes about burning witches filtered across my feed before Gemma blocked all the relevant terms. A few weeks ago, more legitimate news sources started pushing the theory, too.
Across the house, Mom’s bedroom door squeaks open and slams closed again. I turn off the news before she can catch me watching, but she doesn’t come to see us. Instead, pots and pans clang in the kitchen as she starts dinner. I’m about to ask Morgan if she wants to sneak into my room when something shatters.
“Mom?” I call from the couch. “Everything okay?” The doorbell rings, and I climb to my feet. “I’ll get it.” At the front door, I check the peephole before unlocking the deadbolt. “What are you two doing here?”
Detective Archer and Cal stand on my front porch. The detective is dressed in his usual crisp suit, the lack of tie the only sign that he’s not on active police duty. Cal looks even more exhausted than he did last night, wearing jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt.
“We need to speak with you,” Archer says, his voice tight and strained.
“Is everything okay?” I look from Archer’s stony expression to Cal’s fracturing calm. “What happened?”
“The raid—” Cal starts, but Archer cuts him off.
“Not out here. Hannah, can we come in?”
Archer closes the door quickly behind them. The energy in the room shifts, crackling with tension and fear. “What happened at the raid?” I ask, flinching when Morgan steps up silently behind me. I take her hand.
This time, Cal looks to Archer for approval before speaking. After a curt nod, Cal turns back to us, his face crumpling into shock and grief. “It was a trap. We lost the entire team.”
“What do you mean you lost them? Where are they?”
“They’re dead, Hannah.” Cal’s voice cracks. His eyes shimmer, but he doesn’t let any tears fall.
Archer rests a hand on Cal’s shoulder, and the younger Caster lets out a shaky sigh. “There’s more,” Archer says. “Is your mother home?”
“More? How can there be more?” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the Boston agents dying at the hands of the Witch Hunters. Who were they? Who did they leave behind?
“She’s in here,” Morgan says, pulling me down the hall.
When we reach the kitchen, shattered glass sparkles on the floor. Mom has her phone pressed to her ear, one hand clutching Dad’s ring where it hangs on a chain around her neck. She glances up at us, horror etched into her face. “Everyone?” Her voice breaks. “How is that possible?”
“The Hunters also attacked the town where your mom grew up,” Archer whispers from behind me. “The entire coven lost their magic.”
“What? How?” I’m trembling all over, and it’s only Morgan’s grip that keeps me standing upright. I know those witches. They’re family. Mom’s parents. Her friends. Aunt Camila and my cousin Zoë. Her little brothers. “But they’ll get it back. Veronica and I got our magic back.”
Except not completely, a little voice says inside. Tell him your magic only works when you have help.
But Archer shakes his head. “No. They won’t.” He steps farther into the kitchen, shoes crunching over the bits of broken glass, and reaches a steadying hand for my mother. “The Hunters perfected their drug. The effects are permanent.”
4
ON THE WALL ABOVE the sink, the clock tick-tick-ticks, marking each second of this new, terrible reality.
The Hunters perfected their drug.