Page 94 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

“From this point on, I take on the responsibility of this land and accept the gift of its power. I will not forsake you and ask you not to forsake me. We commit to each other in this moment. Fully.”

Below me, the ground began to heat.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. “Gracias, Madre Tierra. I give myself to you.”

Then I was beneath the earth. Warm soil cradled me, and though it was tempting to let myself be carried away in a comforting dream as I had many times before, I had a job to do.

Show me. My intention infused the roots of every living thing.Plump and short, thin and sprawling, they sang to me in a rejoicing choir of vibrant life.

I drank in their magic and reached for the delicate, dry saguaro roots spiderwebbing beneath the surface.Red. Sorrow hit me like a freight train, the intensity matching the day I lost him.

If I was going to bring this land back, bring myself back to the land, I needed him.

As Mom had told Margaux, I had to anchor myself to Red and he to me. He would act as the touchstone, the barometer by which I’d measure the state of the soil and, in turn, my magic.

Red’s roots stirred, lengthened. Brittle, feathery ends slid over my face and into my hair, gliding over my back and shoulders and down my arms and legs, encasing me in a lacy, fragile gown of living magic.

White-hot heat bloomed wherever Red’s roots touched me, similar to what I felt when the soil made contact with my bare skin. They filled my mouth and extended into my lungs, spreading inside and outside my body.

The heat intensified, and silver light spilled like goddess fire from every pore. When the lacy roots were strengthened with power and moisture and life, they peeled away from my body and speared deep into the earth.

I floated up to the surface, a cool spring breeze chilling my exposed, sensitive skin as I broke through the soil.

Mysoil.

I returned to myself in increments, climbing to my knees and tilting my face toward the sun like a flower. I was covered in a thin layer of rich, brown dirt. The silty grains crawled on my skin, moving as if alive. They weren’t burning, hadn’t vaporized, hadn’t absorbed into me.

They’re waiting for permission.

Music came from somewhere.

Someone had turned on the porch radio—probably Ida. Theoutlandishly appropriate “Magic” by Pilot was playing. Everything was perfect. My world had been set to rights.

I’d fully connected with the soil beneath the Siete Saguaros.

“Betty.” Ida sounded tentative, worried, not at all like her usual assertive self.

I opened my eyes.

Ida, Fennel and Cecil, Margaux, Maya, Gladys, and Trini Orozco were gathered in a half circle around me. Their faces displayed a range of emotions—grief, fear, relief, exhaustion, and lastly, hope.

I drew to my feet and looked questioningly at my partners. “Bronwyn?”

Fennel shook his head. Cecil made a sad sound.

“She’s fading,” Ida said.

Without another word, I went to her.

She lay in the guest room bed. Someone had changed her into a pink nightgown and braided her hair—presumably Maya. There was a wireless speaker on the bedside beside the lamp. It was playing “Love on the Brain” by Rihanna.

I stood beside her and hovered my hands over her slack face. “Despierta.”

There was no need to imbue the call to awaken with magic. The word itself was magic.

She was magic.

I was magic.

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