Page 1 of Wicked Bonds
One
Rose
My mother always said magic was a curse wrapped in fancy paper. She never mentioned it could also get you fired.
I’m standing outside Tony’s Bar, unemployed and homeless as of exactly four minutes ago, clutching a fancy envelope between fingers that still smell like cheap tequila. The seal on the back, a crescent moon stamped in silver wax, glitters in the light of the neon sign above me.
Fucking witches.
I jam the letter deeper into my jacket pocket. My mother never cared that I didn’t have any real power.Magic is like a sharp knife. Wave it around and someone’s bound to get hurt. Usually you.
She taught me what she could, just enough to stay small. Stay hidden. My magic was nothing like hers, though. “There are people who would use us,” she’d say, her eyes always watchingthe windows even when we were on the sixth floor. “People who think power is something to be hoarded.”
When I was seven, she performed a ritual on me. I remember the sting of the athame pricking my finger, the awful taste of the tea she made me drink after. I knew enough to know that it was a protection spell.
She died a couple of months ago, before she could tell me what, exactly, I was supposed to be protecting myself from.
Since then, I’ve been surviving. Pouring drinks for handsy drunks, living in what was basically a closet with a mattress in exchange for wiping tables. I can’t be picky. Not many respectable places let you work under the table, which I have to do since my mother made sure no records of me existed anywhere. No bank accounts, no social security number, no identification. I’m barely a lukewarm hedge witch, so I can’t earn money that way. I have enough magic to keep a sad little succulent alive, enough to make a candle flicker if I really concentrate. Nothing worth noticing.
I kick at the gravel in the parking lot, watching it scatter.
I’d just snapped the fingers of some creep who tried grabbing me when I walked by.
Tony didn’t appreciate that.
“You can’t just break a customer’s fingers, Rose!” he shouted, face redder than a maraschino cherry. I hadn’t meant to. The guy grabbed me, not for the first time that night, andwhoops, his fingers had bent the wrong way.
Before I even touched him. His scream cut off the jukebox mid-song, everyone staring. My fingers still tingled, like I’d touched an electric fence.
I’d looked around to see if there was another witch in the bar, because like I said, I don’t have any real power. But nope, somehow after a lifetime of weak-ass magic I’d managed something like that. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little excited about it. Excitement that was short-lived, because in the next minute Tony kicked me out.
So now I’ve got no job, no place to stay, and a very fancy envelope with my name on it.
I debate tearing it up right here, but curiosity’s a bitch and I’m a glutton for punishment, so I rip it open with my thumbnail. Inside is an invitation written by hand in black-ink calligraphy.
Dear Miss Smith,
You are cordially invited to attend Serpentine Academy
for the Magically Gifted.
Your unique talents have been recognized by the Crescent Moon Coven.
Attendance is nonnegotiable.
Report to the address below by midnight.
Bring nothing.
Sincerely,
Headmistress Wickersly
Nonnegotiable. Eat it.
I crush the so-called invitation into a ball, then immediately regret it and smooth the paper back out. Not because I care about their fancy stationery, but because I need the address.
Serpentine Academy.
