Page 36 of These Witches Don't Burn
“But what about the scrying? Veronica and I—”
“You and Veronica arechildrenmessing with magic you don’t fully understand.” Mom reaches for her wine again and drains half the glass. “Scrying is more complicated than it seems. You saw what you wanted to.”
“But—”
“Enough.” Dad glances at the clock and sighs. “It’s late, Han. You should get to bed.”
“That’s it? Just ‘go to bed’?” Wasn’t there supposed to be more yelling? More lecturing?
“Well, you’re grounded until you’re thirty, and your mother and I are going to discuss whether you’ll be required to wear a binding charm, but that’s enough for tonight.” Dad points to the stairs, dismissing me.
I leave the kitchen, my palms sweaty with the thought of wearing a binding charm after four years without it, but Mom’s voice calls after me. “And if you pull this crap again, you’re quitting your job, selling your car, and livinghereuntil you’re thirty.”
•••
There are a million texts waiting for me when I make it to my room. I ignore all of them except two. First, I text Benton to ask if he’s okay. His answer is swift, assuring me he’s alive and well, with promises to talk soon. Then I toss Gemma a quickI’m alive, grounded but alivetext before I head for the shower. It’s the longest yet least effective shower of my life.
My hair still smells like smoke the next morning, which is perhaps fitting given the way my phone is blowing up. Texts from Veronica I ignore. Notifications from trolls shouting about my new life of crime. Death threats from faceless users—probably Nolan and his friends—which is all sorts of fun. A few assholes even post blurry photos of Detective Archer shoving me into his sedan.
I remove the tags, but there’s nothing I can do to take the pictures down. I hate that this crap will be archived somewhere when I’m trying to get into colleges this winter. I’m honestly relieved when my parents remember to take my internet access away.
Unfortunately, that sense of relief is short-lived. It dies when my parents hand me the binding ring I wore before my initiation at thirteen, with an added anti-tampering spell that’ll make removal painful and impossible to hide. My magic protests, pressing against my skin so hard my hands shake as I slip the ring over my index finger. And then there’s nothing. Just this hollow feeling in my chest where the constant thrum of magic used to be.
The only thing that manages to distract from the effects of the binding charm is the series of missed messages from Morgan.
I know they’re from her for two reasons. One, the area code of the unsaved number is not from Massachusetts. And two, the messages are full of worry.Please hurry. The roof looks ready to collapse.Then all-caps panic asking if I’m okay and promising to send in help.
After that, nothing. Crickets. I assume she saw Detective Archer drag me to his car in handcuffs. My face burns at the thought. I’m sure that killed whatever interest she might have had in me.
If that interest was even real.
I wish I hadn’t been wearing the rose quartz when Morgan kissed me. That makes everything so damn confusing. As if kissing a near-stranger wasn’t already unusual for me.
By Sunday night I can’t take it anymore. I have to know whether I’ve ruined my chance to get to know her. I swallow down my nerves and text her back.
HW:Hey, sorry. I’m alive and well. It’s been a hectic weekend.
Every second after I hit send feels like an eternity. It shouldn’t matter if she responds. I only met her once. She doesn’t owe me anything, especially given how everything went down.
Yet I can’t deny the way my heart dances when the three bouncing dots finally appear.
MH:Hey! Happy to hear the cops didn’t lock you up for good. How’s freedom taste???
And just like that, the game of strategically timed texts and carefully placed emojis begins. We carefully avoid discussing our exes, but besides Veronica and my secret life as an Elemental Witch, I tell Morgan everything there is to know about me.
She teases me about my love of musicals—born out of Gemma’s devotion to them and her dreams of dancing on Broadway—and I jokingly threaten to shun Morgan because of her soft spot for country music. We discover we’re both too chicken to watch horror movies, and I convince Morgan—after much prodding and flattery—to send me a link to her dance videos. The wayshe moves is mesmerizing, and though I’ll never tell my best friend this, I think she might even be better than Gemma.
Between texting Morgan and the discomfort of the binding ring, I end up falling asleep way too late. When my alarm rings in the morning, I almost wish my parents had made me quit my job. It takes every ounce of my resolve to roll into work on time.
I’m settled into my usual restocking rhythm—place and straighten, place and straighten—when the bell jingles above the door. Lauren is in the private reading room with a tarot client and Cal has class today at the university, so I abandon my shelves to greet our new customer.
“Welcome to the Cauldron, how can I— Evan? What are you doing here?” His face crumples when he sees me. “Is everything okay?”
Evan shakes his head. He looks like shit. His messy hair falls into his bloodshot eyes, and he hides shaking hands by crossing them against his chest. “Can I talk to you?”
“Of course.” My mind races with possibilities as I lead Evan to a secluded corner of the shop. Was the fire at Nolan’s another ritual to hurt his dad? I shake the thought away. Evan was outside when the fire started. He couldn’t have done it. “What’s wrong?”
Evan tips his head back against the wall. His chest heaves, and he looks ready to collapse. “It worked,” he says, his haunted gaze turning on me. “The spells, they worked.”
