Page 13 of This Coven Won't Break
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’tlet 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 energyfrom 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 oflaughter whisper in my ears as I search the cupboards for a set of brushes and watercolors.
You didnotfall 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.
The only person at my table is the fading memory of the friend who tried to kill me.
I swish my brush in a cup of water to wash away the paint. When I glance up, I can almost see Benton sitting across from me, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands buried inclay.What do you think, Walsh? Does this cup need a lily or a rose?
Benton leans back and tilts his head to one side, glancing from the mound of unformed clay to the half-finished cup beside it. I don’t remember which flower I chose. I don’t remember whether he took my suggestion or went in another direction entirely.
My hands tremble, and the brush shakes, swiping a line of blue down Morgan’s emerging face. I swear under my breath. Before, when my magic was eager to answer my call, it would be risky to reach for the water’s energy to undo my mistake. I might have done it on a day like today, when I was alone at my table and no one could see me. But now? When reaching for my magic is likely to send unbearable pain racing down my spine? I don’t dare even try. Especially not with a Phantom Benton smiling at me from across the table. The clay is gone now, replaced by oil pastels that smudge the rainbow into his skin.
Fresh laughter, loud and raw andreal, cuts through my thoughts and makes Benton disappear. Nolan stands beside a table of girls, bent forward so his elbows brace against the back of an empty chair. He flips his hair out of his eyes, and the movement raises his gaze enough that it finds mine. He grins and bends lower, whispering something that sends the girls into another fit of laughter.
Let them laugh. Let them stare. I crumple my ruined painting and shove my chair away from the table. The laughter dies as I throw the paper in the trash and rinse my brushes. Someone left an empty roll of paper towels beside the wide sink, so I’m forced to rummage through shelves to get a new one.
In the third cupboard, I find a row of abandoned pottery. A cup sits at the front, the sides glazed in a beautiful marble of whites and shimmering gray. On its front sits a pink lily, eachpetal formed and painted with care. I reach for the piece, running my fingers along the sharp lines of the delicate flower.
