These Witches Don't Burn

by Isabel Sterling

  “Oh,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “I’m sorry he dumped you.”

  “It’s fine.” Cal smiles wide, his pale cheeks flushing. “My new boyfriend is a much better match. He’s home in Brooklyn for the summer though.”

  I offer my condolences on the long distance and walk Cal through the most common functions on the register. As we work, we swap stories about our exes. Cal groans sympathetically when I tell him about the public shouting match that ended my relationship, and I pester him for details about how he met his current boyfriend.

  “This is the least intuitive register system I’ve ever seen. How old is this thing?” Cal asks, interrupting his own story. We’re in the middle of a practice return, and the register keeps making angry beeps at him.

  “You’ll get the hang of it. Sometimes it helps if you smack it.”

  “That doesn’t actually—”

  I hit the register with the heel of my hand, and Cal cringes at the shuddering clang the old machine makes. “Try now.”

  Cal eyes me suspiciously and runs through the steps again, glancing at the notebook where he wrote the instructions. This time, the return goes through fine.

  “Told you.” I grin, and Cal smiles back. It’s nice having some fresh blood around here. Lauren is cool and all, but she’s still the boss.

  The bell above the door rings, announcing a new customer. Cal plasters on a smile so wide it rivals Lauren’s best customer service grin and offers a hearty, “Welcome to the Fly by Night Cauldron!”

  His enthusiasm is infectious. I turn to greet the newcomer, too, but I freeze when I see who it is.

  Evan.

  I hardly recognize him at first. Gone is the goth kid who came into the shop before the bonfire. This new Evan’s face is free from makeup. He’s wearing dress pants, a white collared shirt, and a name tag with the Witch Museum logo.

  What is he doing here?

  “You good?” I ask. When Cal nods, I follow Evan down the candle aisle. I cross my arms, all my customer service training forgotten. “Can I help you?” I snap, my tone more hostile than my words.

  Evan raises a brow. “Uh, hello to you, too, Hannah. And I’m fine. I know what I need.” He disappears down another row, and the clinking of glass tells me he’s looking through our vials of magical herbs.

  A war rages inside, leaving me frozen in place. Evan’s a Reg. His actions shouldn’t concern me. Lady Ariana’s words echo in my head: It’s not our place to save them from themselves. If Evan wants to sacrifice another animal and risk the consequences of that kind of magic, that’s on him.

  And yet . . .

  By the time I glance back at the register, Cal is cautiously ringing up the first of Evan’s supplies. Crystals and candles, most of them black. Evan isn’t by the counter, probably searching for something else. I peek down the herb aisle, but it’s like he’s disappeared. He’s not in the book aisle either. I turn to help Cal at the register and smash into someone.

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” I look up. Evan. He’s carrying vials of blood root and hemlock. I’m suddenly feeling much less apologetic. “What are you doing?”

  He stiffens under my stare, and his expression becomes guarded. “That’s none of your business,” he snaps, and shoves past me to the register, where Lauren has appeared to help Cal. She shoots me a look as she rings up the rest of Evan’s purchase, but I can’t tell whether she’s upset by his collection of supplies or my lackluster customer service skills.

  With her, it could really go either way.

  Evan pays and heads for the door. As he draws near, I step in his way. “What’ll it be this time?” I ask, hands clenching into fists. “Another raccoon? Or are you going after something bigger?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Evan says, holding my gaze like he’s daring me to accuse him again. “Get the hell out of my way.”

  “Or what?”

  Anger flashes through Evan’s eyes. “Or you’ll be next.” He stalks around me, his arm jostling my shoulder, and he’s out the door a second later, the chime a discordant crashing in my ears.

  “What was that about?” Cal asks, coming around the counter when Lauren heads back to her office. “You okay?”

  I nod, too busy fighting the angry thrum of magic in my veins to speak. Evan does not get to threaten me and walk away feeling smug. He’s a Reg. Whatever power he feels, whatever rush he got from his ritual—and given his reaction, I’m almost certain it was his—that’s nothing compared to what I can do. Less than nothing.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Tell Lauren I’m taking my break,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  Locals and tourists mix and mingle along the narrow sidewalks as I slip out of the shop. I spot the crisp white of Evan’s shirt as he turns the corner and hurry after him, weaving through pedestrians with a string of apologies in my wake.

  A pack of middle schoolers clog the sidewalk, and I step into the street to hurry around them. A car horn blares behind me, and I jolt, pushing back onto the sidewalk and knocking into the gaggle of sixth graders.

  “Hey!”

  “Watch it, weirdo!”

  “Out of the way, loser!”

  When did preteens get so rude? I was terrified of seniors when I was their age. I consider tripping them with a crack in the sidewalk, but I shake the thought away. Elementals don’t interfere with the lives of Regs; only Blood Witches do that. Besides, Lady Ariana would skin me alive if she found traces of magic someplace with such a heavy Reg presence. I’m not letting my training get pushed back another second, especially not because of some snotty middle schoolers.

  Up ahead, Evan crosses the intersection and heads for the Witch Museum—the one with those creepy wax figures that explain the witch trials—and I hurry after him. On second thought, maybe preteens have always been little shits. Abigail Williams was only eleven when she turned an entire town on its head.

  Thankfully, the light is red as I race through the intersection at top speed. I ignore the people who give me strange looks and reach for Evan before he passes the small crowd in line for tickets. “Evan, wait.”

  Evan jumps, startled, and pulls away from my touch. The Cauldron bag swings from his hand as he spins to face me. “What do you want?”

  “You—” I suck in a lungful of air, my chest heaving. I am so not a runner. I press my hands into my thighs and double over, which totally ruins the fierce vibe I was going for. “You do not get to threaten me and walk away like it’s nothing,” I say when I finally catch my breath.

  “Whatever.” Evan rolls his eyes, dismissing me.

  “I’m serious,” I hiss. “You don’t get to hurl curses as threats.” My magic flares with my temper, kicking up a breeze in the cramped square. I press the reflex down.

  “I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He glances at the tourists around us and leads me away from the line by the elbow. His thumb digs painfully into my bicep.

  “Get your hands off me,” I snap, but I catch myself keeping my voice low, like I’m afraid to cause a scene. I tear my arm from his grip and shove a finger toward his purchase. “That bag is full of cursing supplies. Whatever you’re doing, it has to stop. And you’re sure as shit not going to curse me or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll do what?” Evan raises an eyebrow at me, and I hate that I can’t show him the magic I could unleash if he tried to hurt me.

  I force myself to take a deep breath and switch tactics. “I’ve worked at the Cauldron since I turned sixteen.” I pause as a woman drags two young children past us. Only when they’re out of range do I continue. “I know the beginnings of a hex when I see one. Hurting people is not the way to get what you want.”

  “Some people deserve to be punished.” His eyes flash, glimmering in the sunlight. His voice is thick with hurt. “Some pe
ople deserve to watch their lives fall apart. Why shouldn’t I be the one to make that happen?”

  His question catches me off guard, and I don’t have an immediate answer beyond that’s not how life works, and somehow I doubt that will suffice. I search for a Wiccan explanation, hoping all his time in the Cauldron means he gives a shit about more than the magic. “Whatever evil you conjure, the Law of Return will send it back three times worse. Are you willing to risk that?”

  “That’s all I’m trying to do, make sure he gets what he deserves.” Evan curls his hands into fists, squeezing so hard his arms shake, but he doesn’t clarify who he is. “I don’t care what happens to me.”

  “Evan—”

  “Does your boss know you’re here?”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  “Didn’t think so.” Evan steps closer, until I have to crane my neck to meet his stare. “Leave me the hell alone, Hannah, or I will stop coming to the Cauldron. And I’ll tell your boss exactly why she’s lost my business.”

  This threat actually lands. I can’t lose my job. As much as I complain about the tourists, the Cauldron is the only reason I can afford my clunker of a car and the insurance to keep it on the road. The extra cash pays for art supplies and midnight diner trips with Gem and even my half-assed excuse for college savings. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t want to. Your boss has the best supplies in town.” Evan’s eyes go hard; he leans in close. “But I’m not going to let you harass me every time I walk through the door. Stay out of my business.”

  I really want to tell him to go screw himself, but the thought of getting fired and losing my only source of income—meager though it may be—silences my tongue.

  “Understood?”

  “Fine.” I cross my arms and return his stony glare. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Whatever.” Evan acts tough, but he can’t hide the tremor in his voice. He may be desperate enough to break one of the fundamental tenets of Wicca—harm none—but he clearly knows he’s playing with fire.

  I lean against the rough exterior of the Witch Museum and watch as Evan slips inside. I consider asking Lauren why she even stocks the supplies for hexes and other negative spellwork, but I can practically hear her response in my head. Something about balance and the importance of letting people make the mistakes necessary to find their true path. Nonsense, really. Lady Ariana would never allow so much freedom.

  There is no room for mistakes in the Clans.

  A warm breeze drifts past, pulling strands of hair across my cheeks and rustling the low bushes beside me. I glance down.

  It can’t be . . . I jolt away from the building, my heart hammering against my ribs, adrenaline preparing my body to run. Lady Ariana said we were safe. She said there was no Blood Witch here.

  She was wrong.

  On the side of the Witch Museum, behind a row of bushes, shines a series of runes.

  Drawn in blood.

  In an instant, I’m transported back to a tiny apartment. Bloody runes cover the walls, and a girl with blue hair is desperately scrubbing them away, trying to erase them before the magic can take hold.

  And then I’m in Central Park, where the Blood Witch finally finds me. Where she wraps her fingers around my throat—

  Laughter cuts through the memory, bringing me back to myself. Behind me, a small child toddles down the sidewalk, squealing with delight as their two dads chase after them. The trio passes the Witch Museum, and the taller of the dads scoops up the curly-haired kid and reaches for the other man’s hand. The family walks across the street to where a row of food trucks is serving lunch.

  I smile after them and find the courage to study the runes more closely. Nothing bad will happen to me around all these people. I recognize Jera—two interlocking capital Ls, twisted on a diagonal—and Peorth, which looks like an hourglass tipped on its side with the top missing. I don’t recognize the other runes, but I know Jera deals with time and change while Peorth refers to things hidden. Usually magical things.

  What is the Blood Witch trying to do? As the question presses to the front of my mind, I know I’m right. This wasn’t a Reg.

  I may not know much about blood, but I understand paint. There’s a confidence to these runes, a sureness to their creation. If a Reg drew these, there’d be imperfections in the lines where they hesitated and consulted their guide. No. These runes look exactly like the ones in New York, complete with the impressions of two fingers in each stroke along the stone wall. A Reg couldn’t do this. They wouldn’t be this precise.

  Was I wrong about Evan? He’s clearly up to something, but maybe he wasn’t the one who killed that raccoon. Maybe the same witch who drew these runes was out in the woods with us.

  My hands shake as I reach for my phone. How did they do this without getting caught? This isn’t exactly a quiet street. Even now, people in line are giving me weird looks for climbing through the bushes to take a photo. I doubt even Lady Ariana could test the wall for magic without being seen, so how did the Blood Witch—

  It doesn’t matter. I just need proof so Lady Ariana will believe me and take care of the intruder. She’ll keep us safe.

  I snap pictures of the runes with my phone. My parents should be able to identify the rest and tell me what they mean. In case that isn’t enough to prove this wasn’t a Reg with access to Google, I grab a receipt from my other pocket, soft and worn from going through the wash once or twice. I cringe as I swipe the thin paper along the markings, careful to avoid skin contact. I know firsthand what happens when a Blood Witch takes an Elemental’s blood.

  I’d rather not find out what happens if I touch theirs.

  7

  I’M HYPERAWARE OF THE blood in my back pocket when I return to work. Cal shoots me a panicked look as the register beeps at him, and I hurry over to help ring up a pair of tourists purchasing matching amethyst necklaces.

  After my shift, driving home is an unexpected challenge. I keep picturing the bloody receipt pressing against me, and the thought twists my stomach into knots. I’ve never gotten out of my car faster than when I pull into our driveway.

  My parents aren’t back yet. Of course. The one time I actually want them to beat me home from work, they don’t. I rush upstairs, set a clean tissue on my desk, and lay the receipt on top. It almost looks innocuous, like it came from a paper cut, but the bloody runes are seared into my mind. I may have to burn these pants.

  I slip out of my jeans and throw on a clean pair. The ick factor is still there—I wiped blood off a wall—but there are more pressing concerns.

  “Hannah?” Mom calls as the front door slams shut. The greasy smell of fried chicken trails up the stairs. “I brought home dinner.”

  I pick up the edges of the tissue and gently carry the bloody receipt out of my room. “Mom? I need your help.”

  There must be an edge of panic to my voice, because Mom comes rushing out of the dining room. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “We need the grimoire.”

  Mom raises a brow at me. “Why?” Her gaze falls to the receipt in my hands. “What’s that?”

  “It’s evidence. I need you to test it.” I squeeze by Mom on the landing. “I found runes on the side of the Witch Museum, written in blood, and—”

  “And you think it’s Blood Magic?” Air whips through the house, pulling the tissue from my grip. Mom uses the wind to float the receipt onto the coffee table and kneels beside it. “What were you thinking, bringing something like this into our house?”

  “I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Ooh, something smells good,” Dad calls from the front door and wanders into the living room. He stops cold when he sees us, his boring gray tie halfway undone. “Do I want to know what’s going on?”

  “Your daughter thinks there’s a Blood Witch in town. Again.” Mom rolls up her sleeves and flicks
her fingers, creating fire out of nothing. Jealousy presses at my skin. I cannot wait to learn how to do that.

  “Hannah, you heard Lady Ariana. We’re the only coven in town.” Dad sighs and sinks into his recliner while Mom grows the fire in her hands.

  “Then explain this.” I pull out my phone and open my photos. “These were drawn on the side of the Witch Museum.”

  Dad takes the phone from me and zooms in on the picture. He studies the image for a moment before his eyebrows shoot up. “Marie? Have you seen these?” There’s an odd note to his voice. It’s higher than normal. Strained.

  “What is it? What do they mean?”

  “Let me see.” Mom leans over while Dad holds out the phone. Her eyes go wide as the fire in her hands turns blue. “Do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Dad moves onto the floor beside Mom, conjuring a wind that lifts the bloody receipt into the air.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I pace the living room while my parents weave magic I don’t understand. “Is there a Blood Witch here or not?”

  Mom shoots me a look, her eyes reflecting the now-purple fire. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” She nods to Dad, who guides the receipt into the flame. The receipt catches fire and burns a bright turquoise. In a flash, it’s gone.

  “Is that it?” The whole thing took, like, two seconds. “What does that mean?”

  My parents stand and share a look. It feels like a hundred years pass in the span of a few moments before either of them speaks. Finally, Mom sighs. “The test was negative. There was no magic in the sample.”

  “As your grandmother already said,” Dad adds, “we are the only coven in Salem. We have been for a very long time.”

  “Are you sure? What about the runes?” They looked so similar to the ones I saw before. They have to be real.