“The Salem Woods.” I open the back door and pull out a wicker basket. “There are some great trails here, and I thought we could have a little lunch.”
Morgan lights up, keeping pace with me as I head toward the entrance of the trail. “Please tell me you have dessert in there.”
I nudge her with my shoulder as we slip past the edge of the woods. “Maybe,” I tease, though in truth, I have something even better planned for after lunch. The trees swallow us up, and we make our way down the twisting path.
Walking together, with the sun warming my skin and the rich power of the earth gently nurturing my magic, the bit of awkwardness I felt on the way to Morgan’s melts away. I shift the picnic basket to my left hand and let my right hand—the one closet to Morgan—swing free. Our fingers brush together as we walk. Once. Twice. Finally, she glances at me, a tinge of color in her cheeks, and threads our fingers together.
My heart beats just a little bit faster.
“So, are we heading anywhere in particular?” Morgan glances through the trees and traces small circles on my wrist with her thumb. “This place kind of reminds me of home, except we had more pine trees. I bet it looks amazing here when the leaves turn.”
“It really does. We’ll have to come back in the fall. It’s almost like walking into a sunset with all the red and gold in the leaves.” I’ve painted out here at least half a dozen times for that very reason. I adjust my grip on the basket, feeling the strain in my shoulder but determined to hide it. “There’s a little clearing up ahead. I figure we can eat there.”
We continue down the path until we come to a gnarled old tree that bears the scars of this spring’s thunderstorms. I step off the worn trail and help Morgan pick her way through bushes and closely grown trees. Here, there’s not enough room to walk side by side, so I have to lead the way, following the thread of water energy I feel up ahead. When we’re close, I stop.
“Is this it?” Morgan glances around, and I can see the slight disappointment in the slump of her posture. There’s nothing special about this place. Yet.
“Not quite, but I want you to stay here.” I set our picnic supplies on a fallen tree and reach for her hands, gently resting them over her eyes. “No peeking until I come back.”
Morgan shifts uncomfortably. “Please don’t sneak up on me when you come back.”
“I won’t. I’ll be right back.” I grab the basket and slip through a knot of trees that opens up to a little clearing. The energy here is unlike anywhere else I’ve found in these woods. A small stream winds through the space, and there’s something about the natural mix of earth, air, and water that settles deep in my bones. I set down the basket and perch at the edge of the stream, dipping my fingers into the cool water. With one hand in the water, one against the soft earth, and the wind in my hair, a calmness settles over me. All I need now is fire.
With Morgan waiting on the other side of the trees, I crack open the basket and lay out the blanket I stored on top. I pick a spot that’s near enough to the stream to hear the gentle trickle of running water against the rocks but far enough away to be completely dry, and unpack our lunch. With a quick glance to make sure Morgan is still out of sight, I coax the earth into holding up the thin taper candle I brought. It looks like I simply pressed the base into the ground, but this way there’s no risk of the candle tipping over. I strike a match and light the flame, and as the fourth and final element sparks to life, I step back to survey my work.
It’s perfect.
I planned out every detail of this date with Gemma, and this was our compromise. Since I can’t tell Morgan what I am, I can at least show her the place where I feel my magic all the way to my marrow. For a second, I worry that this was a bad idea. The Hunter knows who I am. He could have followed me out here, a place so secluded no one could hear me scream, but I shove the thought down. I promised myself a Hunter-free day. Besides, my air magic would have alerted me to another human lurking in the woods behind us. I would have sensed their breath.
When I return to Morgan, she’s waiting patiently with her hands still covering her face. “I’m back,” I whisper so I don’t startle her. She smiles, and her excitement warms me like the sun. “Keep your eyes closed. I’m going to lead you to the spot.”
Morgan reaches out one hand, using the other to shield her view. “Don’t let me fall.”
“Never,” I promise, and lead her through the trees and into the clearing. When we’re a few feet from the blanket, I stop. “Okay, this is it.”
She opens her eyes, surveying the little picnic with the single candle flame swaying in the wind. “Hannah . . .” Something catches in her throat.
I can’t read her reaction, and she doesn’t say anything else. Panic hammers at my ribs. She hates it. Oh god, she hates it. Maybe this was a bad idea. I should—
Morgan reaches for my hand and draws me close, her touch stalling my worried thoughts. “This is amazing.” She leans in and brushes the softest of kisses against my lips. “How did you find this place?”
And just like that, all my worries melt away. I take a spot on the blanket and pass Morgan one of the water bottles. “My grandmother lives on the other side of the woods, so I’ve spent a lot of time on these trails. I found this spot last year.”
“Do you come here a lot?” Morgan reaches for the little triangle sandwiches I packed. She takes a bite and gives me an amused look. “Is this peanut butter and Fluff?”
A small flutter of embarrassment warms my face. “What can I say? I’m a baker, not a chef.” I point to the other plate. “Those ones are Nutella though, if you prefer. And I packed fruit, too.” I snag one of each kind of sandwich while Morgan pops a grape into her mouth. “I don’t really do much out here during the winter, but otherwise I come as much as I can. It’s my place to be alone.”
At that, Morgan looks up from her sandwich. “Am I the first person you’ve brought here?”
I nod and grab one of the grapes. The skin is perfectly firm, and the inside explodes with flavor. “Most locals don’t even walk the trails, let alone wander through the trees without them, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen tourists out here. I wanted you to have a place that no one else knows about. I hoped it might make the town feel more like home.” I wipe my fingers on my jeans, and when I glance back at Morgan, she’s staring at me. “What?”
She smiles and shakes her head at me. “Do you realize how incredibly sweet that is?”
Before I can respond, Morgan leans in close, the tip of her nose brushing against mine. There’s a smile on her lips, a bit of mischief in her eyes, and that’s the last thing I see before she kisses me.
The first kiss is tentative, like we’re trying to remember how to speak a forgotten language. Her lips are soft and warm on mine, the tenderness sending a small chill down my spine. But then her fingers tangle in the hair at the base of my neck, and there’s this shift. This hunger. It builds low in my belly and rises into my chest as her kisses grow deeper and her tongue slips past my lips.
I reach out, needing something besides her lips and her hands to anchor me. My fingers brush against the soft cotton of her shirt, and she pulls me up to my knees. There’s a flash of heat as my arms circle her waist, my fingers finding a strip of exposed skin. Morgan shivers beneath my touch, and I can’t get enough of her. Her kisses and her warmth and the way she makes my entire body sing. The way she makes me feel so utterly seen in a way I never have before.
Wind whips around us, tugging at our clothes, our hair. It batters against us, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything—not Veronica, not the Council, not even the Hunter. All I care about is the girl in my arms and the way she’s pulling me closer and closer, like she’s feeling the same desperate need that’s thrumming hot through my veins.
Morgan trails her hands down my arms and reaches for the hem of my shirt, pressing her palms flat against the skin of
my back. Heat blossoms behind me, so hot it almost feels like—
I pull away, breaking the kiss, and press down, down, down on all the feelings raging inside. Now that there’s space between us, I can parse out the magic flowing freely in my veins. I shove the magic deep inside, locking it away. The wind calms, and the heat behind me dies. I risk a glance. The candle is already melted to a tiny nub.
“Is everything okay?” Morgan brushes a thumb along her bottom lip, her face flushed.
“It’s so much more than okay.” I smile even as I can barely catch my breath. I reach for her hand and weave our fingers together. My heart is pounding in my chest so loud I’m sure she must hear it. “That was . . .” I search for the right word, but I’m distracted, trying to get a firm hold on my magic. I can’t believe I let it get so out of control.
“Yeah.” Morgan sighs, laughing a little to herself. The corners of her lips crinkle as she bites back a smile. “That was.” She clears her throat and sits back down on the blanket. “Right, so. Dessert?”
I settle on the blanket beside her and place a chaste kiss on her cheek, a silent thank-you for changing the subject. “That’s part two of the date.”
“Part two? How many parts are there?”
A mischievous grin tugs at my lips. “I guess we’ll have to see.”
21
MORGAN AND I FINISH our lunch and lie on the blanket, swapping secrets and stories as we watch the clouds float by. Like me, Morgan’s an only child, and we bond over the lack of siblings to blame when we broke something in the house. She tells me about the time she made the disastrous mistake of putting a metal bowl in the microwave when she was ten, and I reenact my dad’s expression the first time I made my own cookies from scratch and mixed up the teaspoon and tablespoon measurements. Turns out, too much salt can absolutely kill a recipe.
Finally, we hike back to my borrowed car and head toward town.
“Now will you tell me your brilliant plan?” Morgan asks, resting her hand against mine on the gearshift.
I slow as the light turns yellow and stop as it goes red. “If you’re up for it, I thought we could go back to my house and take over the kitchen. I have a new blondie recipe I want to try.”
“Blondie?”
“It’s kind of like a brownie, but more on the vanilla spectrum.” My light turns green, and I inch forward so I can make a left once traffic passes.
“That sounds amazing.”
“I haven’t made this version yet, so no promises, but it should be good.” I head down a residential street and sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. I glance in the rearview and catch sight of the flashing lights, so I pull over.
Fire trucks fly by us, their horns blaring. My heart plummets to my toes, and I know. I just know the Witch Hunter has stuck again. I hit the gas harder than I probably should, my tires squealing against the pavement.
“What are you doing?” Morgan asks, her voice high and panicked.
I don’t answer. I’m too focused on the trucks ahead of us. I lose them around a corner, but I can still hear their sirens screaming. I follow them around the bend, the familiar route prickling at the back of my head. And then I see it.
Billowing gray smoke reaches up into the sky.
Someone’s house is going up in flames.
A minute later, I taste the ash on my tongue, and I finally break my silence. “My house is this way,” I whisper, and Morgan’s hand slips from mine as I grip the steering wheel. Please don’t let it be my house. But who else’s could it be? The Hunter already knows who I am, and he’s fought with fire before.
We’re forced to stop at another light while the trucks race through. I lean forward, trying to determine how high the smoke reaches, to see if the firefighters are too late to save anything.
“It’s green.”
Morgan’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. I barrel through the intersection, trying—and failing—to keep the panic at bay. It crawls up my throat, closing off my airway.
Dad.
He wouldn’t let the fire get this big. He must have gone for a walk. If he were home, the house would be safe. I turn down the next street. Only a couple blocks more to my place. I dig into my pocket and pull out my phone. “Call my dad.” I punch in my four-digit code and pass the phone to Morgan.
“What do you want me to say?” Morgan opens my contacts and scrolls through. “There’s nothing under Dad. What’s his—”
“Walsh. Timothy Walsh.” The sky glows orange from raging flames that flicker above the roofs and trees between us and home. I take the last turn too fast, tires screeching against the pavement.
“Hannah, watch out!” Morgan reaches for the wheel, and her touch jolts me back to reality.
I slam on the brakes, narrowly missing the car stopped in front of me. I throw the car in park and clamber out into the street, standing frozen on the side of the road. The smoke is thicker here, black as night, choking my lungs, covering us with ash.
“Is that . . . Is that your house?” Morgan asks, scrambling out of the car after me.
My voice won’t work. I nod and watch the firefighters hurry for the hydrant. The flames roar, destroying everything: every memory, every photograph, every painting. Everything besides the clothes I’m wearing.
I reach into my pockets but come up empty. “My phone.” I need to call Dad. He’ll know what to do. He can fix this. “Where’s my phone?”
“Here.” Morgan passes it back. “He didn’t answer.”
But I barely hear her over the explosion of windows, the shattering glass, the shouts from firefighters in oxygen masks. I find Dad’s number in my favorites and dial.
It rings and rings and rings.
“He’s not answering.” My throat is raw. Tears prickle at my eyes. I dial again and the phone rings on and on.
One of the men beside the fire trucks holds his radio to his ear. His face crumples. “Where the hell are the paramedics?” he shouts. “We’ve got a body inside.”
No. No, no, no, no.
“Dad.” I race forward, past the barricade, straight toward the line of firefighters. “Dad!”
Someone catches me around the waist, pulling me up short. My knees buckle, and I sag in their arms. I scream again, but the person behind me holds tight.
“Hannah, stop.” Morgan’s voice is in my ear, her breath upon my neck, but it feels cold compared to the fire raging in front of me. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“No.” I struggle against her, but she’s stronger than me. “I can stop the fire. I can put it out.” I reach for Morgan’s hands to pry them off me. “I can save him if you just let me go.”
A surge of adrenaline spikes through me. I scream and kick and fight like hell, but Morgan holds on. With a strength that doesn’t seem possible from someone so slight, she keeps me trapped in her embrace, the only thing stopping me from running into an inferno.
“I know it’s scary. I know it hurts.” Morgan’s voice cuts through the fresh sirens approaching behind us. “But you can’t go in there.”
“I have to! My dad—” I refuse to finish the sentence. He’s not in there. He can’t be. Morgan still won’t let me go, but maybe I’m close enough. Maybe I can stop the fire from here. I reach out, searching for the flame’s power.
But it’s too strong. Too far away.
My legs stop working, and I collapse against Morgan. She holds me up, keeps me off the ground, keeps me from shattering into a hundred million pieces.
Sirens pull up behind us. More flashing lights. More noise. It’s all a blur of red and orange and blue and white until I can no longer distinguish the police lights from the dancing flames.
A second set of hands grips my arms, but I can’t make out the face through the haze. A deep voice worms through all the noise and shouts, cuts through all the panic.
�
�Hannah, listen to me. It’s going to be okay.” His fingers dig deeper, and the pain snaps me to the present. Detective Archer takes form before me. “I need you to focus. Tell me what’s happening.”
I stare at him and feel five years old. “My dad . . .” Tears close my throat, cutting off my words.
“We were on our way back from a hike when we saw the fire trucks.” Morgan shifts until my face is tucked into her neck. “We think her dad might be inside.”
Detective Archer places a hand on my back, but I flinch away from his touch. He was supposed to prevent this. He was supposed to keep us safe. The detective moves back into my line of sight. “Hannah, are you sure he’s in there?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks, and I hold tight to Morgan like I might get sucked into the earth without something to tether me here.
The detective looks to Morgan. “Do not let her move from this spot.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then he’s gone, pushing through the throng of firefighters, looking for someone who knows what’s going on.
Morgan gasps. “Oh my god . . .”
“What?” I pull away, but Morgan tightens her grip.
“You don’t want to see this,” she says even as she loosens her hold enough so I can turn. She keeps one hand firmly around my wrist, stopping me from running into the burning house.
But none of that matters when I finally see.
A fireman rushes down the lawn with my father draped across his back. Paramedics hurry forward with a stretcher, others racing ahead with their medical bags. It feels like centuries before they have him strapped in. One of the paramedics, a short Black woman with a determined expression, climbs on top of the stretcher and starts chest compressions.
“No.” The world tilts. I hit the ground. Everything goes dark.
It’s a struggle to open my eyes. I try to sit up, but I can’t move. It takes another few moments to realize I’m on a stretcher with a protective strap across my chest. There’s an oxygen mask on my face and people crowded all around.
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