These Witches Don't Burn

by Isabel Sterling

  “Take your time. I can wait.”

  Lauren’s flowing cursive greets me inside the card. My eyes fill with tears before I even read past my name. I blink them back, shove the feelings down as hard as I can, and read:

  Hannah,

  I’m so very sorry to hear about your loss. I know this isn’t much, but I hope this necklace brings you some small comfort. This black tourmaline stone is from my personal collection, and it has always provided strength when I needed it most. I hope it can do the same for you. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, do not hesitate to ask.

  Blessed be,

  Lauren

  My heart lurches in my chest until it’s hard to breathe. Dad always kept a piece of black tourmaline on his nightstand for protection. It was lost with the rest of our belongings. I grip the necklace tight in one hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  I glance at the detective. I’d almost forgotten he was here. “Yeah.” I brush the tears away. Though my magic is still missing, I find a small bit of strength from Lauren’s gift. “There’s something you should know. About the Order.”

  Detective Archer nods for me to continue.

  “The Hunters . . . Their plans are evolving.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They’re developing a drug. Something to strip the Clans of their powers.” I shiver and hold the stone to my heart. “Permanently.”

  The detective curses. “Did he say how close they were? How soon?”

  “I don’t know. Benton said our deaths were supposed to be a message. That the Hunters aren’t going to hide anymore.” I shut my eyes and reach for the air around me, but there’s nothing. “Whatever this drug is, it’s still holding strong.”

  Detective Archer scribbles something in his notebook. “I’ll get a sample of blood from when you first came in. We’ll test it and see what we’re up against.”

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is bad, isn’t it?”

  The detective sighs. “Yeah, Hannah. It’s bad.” He stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. “But this isn’t the first time the Hunters have tried to wipe us out. We won’t go down without a fight.”

  30

  I DON’T WANT TO be here.

  The little ranch-style house looms before me. Its white siding and yellow trim is so cheery it makes me want to puke. It’s only temporary. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, but it doesn’t make this any easier.

  It’s not home.

  “Come on, Hannah. I promise it’s not as bad as it looks.” Mom leads me toward the front door and swings it wide. She disappears inside, leaving the door open behind her.

  Mom and I had been staying in a hotel since I got out of the hospital, but the Council finally did something right and found us a rental. I take a deep breath, the air providing strength. It’s been five days since I almost burned to death. Five days, and my powers are only just starting to come back. Bit by bit.

  “Hannah, come on.” Mom pokes her head out the door. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “I’m coming.” I trudge down the crooked sidewalk and up the porch steps. Mom’s been doing her best to act cheery for me, but I can see under the mask. I wish I knew how to make it better for her. For both of us. “What’s the big surprise?”

  Mom points down the hall. “In your new room. Second door on the left.”

  Your new room. I shove down the urge to remind her that I don’t want a new room. That I want my old room and my old clothes and my old life. She’s trying. I have to try, too.

  The hideous beige carpet compresses under my steps. I reach for the door and flinch as the hinges creak open.

  “Surprise!” Gemma flies into view, hopping on one foot while balancing her cast in the air. “Good to see you’re up and moving. About time, slacker.”

  Gemma’s cheer grates at my soul, but I force a smile and allow her to crush me in a hug so hard it cracks my back. “What are you doing here?” I try to inject some warmth into my words, but I’m not sure I succeed.

  “Oh, you know, getting things set up a bit.” Gemma whistles and Morgan steps out of the closet carrying Gemma’s crutches. “Thought we’d make this place feel a little more like home.”

  “What are you—”

  And then I see what they’ve done.

  My closet is full, packed with all the clothes I used to love. There’s the T-shirt with the Rubik’s Cube and my UMass hoodie. All my favorite jeans and yoga pants. New versions of nearly everything I lost. “How did you do this?”

  “It was mostly Gem. She overheard your mom talking to the detective about needing new clothes. Gemma suggested she let us handle the shopping.” Morgan passes Gem the crutches. “We didn’t mean to ambush you.”

  “The ambush was the point.” Gemma rolls her eyes and hops back over to the closet. “Look, I even got all those shirts with the ridiculous puns on them. I made Morgan pretend they were for her.”

  Morgan blushes. “I didn’t mind. I find them hilarious.”

  “Which is why you’re the girlfriend and I’m the best friend.” Gemma freezes and shoots me a look. Her overly excited facade cracks, and I see the nerves she’s trying to hide. The uncertainty. She knew, in the way best friends do, how to handle my breakup, but we’re in uncharted territory now. “I mean . . . Hey! Look over there.” Gemma points to the back corner of the room.

  I play along and turn to where she’s pointing, but there’s nothing. When I look back, the door is closing behind her. “You’ll thank me later!” she calls, her voice muffled.

  Even though I should probably be offended at her lack of tact, the normalcy of her meddling soothes me. At least something hasn’t changed.

  “I never told her we were official or anything,” Morgan says.

  “I know.” A soft smile pulls at my lips, and I grip tight to the necklace Lauren gave me. “That’s Gem for you.”

  Morgan nods. Silence settles between us, neither sure how to close the divide. Then Morgan reaches into my new closet and pulls out a white plastic bag. “I got you something else. The clothes and everything came from the Council, but this is from me.”

  I let her pass me the bag. My hands tremble as I peer inside and find a sketchbook and a set of graphite pencils.

  “It’s not much, but I thought you might want a creative outlet. When you’re ready.” Morgan fidgets, like she’s unsure what to do with her hands. “I wish there was more I could do.”

  “Thank you. This is . . . It’s great.” Her concern punctures through the hard facade I’ve been building brick by brick. I set the bag on the bare bed. The tears spill over, my chest contracting around my broken heart until it’s hard to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, resting a hand on my back. “About everything.”

  Morgan’s there when I turn, and I crumple into her embrace.

  We stay like that for a long time.

  Until, finally, something inside starts to stitch itself back together.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dad’s funeral ended an hour ago, but I can’t move.

  The service—despite my request for something small—was packed. Thanks to Dad’s boss, the district attorney, his death has been all over the news. I haven’t been able to look at the internet since the fire. It’s littered with Benton’s face. Occasionally, they show Dad’s formal ADA headshot. I hate that picture, though. It’s nothing like the goofy man I know.

  That I knew.

  Instead of the small service I wanted, the graveyard was full of uniforms. The entire police force came. Every single witch from our coven was there, some flying in from as far away as Arizona. Gemma and her parents came, too, of course. Dad’s friends from law school. Mom’s friends from work. Lauren and Detective Archer. A lot of people
cared about my dad.

  But I still wish I could have been alone with him. One last time.

  Which is why I’m here. Sitting on his freshly covered grave. It’s raining—of course it’s raining—but it’s only the combined strength of the rain and the earth beneath me that keeps me from falling apart completely.

  Dad . . . I reach my hands into the earth and look for any sign of my father’s presence. But there’s nothing there. No spark of life. No hint of magic. I don’t understand this reality. I don’t understand how life can just soldier on without him. None of this makes sense.

  I reach into the fresh earth, searching for life, and pull. Slowly, ever so slowly, a flower curls up from the dirt and unfurls its petals. I’m breathing hard from the effort. It shouldn’t be this difficult, but the lingering effects of Benton’s drugs make every bit of magic ache. At least the flower is there. Alive. Proof that I’m still an Elemental.

  But the feeling of victory doesn’t last.

  Every second that’s filled with anything other than grief leaves me unbearably guilty. Every smile an affront to Dad’s memory. Laughter an abomination. I know he wouldn’t want this for me, but I don’t know how else to be. Can’t imagine a time when this won’t hurt so much.

  And then there’s Benton.

  He’s proof that the Hunters are back. That they’re more determined than ever to wipe us out. I still don’t understand how the universe chose to spare me yet take my dad, but I’m going to find out. I’ll wring the answers out of Benton, by force if I have to. This time, I’ll have magic on my side.

  Lightning streaks across the sky, bright and angry. I should get out of here, meet Mom back at our temporary home before she worries. I stand, brushing the dirt off my jeans.

  I love you, Dad. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The Hunters won’t hurt anyone else. I promise.

  Detective Archer was right. There’s a war brewing.

  And I intend to win.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing is a solitary pursuit, but publishing is a team sport. Thanks first to my agent and champion, Kathleen Rushall, who gave this book a second chance at life and connected me with Julie Rosenberg, editor extraordinaire. Without these two fabulous humans, this book wouldn’t be in your hands. A big thank-you to the teams at Penguin and Razorbill (Ben, Corina, Alex, Kim, Krista, and many others!) for bringing Hannah and her friends to life. And a special thank-you to Libby VanderPloeg, whose wonderful illustrations so beautifully capture our quartet of leading ladies.

  The journey to publication has brought many wonderful writer friends into my life. A big thank-you to Shannon, Kerrie, Kara, Kurt, Patty, Maurice, and Akeen at my local writing group, who suffered through many of my early writing attempts. Love to the DV squad for their support and friendship over the years—and a special shout-out to Karen and Jenn for our Twitter book club turned publishing coven. To my fellow mentors in the Author Mentor Match program, your advice and support is invaluable. I can’t imagine navigating this industry without you.

  To Rory, Gabe, and Ava, thank you for your advice and feedback during the editorial process. To my dear friend and wonderful critique partner, David: you’ve been there from the very beginning. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  I’m lucky to have a family full of supportive and down-to-earth people: Mom, Chris, Cameron, Taylor, and Tristan. Kim, Rod, and Pat. My awesome grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. My friend and colleague Jaimee, who let me talk through countless story problems over the years. And a special thank-you to everyone who read my early, cringe-worthy writing attempts. I’m sorry for putting you through that.

  Finally, to my wife, Megan: this story would not exist without you. I cannot thank you enough for all the love and support. You believed in this dream from the very beginning, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you for your patience during deadlines, plot problems, and first draft woes, and thank you for finding humor in the little things—I dedicate all my funniest typos to you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Isabel Sterling is a queer writer of young adult novels. Before finding her way to the world of books, Isabel channeled her love of storytelling into a music composition degree, where she dreamed of scoring Disney films. These days, Isabel works in student housing and writes stories about magic and murder. She lives in central NY with her wife and their brood of furry children: cats Oliver and December and a mischievous puppy named Lily.

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