Witch Season: Does she have what it takes to outsmart the craft?

by Larissa May

His grasp on me loosened slightly and I sank down, dropping like dead weight to his feet. I surprised him and scrambled away, but he recovered, grabbing my ankle and flipping me over onto the sidewalk. I felt the weight of him on me, pinning me down, his breath over my face.

  I needed a weapon. I thought of the girl, Shelley, in the alley—sending the ball of fire flying through the air.

  And then I saw it. The flames gathered into a fearsome, glowing ball, hovering just above my fingertips. I flicked my wrist and the fireball shot upward, hitting the demon cop in the jaw.

  I think he screamed, but I didn’t bother to wait for a reaction. I clawed at the cement, raised myself to standing, and took off into the Chicago night.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I wish you were ready now,” Brandon said. “I wish you could come with me.”

  We sat on the stone wall protecting my mother’s garden from the forest beyond. A light rain fell softly against our skin, cold droplets of water mingling with the tears running down my cheeks. I couldn’t think of what I could say to make us feel better. We were supposed to be happy. I felt anything but.

  He wrapped his hand around mine. “My dad called today and said everything is ready. I’ll get special training. He wants me to lead the coven someday.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re surprised,” Brandon said, a note of hurt in his voice. “I guess I would be, too.”

  I wasn’t, though. I could clearly picture Brandon standing at the head of our feast table, tall and broad-shouldered as Gavin, blond hair gleaming like a Nordic god’s. “Don’t be silly. It’s not hard to imagine,” I said. “You’re going to do great.”

  The wind kicked up, slapping the icy rain against our bodies. We huddled together, not ready to go inside.

  “I’m not strong enough,” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed up by the approaching storm. “Not nearly enough.” He brought his mouth to my ear. “And I think he knows it.”

  The vision stole only a few seconds, but I’d stopped running, my feet teetering on the edge of the curb. A rush of fear startled me into the present. The demon had recovered, walking swiftly toward me with confident, measured strides. He didn’t doubt that he’d catch me.

  I started to run again, but each breath seemed to cut out a piece of my lungs. My brain crashed against my skull, sending tentacles of pain through my nervous system. St. Sylvester’s loomed in front of me, its Gothic entrance dark and forbidding. It wasn’t the best option, but it was the closest. I stumbled, crashing headlong onto the church steps.

  With a silent cry I crawled toward the arched doorway. I could smell the demon drawing closer, the overwhelming stench of sulfur making it even more difficult to breathe. With a final push I threw my body against the wood door. It opened, and I collapsed at the shiny black shoes of an astonished priest. He was a small man, but strong, pulling me into the church with one hard tug. I blinked up at his shock of white hair and clear, watery blue eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Can’t . . . breathe . . .” I choked on the words, coughing while the priest half carried me farther inside. He led me to a font and encouraged me to lean back against it. I remembered what my mom had told me and took the air in slowly, breathing through my imaginary straw. Calm down, I told myself. If all the stories I’d heard were correct, demons couldn’t step foot in a church. I was safe. At least for a few moments.

  “Should I call nine-one-one?” The priest withdrew a phone from his black suit pocket.

  I grabbed his arm. “No,” I whispered.

  Concern knitted the priest’s snow-white eyebrows. He watched with intense curiosity as I slowly regained my breath, and winced when the pain prompted a moan. Finally, when I could speak without lapsing into a coughing fit, I thanked him.

  “Anyone would do the same,” he said, shrugging it off. “Now, you can rest here while I call your parents.”

  I wished it were that easy. The priest was silent, patiently waiting for me to hand over my phone. When I hesitated, he said, “Look, my name is Father Brennan. I don’t mean to cause you any harm.” He smiled and gestured to his collar. “I need to do one good deed every day or they revoke this. And all I’ve done today is curse out my beloved Cubs while I watched them hand a win to the Braves on a silver platter.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Will you let me help you?”

  The urge to tell him everything was strong, but I stopped myself. Was I crazy? A priest? He’d call the police. What if my parents had done something really wrong back in Oregon? What if they sent me to a hospital or locked me up in a mental-health facility? A real police officer might prove more difficult to deal with than a demon dressed as one. “No need to call my mom and dad,” I said, my voice raspy. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few minutes. You know— asthma.”

  The priest moved closer, his kind eyes filling with pity. “I could call Child Protective Services,” he said quietly. “If that’s what you need.”

  That was the last thing I needed. “I’m fine,” I said, coughing. “I forgot to take my medicine.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that cough. I’d really feel better if I could talk to your parents. Where do you live?”

  My mind was still too muddled to come up with a decent lie, so I went with some semblance of the truth. “I’m staying with my aunt.”

  “Can I at least drive you home?”

  “No,” I said. “She lives down the block.”

  “Still . . .” He paused and looked down at the floor, seemingly weighing his options. “I’m going to get you a glass of water,” he said. “Let’s start with that.” He walked out of the nave and down a corridor that led to a well-lit room.

  The church was eerily silent. I managed to stand, trying to focus on coming up with a plan for what to do next and to ignore the slowing spasms in my lungs.

  After a few minutes, I wondered why the priest hadn’t returned yet. How long did it take to fill a glass with water? A terrible feeling came over me. A witch did not belong in a church. I needed to get out of this place. I knew it, but fear of what lay outside the door stopped me. Instead, I crept down the corridor, my tired limbs slowly following the priest’s path. I knew what he was doing, and the desire to stop him sent a surge of energy pulsing through my veins.

  The phone was already at his ear.

  I saw the numbers in my head. The nine transposed into a six; the ones bent into sevens.

  “Darn thing,” he muttered. “Why aren’t you working?”

  The priest spotted me, his features crumpled in confusion. “What’s going—” Then he stopped, and a sudden understanding alighted in his eyes.

  “Don’t,” I whispered, before everything went bright.

  “Race you!” Sonya dove into the lake, her dark brown hair fanning out over the water. She swam halfway to the pier before realizing I hadn’t been swimming behind her. When she surfaced, her face glistened in the hot summer sun. “What gives?” she shouted back to where I stood, still on the shore.

  I shrugged, embarrassed. I couldn’t tell her that I hadn’t wanted to move, hoping to capture this moment in my mind, so I could always remember it: the warmth of the sun, the sand hugging my toes, my best friend, as psyched about my birthday as I was. We were both twelve now.

  Sonya swam back and wrapped herself in an oversized towel. “Present time!” she said, falling to the ground, laughter in her voice. She reached into her beach bag and pulled out a slim package. “Open it!”

  It was a friendship bracelet, woven with thread the color of honey. She’d sewn gemstones into it and they sparkled in the radiant natural light. “They’re semiprecious,” Sonya said, “but your mom said they’re even prettier than diamonds. She helped me with it.”

  I fastened the bracelet around my wrist, and stared at it, mesmerized.

  Sonya drew her knees to her chest. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I said, tears springing to my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” th
e priest said gently, “but I have to ask you to leave. You can’t stay here.”

  “What?” The vision of a happier time had knocked me off balance. The sun still blinded me.

  “I said that I’m sorry, but you have to leave,” the priest repeated. “You’ve brought evil to the steps of our church. Do you understand?”

  “Oh,” I said, understanding better than he could have known. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I didn’t say you did.” He took my arm, guiding me back to the front doors of the church. We stopped at the fountain, and he scooped up some water and sprinkled me with it. “This should give you a few minutes,” he said.

  I stared at him, completely confused.

  “Holy water,” he said. “I saw him, but I wasn’t sure what he was until I was sure about you. He’ll stay away until the water dries.”

  “How did you know?” I asked. “I mean, about me.”

  He smiled. “I’m an old priest and an even older man. I’ve seen everything at least once, though no one will believe I saw a demon.”

  He opened the door. The night had turned inky dark, and the night’s cold air brought on another coughing spell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and hesitated for only a second before he closed the doors behind me.

  I quickly examined the street, searching for the demon, but it was empty. The coughing started again, and it hurt to breathe. My feet started moving, more from panic than anything else, and I tripped down Sacramento Boulevard. I felt like I was walking underwater, my movements labored and clumsy.

  At the intersection a police car cruised past slowly. Had the priest been able to call them? I knew I should run, but my body wouldn’t do it. The sedan rolled past, the two officers inside staring at me with curiosity, not menace. I forced my features into a neutral expression, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

  But that was so far from the truth. My parents had disappeared. The magic I’d waited so long for was destroying me.

  I needed help.

  Though the sign said Belladonna’s was open late, the paisley curtains were drawn and I couldn’t hear any music. Still, the cement frog held the door open a crack. I pulled at it and threw my weakening body into the restaurant.

  I spotted Shelley first. She stood over a table, wiping it down. “Hey, you’re back,” she said, smiling.

  Then my knees hit the floor, sending a bolt of pain directly up my spine. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing much came in, either. I closed my eyes and stars burst along my lids.

  “Miro!” Shelley shouted. I heard footsteps, then felt strong arms lift me up, the tips of my toes brushing the wood floor. I gasped, fighting for breath, but my throat constricted. Miro lowered me, but kept his hands circled around my ribs.

  “Look underneath her eyes! She’s pulsing.” Shelley’s face loomed close, her features swimming across my sight line.

  Miro’s face replaced hers. His mouth twisted angrily. “In the alley . . . was that the first time you did magic?”

  Was it?

  Shelley hit at Miro’s arm. “It doesn’t matter. Just bring her in the back. She’s pulsing, can’t you see?”

  They half dragged me around the counter to a crowded storage room. “One, two, three,” I heard Shelley say, and again I was off the ground.

  A moment later, I found myself staring at the ceiling, my body stretched out on a cot.

  “Can you talk?” Shelley asked me gently.

  I arched my back, trying to force some air into my lungs. Panic took over and I reached out, as if I could grab the air and push it into my body. I couldn’t breathe.

  Miro leaned over me. “Shhh. Just try to relax.” He turned my face, forcing my eyes to meet his.

  I had been wrong before. Miro’s eyes weren’t black, but dark, dark green, warmed with brown like the forest floor.

  “Open your mouth and let the air in,” he said.

  Slowly, I drew in a thin stream of oxygen. When it hit my lungs, the pain exploded and my body buckled, sending my limbs flying.

  “Shit!” he whispered. Then, louder, “Hold her down.”

  Shelley pressed my arms into the cot while Miro ran his hands over the legs of my jeans, turning out my pockets. “Where is her book?” His eyes were wild. “Where the hell is it?”

  “I don’t think she has one with her,” Shelley said quietly.

  “Make her a tisane.”

  “I can’t. How will I know what to put in it?”

  “Make her a generic one!”

  “What if . . . I could hurt her. I could poison her.”

  “She’ll die without it.” He pushed at her arm. “Go.”

  Shelley stood. She took in both of us.

  “Just put in what you think she needs,” Miro said, his voice softening. “It’ll be okay.”

  She left, and Miro turned his attention back to me. “I know it hurts, but you have to try to breathe. It helps to close your eyes.”

  I did, and when I blinked them open Shelley was back, holding a glass mug full of a cloudy liquid. She passed it to Miro with shaking hands.

  He lifted my head and brought it to my lips. The liquid dribbled down my chin, my throat too closed to take it in.

  “Try again,” Shelley said.

  He poured more this time, and though I tried to open my throat, the tea just spilled onto my front. I opened and closed my mouth frantically, trying to get more than a drop.

  “The hell with it,” Miro growled, and brought the cup to his own mouth, filling it.

  “No—” Shelley whispered.

  Miro leaned over and pressed his lips to mine, forcing the tea into my open mouth. I gulped, the bitter brew spreading warmth as it traveled through my system. He released me, his pale face hovering directly over mine, watching until the muscles of my throat relaxed, and I finally drew in a full, ragged breath. Miro watched me pull another one, then settled back onto the floor, his own breathing heavy and labored.

  “Oh for the love of Isis.” Shelley sighed. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Go wash your mouth out. There was comfrey in that.”

  “So that’s why it burns,” he said, the teasing tone from before returned to his voice. Miro hoisted himself up and walked to a sink in the corner of the room.

  While Miro washed up, I concentrated on breathing, slowly and mindfully inhaling and exhaling. “You’re going to be fine,” Shelley said. Her optimism filled my eyes with tears. “You’ll stay here tonight. I’m sure your family will understand. You shouldn’t be moved.”

  “No,” I said, stopping, unable to get anything else out. “No.” My body wanted to sink back onto the cot for a long sleep; my mind shrieked over the idea of wasting valuable time in finding my parents.

  Miro returned to my side, holding a glass filled with water. I accepted it gratefully, forcing myself to sip slowly instead of chugging it down.

  He sat on the edge of the cot, opposite Shelley. “I don’t think you understand,” he said, his eyes looking right into mine. “We never said we were giving you a choice.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Shelley’s hand moved to my shoulder. “Don’t scare her, Miro.”

  Miro studied me, his eyes drifting over my prone body with clinical detachment. “She isn’t scared enough,” he said, leaning over, his face inches from mine. “Where are your parents?”

  Where were they? I could feel them moving farther away, like a boat drifting out to sea. But what did I do now? I wanted to tell these people what had happened, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came. Frustration pricked at my eyes, filling them with tears.

  “Better yet,” Miro continued, ignoring my reaction, “where is your coven?”

  I managed a breath. “In Portland,” I whispered. “We’re . . . visiting.” My throat spasmed and I coughed.

  “Give her space,” Shelley said.

  Miro stood, but didn’t look happy to give me much of anything. “Why isn’t anyone with you?” he demanded.

>   I pushed myself up on one elbow, taking in these two people who were basically strangers. They were witches, though, and I had to place my trust in someone. “Please,” I said. “My parents . . . are gone.”

  “Gone?” Miro said. “No one leaves a transitioning witch.”

  “Transitioning?” I asked.

  “Unless—” he continued, ignoring my question. He shared a meaningful glance with Shelley, then turned back to me. “Did you break the oath with your coven?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Shelley took both of my hands in hers. They were as warm and reassuring as her round hazel eyes. “We wouldn’t judge you if you did.”

  “But did you?” Miro asked again. “It’s not a hard question.”

  “No.”

  Shelley exhaled. “Good. So, where did your parents go? If you’ve had an argument with them, now is not the time to stand your ground. I think you should rest for a while, but then we have to take you to them so they can help you.”

  “They’re missing,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Missing? Like, vanished into thin air?” Miro didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. He folded his arms across his chest and glared.

  A desperate kind of hopelessness took root inside me. I might have come to the wrong place, but where else could I turn?

  “Let’s prioritize,” Shelley said. “Breeda, where’s your book?”

  What book? My spellbook? In my backpack, if my mom had packed it. But where was my backpack?

  Shelley interpreted my silence as resistance. “My tisane may have worked for now, but you might experience side effects we can’t anticipate later.” She paled. “I don’t want to be responsible for—”

  “It’s against the laws of most covens for a transitioning witch to be without their book,” Miro interrupted. “Where is it?”

  “My spellbook?” I managed. My throat was still on fire.

  “No, not your spellbook,” Miro huffed. “Your family book.”

  I shook my head. What?

  “Where did you say you were from?” Shelley asked, her mouth curving downward. She was beginning to doubt me.