This Spell Can't Last

by Isabel Sterling

  She’s joking, but she can’t hide the real hurt beneath her words, not from the air. It whispers her pain across my skin. If it wasn’t against Council law, I’d make that boy sorry he ever hurt her. “There’s someone out there for you, Gem. Someone who both respects you as a person and can make your knees go weak with a simple kiss.”

  “Promise?”

  I heave an exaggerated shrug. “I mean, I’m certainly not an expert on cis straight boys. Maybe they all suck. You can always switch teams.”

  “Alas, I fear I’m cursed to forever be your token straight friend.”

  “Pretty sure you’re not my only—”

  “Details, details.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “We can still make this a fun weekend, even if you and Veronica are banned from making out all over New York.”

  As if summoned by the sound of her name, Veronica appears at the railing above us, and I lose my train of thought before I can respond to Gem. V gazes out over the water, a look of calm softening her features. I know the feeling. Being out on open water like this does something to an Elemental. It calls to our power in a way that feels infinite, like we’re more than just ourselves. Worry crinkles her brow, and I glance behind me and find the cause of her tension in the approaching city.

  Manhattan is an Elemental’s nightmare. A city this size makes all the best parts of our magic unbearable.

  That’s the bit Regs would never understand about us, if they had any idea we existed. Yes, we can manipulate the elements. The best of us can calm an inferno. Move the earth and seas. Once we’re eighteen, we learn to send secret messages along currents of air, scry for secrets in a bowl of water, and empower stones to affect the world around us. We can even create fire from nothing.

  And while I love that magic—while I can’t wait to turn eighteen and master those skills for myself—it’s the small stuff that seems the most magical. Power that the Council doesn’t even bother to ban because it happens without conscious thought or effort. That’s what makes being an Elemental not just what we can do, but who we are.

  Fire will not burn our skin.

  The air whispers secrets, carrying a loved one’s worries to our ears.

  A simple shower restores us as well as a full night of sleep.

  And, as I learned in art class this year, charcoal won’t stain our fingers.

  But it’s all those little pieces of being an Elemental that the city ruins. It’s not like we live in the middle of the woods in Salem, but each element is always within reach. Here, the sheer magnitude of the buildings hides the ocean from our power. The unending pavement blocks out the usually steady thrum of the earth. Even the air is oversaturated by the millions of people in such a small space.

  It’s no wonder there hasn’t been an Elemental coven here in over a century.

  “Hannah?” Gem nudges me with her shoulder, then knocks on the top of my head with her knuckles. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Oh, you know, just promising to make sure you had a great time this weekend. Nothing major.” Gemma turns to watch the city rising before us, and a pang of guilt worms through my gut. Before I can respond, Gem gets this determined look on her face. “I’m going to live here one day.”

  We’ve had this conversation countless times before, so I know where her mind has gone. “You will. And I’ll come to every opening night.”

  “I’m actually going to do it. I’m not just saying that.”

  “I know.”

  Gemma has dreamed of performing on NYC stages her entire life. While ballet is her specialty, she says her instructors aren’t intense enough to prepare her for someplace as prestigious as the New York City Ballet Company, but she’s amazing at every kind of dance. For the past year, she’s shifted all her attention to making it on Broadway. I know it’s not easy, but I fully believe she has the talent to make it. And even more importantly, she has the stubborn drive necessary to get there.

  “As your best friend, I demand front row tickets to each show. The stars get free tickets, right?”

  Gemma laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Our boat docks, and I glance at the upstairs railing. Veronica has moved from her post, but I’ll find her and give her the best trip of her high school career.

  Because if there’s something Gemma and I share, it’s our stubborn streak.

  * * *

  • • •

  After we reach dry land and load onto the giant coach bus, we begin the trek through the city to the Museum of Modern Art. I try to hold on to my excitement—visiting MoMA is the main reason I wanted to come on this trip in the first place—but the energy in the cramped bus is almost unbearable.

  Even several rows behind me, I notice the same tension in Veronica’s expression where she’s sitting with other chorus kids. They’re sing-shouting show tunes, which isn’t helping with the oversaturation of the air’s energy.

  I perk up when the bus slows to let us out at the museum. My parents were hesitant to send me to the city, knowing what it would do to my magic, but I spent weeks telling them how amazing it would be to see such incredible art in person until they finally relented. And now I’m finally here.

  The bus comes to a jerky stop, and Mrs. Abbott ushers me out onto the sidewalk. She’s definitely taking her chaperoning duties too seriously, forcing me to sit at the front of the bus with her the entire way. Even Gemma abandoned me to sit with her fellow sopranos near the back. But as the sun hits my face and I’m left standing in front of MoMA’s glittering windows, I don’t even care.

  We have four hours to absorb the art here, which can’t possibly be enough time, but I intend to enjoy every last second. I’ll find a way to make it up to Veronica—and sneak in some alone time—later.

  Ms. Parker and Ms. Wunderlin, the chorus teacher, pass out our tickets as we get in line. Mrs. Abbott hovers close until she becomes this shadow creature, moving in step with each of mine. I’m half-tempted to raise one arm to see if she copies me, but I resist. Behind us, Nolan Abbott—my chaperone’s party-hard soccer star of a son—is kicking around a small rock with the few other soccer players in my art class.

  As the line inches forward, I wonder if the school required Nolan’s mom to chaperone to make up for all the trouble he should be in. There’s this theory around school that the only reason he hasn’t been suspended for drinking is because he near single-handedly led the soccer team to a state title this year. As if that’s important enough to ignore all the rules he breaks. He’s already bragging about all the parties he plans to host at his place this summer, parties I’m sure Gemma will drag me to despite my protests.

  As if summoned by the thought, Gem sidles up beside me and loops her arm through mine. “Excited for the museum?”

  “Hey,” Mrs. Abbott snaps. “No PDA.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but it’s Gem who turns back to face my chaperone. “Hannah and I aren’t dating. Lesbians can have platonic friends, you know. They don’t just make out with random girls all the time.”

  “Gemma,” I whisper, mortified, but Mrs. Abbott’s face turns a delightful shade of maroon, which helps. When I spin back around to face the front of the line, I spot Ms. Wunderlin trying not to laugh as she passes out the rest of the tickets.

  “What? She was being ridiculous,” Gemma whispers back, but then her eyes go wide. “Shit, I’m sorry, Hannah. I made things worse, didn’t I?”

  “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” The line moves forward again, and though I try not to, I can’t help but wonder why Gem doesn’t stand up to her parents the same way she did with Nolan’s mom. I’ve never said anything, but she must notice how different they act around me. Right?

  Our line advances, and the ticket collector comes into view. The girl doesn’t look much older than us—twenty-one, tops—but she�
�s dyed her short hair a bright, near-fluorescent blue. The color highlights her pale eyes, and her fair skin is contrasted with the reddest lipstick I’ve ever seen outside an Instagram filter.

  “I love your hair.” I cringe the second the words are past my lips. If this girl is anything like me, she wants as little interaction with the tourists as possible. Unfortunately, once my mouth starts, the damn thing won’t turn off. “That necklace is awesome, too. Is it from the gift shop? I’ve never seen anything like it.” Twisted metal wraps around a piece of glass, and the way it catches the sunlight makes the surface look like it’s glowing from within.

  Ticket Girl stares at me like I’m a mucus-covered alien and reaches for the necklace, hiding the glow from view. Her blue eyes widen, and she slides her free hand into her back pocket, her entire posture suddenly tense. “No,” she says at last. “It’s not from here. My friend made it.”

  “Oh, cool. It looks really amazing. Seriously.” I raise my ticket in an attempt to silence myself.

  “Thanks,” she deadpans, taking my ticket and scanning it. When she hands it back, her fingers brush against mine, and a violent shock of static zaps up my wrist. “Enjoy your visit.”

  Gemma hands over her own ticket before I can utter an embarrassing You too! Once we’re out of earshot, she shakes her head. “She must hate her job. She looked completely miserable.”

  I start to agree, but the second I step into the museum’s first gallery, it all fades away. I could spend a week devouring each painting, each sculpture, each multimedia design, and I’d still have more to discover.

  After the first hour, I lose Gemma. She gets bored waiting for me to finish “staring at the same picture for twenty minutes” and wanders off to find her friends from chorus. Not long after, even Mrs. Abbott disappears to check on the other students she’s supposed to be keeping an eye on. Somewhere in the second hour, I run into Benton and we pick a sculpture to sketch for Ms. Parker.

  We fall into our usual silence, and I lose myself in the act of creation. The sculpture takes shape across the flat paper, and I add light and shadow until it looks like I could pluck it from the page.

  Hannah . . .

  The voice in my head jolts me out of my focus, and I sit up taller, tilting my head toward the subtle flow of Veronica’s magic. Her voice echoes in my ears. Meet me in the third-floor bathrooms.

  Warmth blooms in my chest as the magic settles over me. And a bit of jealousy, too. Ever since Veronica had her birthday, she’s been testing her new skills while refusing to pass on any clues to the advanced magic. She claims she doesn’t want to get in trouble with our high priestess, but that’s never stopped her before.

  I glance back at my sketch, and a pit of unease stretches through me. It’s good, but it’s not done. And there’s less than two hours left in this part of the trip. I don’t know how long it’ll be before I come back to this city, definitely not until Gemma has landed her first performance here, so I can’t afford to miss a single minute.

  And yet . . . Veronica’s leaving for college soon, and we only have so many chances to be alone between now and then.

  “Something wrong?” Benton asks, pointing at the pencil I’m tapping against my sketchpad when I give him a confused look.

  I force my hands still and make my decision. “Do you mind watching my stuff for a sec? I need to run to the bathroom.” Before he even answers, I’m closing my sketchpad and sliding it back into my bag.

  “Take your time. I need to redo this shading.” He tilts his sketchpad for me to see, but he’s erasing his work before I can assure him that it looks great.

  “You’re the best. I’ll be right back.” I slide the bag across the bench to him and slip away.

  The museum is huge. I skirt around fellow students and tourists, dodge artists who have stopped in front of a painting that moved them to do a sketch. I get turned around twice before I find signs that lead me to the third-floor bathrooms. I pause outside the doors. Did Veronica mean the women’s bathroom? Or was she planning to use the family one?

  If her goal was to make out undisturbed, she’d go with the single-occupancy family stall. Right?

  Right.

  Or . . . maybe she just wanted to meet here and go somewhere else. Bathrooms aren’t exactly the most romantic place to make out. I sigh and reach for my phone. I wish she would have texted me instead of showing off with—

  A flash of blue hair moves in my periphery. Hands shove me from behind, pinning me against the bathroom door until someone reaches for the handle, and the door swings open. I stumble into the empty room.

  As the locks click shut, I whirl around, magic buzzing tight beneath my skin. My breath comes in ragged bursts as adrenaline floods my system.

  None of the three girls guarding the door are Veronica.

  Chapter Three

  The girl who took my ticket outside the museum guards the door, her blue hair vivid under the bathroom lights. On her left stands a petite Black girl with a silver stud in her nose and a tumble of tight black curls spilling out from her high ponytail. On Ticket Girl’s right is a Latinx girl with brown and gold curls that fall to her shoulders and the brightest pink glasses I have ever seen.

  All three of them look pissed.

  I stumble back from their death glares and raise my hands in surrender. “Look, I don’t know what you think I did, but—”

  “Are you sure she’s the one?” The girl with the glasses tilts her head as she examines me from my loose, windblown hair from the ferry ride to my WORLD’S OKAYEST LESBIAN T-shirt—which I’d forgotten I was wearing—and all the way down to my well-loved black chucks.

  Ticket Girl grabs her necklace, the bathroom lights glinting off the glass. “Positive.”

  “If this is about what I said earlier, I one hundred percent didn’t mean anything by it.” I step closer, hands still raised. If I can get close enough, maybe I can sneak past and get out the door. Another step closer. “I swear I wasn’t flirting—”

  Glasses and Nose Ring shift to flank us while Ticket Girl reaches out, grabs my wrist, and yanks me forward. The momentum sends me stumbling into the door, and she presses me tight against the wood, my arm twisting behind my back.

  Fear and pain close my throat until I can’t talk, can’t scream. I struggle against Ticket Girl’s grip, but someone else presses my shoulder against the door.

  “Hurry, Lexie,” Ticket Girl says, and there’s as much panic in her voice as I feel. Which doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. “The vial’s in my back pocket.”

  There are footsteps behind me, but I can’t see which of the other two girls is Lexie. I crane my head to look and find Glasses terrified beside me, still gripping my shoulder.

  “Got it,” Nose Ring—Lexie—says behind me. “Turn her on three.”

  “Turn me?” I find my voice, but it’s trembling and weak. “What are you doing? Let me out of—”

  But then Lexie’s counting and I’m spun until my back is against the door. “Got her, Tori?” Lexie looks to Ticket Girl, who nods.

  Whatever is happening, it’s gone from bad to terrifying, and I want out of here. My magic batters at my chest, desperate to get out, but I can’t use it in front of Regs. I can’t do anything to get myself out of this. For the first time in my seventeen years of existence, I resent our rules. What good is this power if we can’t even protect ourselves?

  “Hurry, Lex,” Glasses says. “Blood Witches are stronger than they look.”

  “Blood Witch?” But that’s all I get out before Tori presses a hand against my mouth to keep me quiet. My mind fills with all the terrible stories my parents and the other coven adults told me growing up. Witches who could turn you into a living puppet with a single drop of your blood. Witches whose speed and strength isn’t entirely human. Even the witch trials that tore through Salem were started by a Blood Witch who wanted
revenge against the woman who did nothing more than love someone else.

  But then Lexie raises a thin glass vial into view and uncorks it with a gentle pop. The liquid inside is clear, but as she whispers something inaudible, her hand held above the opening, the contents shift and change until it’s a vivid, fluorescent blue that matches Tori’s hair.

  “Hold her still,” Lexie says as she approaches, and my brain makes several calculations in a split second.

  One: for these girls to know about Blood Witches, they must be part of the Witch Clans themselves.

  Two: given the suddenly blue liquid, they’re most likely Casters.

  Three: if that potion is meant for a Blood Witch . . . there is zero chance I want to drink it.

  Yet even as the realizations flood through me, I’m still stuck. Attacking someone from another Clan is also against Council laws. I thrash against the door, desperate to get away without breaking the rules. I try to kick out, to keep Lexie and her glowing blue potion away from me, but there’s too many of them. She gets in close and nods to Tori, who releases her hold on my mouth and grips my hair, tipping my chin up.

  Cool glass takes the place of warm fingers along my lips, and then the liquid is against my skin. It buzzes at first, but then it starts to burn and every bit of control rips away from me.

  My magic explodes through the room, grasping for any element it can reach. The still air answers my call first, a gust of wind tearing through the small bathroom. It pulls at my hair, my clothes, trying to rip me away from the door.

  Glasses notices first, her eyes going wide. “Lex . . .”

  “I see it, Coral,” Lexie says, but no one moves.

  Fear beats against my ribcage like a drum, and the air turns violent, thrashing against the Casters. What if this was a mistake? What if they don’t care that I’m not a Blood Witch? What if being an Elemental is just as bad to them?