B*witch

by Paige McKenzie

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Paige McKenzie and Nancy Ohlin

  Cover art copyright © 2020 by Sweeney Boo. Cover design by Marci Senders and Angelie Yap. Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: July 2020

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  ISBNs: 978-1-368-02876-9 (hardcover), 978-1-368-04593-3 (ebook)

  E3-20200530-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  PART I: CALLING THE QUARTERS

  1: CATEGORY FIVE FREAK-OUT

  2: FLUFFY BUNNY

  3: TECHNOMANCER

  4: A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

  5: HOT AND COLD

  6: SMACKDOWN

  7: CHOICE OF EVILS

  8: OBFUSCATORS

  9: BROWNIES, MILK, AND MAGIKARP

  10: THE DREAMLESS ONE

  11: DEAD WITCHES

  12: RESCUE ME

  13: RETAIL THERAPY

  14: THE SEARCH FOR LOLLI MCSCUFFLE PANTS

  15: SUNLIGHT AND SHADOWS

  16: THE COOL TABLE

  17: REVOLUTION

  18: PUMPKIN SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE

  19: TRANSCENDING TIME

  20: DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

  PART 2: A MURDER OF CROWS

  21: SYSTEM CRASH

  22: SLEEPYHEAD

  23: (UN)FAMILIARS

  24: SECRETS

  25: VIP

  26: ODD WITCH OUT

  27: WITCHES DON’T BELONG HERE

  28: DRESS CODE

  29: HEARTLESS

  30: TEA FOR TWO

  31: THE FATE OF ALL CROWS

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DISCOVER MORE

  To everyone who has ever had to hide their light

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  Every flight begins with a fall.

  —GEORGE R. R. MARTIN

  March 12, 2016

  To whom it may concern:

  Please read this message quickly, and in private. I have posted it to a few select sites in the hopes that it will reach like-minded souls, and I will be deleting it shortly.

  I am a descendant of Callixta Crowe. For those of you who don’t recognize the name, she was one of the most powerful witches in history. Perhaps the most powerful. She lived and died in the late 1800s; she perished as part of the Great Witch Purge of 1877.

  Other than that terrible event, which has been written about in history books, the subject of witchcraft is shrouded in much mystery. Witches make up a very small percent of the population. They practice in deep secrecy (if at all) because of societal prejudice—many non-witches consider them to be abnormal, freakish—and because of the anti-witchcraft law of 1877, also known as Title 6 of the US Comprehensive Code, Section 129:

  Whoever engages in or promotes the practice of Witchcraft may be punished by Death or term of imprisonment or any other penalty the Court may deem appropriate.

  I wish to begin to unshroud the mystery now, for reasons I will explain in a moment.

  Here are some things you may or may not know about witches.

  The majority of witches—at least, known witches—seem to be female, although there are male witches as well. Magical powers are hereditary, often skipping generations. These powers manifest at puberty, although in rare instances, they manifest earlier or later. Some people may live out their entire lives without ever realizing that they have powers. Even those who do discover their abilities may never learn how to use them, especially given the near-total absence of spellbooks and other resources. Or they may choose not to use their abilities—because of 6-129, because of anti-witch prejudice, because they’re afraid to reveal their true selves to their friends and families. Because they want to fit in.

  Fortunately, the years since the Great Purge have been relatively “kind” to practicing witches. Some (some) non-witches have become more tolerant and accepting, at least in private. Enforcement of 6-129 has grown more relaxed, and the penalties, too. No witches have been executed since the Great Purge. Sentences have decreased over the decades, from “life in prison” in the early 1900s to “six to twelve months” more recently.

  Younger violators of 6-129 were once reported to the juvenile police, but this convention gradually ceased after the 1960s. Now a teen or tween witch caught practicing at school might receive a suspension or expulsion or similar, depending on the school’s policies. At home, that witch might be grounded, have privileges taken away, or similar, depending on the family.

  However, the tide seems to be turning back toward the Great Purge times. I believe that a new and dangerous intolerance is brewing in this country. Anti-magic voices are emerging, and because of them, witches may face renewed prejudice, punishment, and peril. Some of this intolerance may be connected to the patriarchy feeling threatened by powerful women, as with the Great Purge. Although this is likely not the whole picture. I am still investigating.

  I could be wrong about this disturbing regression; I sincerely hope I am. But in case I’m not, I wanted to make sure that my ancestor Callixta’s legacy doesn’t die, that magic doesn’t die. I wanted, too, to prepare all witches out there for what may be coming.

  To this end, I am including a link here to a manuscript Callixta left behind. It is an opus consisting of spells, potion recipes, and many, many words of wisdom (including her theories regarding witch genetics, gender, etc.), and as far as I know, it is the only such compilation available. (Despite its uneven enforcement, 6-129 continues to have a chilling effect on books, websites, and other means of disseminating magical information.) All copies of Callixta’s manuscript were presumed destroyed in the Great Purge, but parts of it survived and have surfaced. I have made it my life’s work to find these disparate pieces, put them together, and create a legible, comprehensible, and usable document. The work is not complete yet, but I believe I can no longer wait to share it with the world.

  For the past 139 years, witches have been forced to teach themselves magic skills, invent their own spells, and in general try to be their true best selves in a vacuum of knowledge and community. I hope Callixta’s manuscript will help them reach the next level (and beyond) in their personal journeys. I hope, too, that it will help them defend against what appears to be a rising groundswell of hate.

  Please use it well.

  I will be removing this message and link within twenty-four hours and taking extreme measures to cover my digital tracks,
for safety reasons.

  Love and Light

  PROLOGUE

  SEPTEMBER 2017

  She hadn’t expected the end to come so soon.

  After all, her scrying mirror had told her that she would live to be a hundred: a silver-haired old lady with a dozen pampered rescue dogs and a closetful of Chanel.

  She wasn’t even sixteen yet. Her birthday was next month; she knew that her parents had planned a party for her at the country club. A live band, a photo booth, goody bags full of Lush Bath Bombs and Tiffany’s trinkets, her cousin Nell flying in from London… the works.

  Why had she been brought here? Was this a random act of evil? It wasn’t related to what she’d found in his car, was it? Whatever the case, her instincts told her that she should get the hex out, that it was her only hope. Unless help was on the way? But that was a long shot; she couldn’t count on that.

  Straining against the ropes—the knots were like cement—she wriggled in the red chair and searched her brain for an escape spell, one of the ones from Callixta Crowe’s secret witch manual. (She’d been online during the brief, miraculous window when the link to it had appeared and disappeared eighteen months ago.) Pertroll? Nope, that was for when you’d misplaced your “communication apparatus,” aka phone. Oblitus? Nope, that was for when you’d forgotten to finish your “studies,” aka homework. (She’d already deployed that spell twice, and it was only the first week of the new school year.)

  Honestly, she hadn’t really advanced beyond the day-to-day essentials; she hadn’t even known for sure about her witch-ness until Callixta’s manual. In fact, maybe her scrying skills weren’t as far along as she’d thought—maybe designer clothes and rescue dogs were not in her future. Plus, she’d bought that mirror at Target.

  What about that shape-altering spell, amitto, that could make you “dispense with the discomfort and indignity of a corset” (i.e., drop a dress size)? She had almost mastered it (not to lose weight or look skinnier, since she believed in body positivity, but for disguise purposes should the need arise). She could try to tweak it for her current predicament and wriggle out of her bonds.

  Suddenly, the woman appeared at her side, quiet as a mouse. She was carrying a silver tray with a tea set on it; she placed it on an antique table next to the red chair. The cup, saucer, and pot were antique—bone-white, with an intricate floral design.

  “These flowers are called angel’s trumpets. Are you familiar with them?” the woman asked pleasantly.

  She shook her head, confused. Wary. What was her captor up to now?

  “They’re a marvelous addition to any garden—as long as they receive the proper amount of afternoon sun, of course. And see these? These are doll’s eyes.” The woman pointed to clusters of tiny black dots that flecked the rim of the cup.

  Doll’s eyes… what the hex? The girl squinted. Ew, the dots did look like little eyeballs.

  “Shall I be Mother?”

  “W-what?”

  The woman tipped the pot over the cup, releasing a thin ribbon of steaming tea. She added a generous dollop of honey and stirred. The silver spoon made a soothing tinkling noise against the porcelain.

  The tinkling stopped, and the woman lifted the cup and touched it to the girl’s lips. The girl froze. It’s happening. She had seen the poisoned tea move in horror movies.

  “No!” She squeezed her mouth shut and turned away.

  She thought she’d turned away. But the geometry of the room had shifted like a kaleidoscope, because now the woman was behind her—in front of her?—and the girl was drinking the tea, almost willingly. It was pooling inside her mouth and trickling down her throat. It had a warm, green, slightly bittersweet taste that was masked only slightly by the honey—lavender honey, her favorite.

  No! She jerked back from the cup, spat out the tea, and twisted the other way in the red chair.

  But the kaleidoscope shifted again, and the woman was right there, feeding her more tea.

  “Good girl,” she purred.

  No, no, no.

  “I brewed the petals and stems along with the leaves. Delicious, isn’t it?”

  No. Yes.

  She closed her eyes. The tea was delicious. A lovely fuzziness was starting to settle in, as though she’d been sunbathing all afternoon by the pool—listening to music and the distant hum of a lawn mower, a glossy magazine splayed across her stomach. Her familiar nearby, protecting her even in his sleep.

  Adele was singing to her through her earbuds.

  ’Cause there’s a side to you that I never knew, never knew…

  She smiled, feeling the sun on her face.

  ’Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name.

  A shadow moved in the window. Another person. The woman had been talking to him earlier. His name was Mark or Matt or…

  The kaleidoscope shifted one last time.

  A cat brushed up against her, purring.

  Then there was no more.

  PART I

  CALLING THE QUARTERS

  To protect the circle, four elements must always be summoned at the beginning of the rite. I usually go with Spearow in the East, Charmander in the South, Squirtle in the West, and Diglett in the North. But only on weekdays. Weekends, I have a whole other system.

  (FROM THE GRIMOIRE OF BINX AKARI KATO)

  TWO DAYS EARLIER…

  1

  CATEGORY FIVE FREAK-OUT

  Magic is personal and should be kept away from prying eyes.

  (FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)

  Iris pressed her face against the cool metal locker—number 1693, was that even the right one?—and fought the urge to vomit all over the black-and-white checkerboard floor. “Stop it, stop it, stop it. You’re being such a baby,” she whispered to herself. A panic attack on the first day of school; seriously, what a cliché.

  She heard footsteps passing behind her, voices rising and falling. Were people talking about her? No, they were talking about stuff that was actually interesting, like “Who got Mr. Ferguson for English?” and “Why did they paint the cafeteria Day-Glo green over summer vacation?” and “Did Shaquille really break up with Taryn because of what Hannah said?”

  Iris did have a good excuse for her Category Five freak-out. Kind of. Sort of. This wasn’t just the first day of school; it was her first day at Sorrow Point High, where she knew absolutely no one and which was three thousand miles—more like three thousand light-years—from her old school. Not that she hadn’t had her occasional anxiety spirals there. But still.

  It had started this morning. Iris had left the house, made a U-turn, gone back to her house, and changed her outfit… four times. The neighbor lady, Mrs. Wendlebaum, had been puttering around in her herb garden and called out, “First day of school, huh? Butterflies in your stomach, dear?”

  Iris stifled another wave of nausea. This was not butterflies. This was the creature from Alien wanting to explode its way out of her chest. This was her heart pounding a bloodred Dothraki battle cry in her ears. This was the Mage-Rage Potion from her favorite video game, Witchworld, shock-waving its way through her system.

  Behind her, the hallway chatter seemed to have shifted away from teachers and cafeteria decor and breakups.

  “They’re holding a meeting at the community center this weekend.”

  “No way! The mayor’s a total pacifist. She’d never let that happen.”

  “Well, it’s happening. Axel’s going, and so’s Brandon.”

  “Speaking of… did you guys hear about the gravestones at the cemetery?”

  “You mean the…”

  The voices faded away.

  Gravestones? A mystery meeting? But Iris didn’t have time to dwell on these distractions because she was this close to throwing up; she could taste acid and her breakfast (extra-pulp OJ, hot chocolate, blueberry oatmeal) in her throat. She made herself inhale deeply for six counts, hold for six counts, and exhale for six counts. Her skin buzzed and prickled. T
he pounding in her ears subsided by a micro-decibel. Crisis temporarily averted?

  Her therapist—not her occupational therapist or her social skills therapist but her therapy therapist—had taught her the deep-breathing trick and other techniques. Distract your brain! Touch something soft, like a silk scarf. Smell a bottle of perfume. Listen to classical music. Name ten European capitals. Calculate the square root of 14,400.

  The tricks worked, sometimes. The daily one hundred of Zoloft helped, too. But what she really needed to make this panic-attack-from-hex go away was a nice little calming spell.

  There was just one problem with that. Magic was forbidden. Illegal. So far, Iris had managed to stay out of trouble. In New York City, where she used to live, and around the rest of the country as far as she could tell, the federal anti-witchcraft law, called 6-129, seemed to be only loosely enforced. Also, Iris, no doubt like most witches, had always been careful to keep her identity secret and do her craft on the q.t. (most of the time, anyway).

  Plus, the consequences for the witches who did get caught breaking 6-129 hadn’t seemed too end-of-the-world and horrible. Some girls at her old school had gotten suspended for making potions in chem class. Another girl had been expelled for trying to morph Principal Ellison into a hamster. The hygienist at Dr. Singh’s office had gotten fired for using spells to clean teeth. Stuff like that.

  But… things were changing. A new president, David Ingraham, had taken office in January, and he was really, really anti-magic. (According to rumor, his youngest daughter had been a witch and died in some mysterious magic-related incident.) He said bad, untrue things about witches and witchcraft all the time, either in the regular media or on his social media. He’d announced recently that he was working with Congress on a bill to seriously beef up enforcement and punishment for 6-129 violators.