This Spell Can't Last Read online

  Also by Isabel Sterling

  These Witches Don’t Burn

  This Coven Won’t Break

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Razorbill, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Samantha Adams

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  RAZORBILL & colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com

  ISBN 9780593327029

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

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Also by Isabel Sterling

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  When you grow up in Salem, Massachusetts, you learn to hate one thing above all else.

  Tourists.

  I mean, sure, they’re basically the only reason I have a job—the magic shop where I work after school wouldn’t exist without them—but other than that? They’re the worst. They turn the town’s anti-witch history into an excuse to play dress-up and completely clog the streets. Learning to drive around all that traffic was terrible. Plus, they always have the most obnoxious look on their faces. It’s this nauseating combination of intrigue and false indifference, often with a thick dollop of Wait. Where are we?

  The only thing worse than working with tourists is being forced to turn into one. Yet when the school announced an art-filled trip to New York City, I couldn’t say no. So, here I am, sitting on a bench on Liberty Island, embracing the stereotypes that normally make me roll my eyes.

  “A little to the left, Gemma.” I gesture with the piece of charcoal in my hand, moving my best friend into the perfect position to sketch her holding up the Statue of Liberty. I’m trying to get her angled so it looks like the statue is balanced in the palm of her hand. We look ridiculous, but at least we’re not wearing a fanny pack like the balding white guy behind Gem. He’s in peak Tourist Mode—complete with a dorky I ♥ NY T-shirt, cargo shorts, and knee-high socks with sandals. I shudder and return my focus to the sketchpad in my lap. My art teacher, Ms. Parker, promised extra credit for each traditional tourist photo we recreate in the medium of our choice. I don’t need the extra credit, but when Ms. Parker asks for something, I can’t help but play along. She’s been my art teacher for the past three years, and her class is the best part of the school day. If she wants cheesy tourist sketches, she’ll get them.

  In front of me, Gemma shifts a little to the right. “Like this?”

  “No. Not your left. My left.” I gesture again. “Perfect. Right there. Now, don’t move a muscle.” Gemma’s golden hair catches the light perfectly, and I guide the charcoal across the page, capturing as much as I can before Gem gets bored and forgets to hold still. I need to at least get the general shape and proportion of the statue above her palm before she moves out of position.

  “Mind if I borrow your model?” Benton Hall plops down beside me on the bench and flips open his sketchbook.

  I stay focused on my work and give him a quick nod. “Help yourself.”

  At the beginning of the year, Ms. Parker sat Benton at my usual art table. He’s a year older than me, a senior, so we were basically strangers in September. Over the past nine months, though, we’ve developed this perfect rhythm of comfortable silence and encouraging critique. When we started running into each other at the same parties, that comfort blossomed into actual friendship.

  A few minutes later, I finish my sketch and glance over to see how Benton’s doing. Despite using the same model and scene, our work looks nothing alike. Besides the obvious difference between my charcoal and his thin graphite pencil, we’ve chosen separate focal points. Where I’ve featured the light in Gemma’s hair and the sun flare over Lady Liberty herself, Benton has taken care with the contrast of Gem’s goofy grin and the statue’s solemn expression.

  “Ooh, those look great.” Gemma leans over us, and Benton and I both flinch.

  My heart thunders in my chest, and I glare up at my best friend, squinting against the bright mid-May sun. “You’re going to kill me one of these days, sneaking around like that.”

  Gemma rolls her eyes and backs up. This time, she stomps toward us, clearing her throat every other step. Even with all the exaggeration, her dancer’s grace turns the whole thing into a seamless, still weirdly quiet, performance. “Better?”

  “Yes,” I say, failing to keep the grin off my face. “Thank you.”

  Benton adds a bit more shading to the base of the statue. “Thanks for playing model.”

  “Anytime.” Gem, who’s the kind of tall that makes people ask if she plays basketball, stretches her arms wide, but the motion morphs into some fancy ballet spin. Trying to get her to hold still is like trying to stop the rotation of the earth. She grabs a hunk of charcoal from the top of my bag and mimes like she’s standing at an easel. “You should draw me drawing something else. It’ll be totally meta.”

  “And I could draw Hannah drawing you while you draw something else.” Benton flashes her a grin, and Gemma’s cheeks burn under his attention. Which means her ninth-grade crush isn’t as dead as she claims. “Now that would be meta.”

  Gem bounces on the soles of her feet, unable to contain her energy. “Ooh! What if I was drawing you. Then we’d really be onto something.” But even as she says it, Gemma wilts. “Too bad I have precisely zero artistic ability.” She plops the charcoal back in the bag and grimaces at the black dust now stuck all over her fingers. “Ugh. How do you use that stuff?”

  I freeze, still clutching the charcoal. Worry pulses through me, hot and acidic, roiling in my stomach. I scramble for something to say. “Oh, uh—you get used to it, I guess.” I drop the charcoal and make a show of brushing off my hands to dispel the dark dust that isn’t there.

  “How do you get this crap off?” Gemma scrubs her fingers into her palm. “Why is your skin so perfect?”

  Benton sets down his sketchpad and reaches for my hand, examining my clean fingers. “Damn, Walsh, that’s impressive.”

  I scramble for something to say, some lie that will keep my secret safe. “Oh . . . Uh . . . It must be the new lotion Mom got for me.” Even to me, the excuse sounds contrived. I pull my hand away, but my nerves ignite the secret I’m so desperate to hide. Magic grows in my chest until it steals the warmth from the air around us. I shiver in the sunlight, which is not helping my cause.

  I
fight against the powerful reflex that’s chilling the air, force the worry clawing at my chest to relax. I can’t let them notice what’s happening. I can’t tell them truth about the charcoal. Not even Gemma, who’s been my best friend since kindergarten. If anyone found out about me, it would be the end of life as I know it.

  Because I, Hannah Walsh—Hater of Tourists, Avoider of Sports, and Baker of Cakes—am an Elemental Witch. With a power shared by my entire family, I can manipulate water, earth, air, and fire.

  Despite the tourists who dress up in dark robes and pointed hats, despite the know-it-alls who remind their friends that those who died during the witch trials were victims of petty conflicts and sexism, real magic does exist. And Elemental Witches, like my family and our coven, are only one of the three Witch Clans. There are also Caster Witches, who mix potions and weave spells, and Blood Witches, who are as creepy as they sound.

  Being an Elemental comes with some really cool perks, beyond the actual magic we learn to weave. Some are big—like being immune to fire—while others are small, like charcoal dust not sticking to our skin. But I can’t let any Regs—non-witches like Gemma and Benton—find out about the Witch Clans. Ever.

  “That must be some fancy lotion. What brand is it?” Benton searches in his bag for an eraser. “I’ll have to check it out.”

  “I don’t actually know wha—”

  Arms appear in my peripheral and wrap around my chest. Soft hair brushes my face as the owner of said arms plants a kiss on my cheek.

  Thank the Middle Sister.

  My girlfriend and fellow Elemental, Veronica, leans over the back of the bench and presses a second kiss to my temple, soothing away the last of the nerves. The air around us returns to its original temperature. She leans past me to face Benton and Gemma. “Mind if I borrow Hannah for a bit?”

  Benton returns his focus to the sketchpad propped against his knees. “Have fun.”

  “You’re the best. Thanks!” Veronica’s voice oozes with gratitude, but it’s all for show. If there’s one thing I know about Veronica, whose family is in the same coven as mine, it’s that she has very little patience for Regs like Benton and Gemma. She thinks it’s pointless to be friends with people who will never fully understand us. I’ve stopped trying to convince her she’s wrong.

  When Veronica releases me, I tuck the sketchbook and charcoal back in my bag. “Meet me at the gift shop in ten minutes?” I ask Gemma, who’s hiding a wounded expression behind her smile.

  “Sure.” She flops down in the spot I’ve vacated on the bench and watches Benton work. “We’ll manage on our own.”

  A twinge of regret tugs at my heart, but then Veronica slips her hand into mine, and the touch of her skin sends a tingle up my arm. It’s been a year, and it still happens every time. “Better make it twenty,” she says before dragging me away. We weave across the small island, dodging tourists and keeping a look out for the chaperones.

  “Where are we going?” The breeze off the water tosses my brown hair around my shoulders as we leave the path and head into a cluster of trees. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be over here.”

  “This place is crawling with tourists. We deserve a few minutes of privacy.”

  “But—”

  Veronica turns and silences my concerns with a kiss. “You worry too much. Come on.” She leads me around one of the thicker trees, where we’re mostly hidden from view. The earth’s steadying energy settles more of my nerves as V presses another kiss against my skin, this one skimming the curve of my neck.

  The worry of being caught still lingers at the back of my mind, but I let myself fall into the touch of her hands on my neck, of her lips against mine. We’ve been so busy lately between schoolwork and training with Lady Ariana, our coven’s high priestess, that we rarely get time alone anymore. And ever since Veronica added the countdown to her first day of college to her phone, her kisses feel more and more like goodbye.

  Even here, with her fingers tangled up in my hair, each press of her lips feels like a claiming. Her touches say mine, mine, mine, but now there’s this echo of for now.

  “Is something wrong?” Veronica asks as she steps back.

  “No, I—”

  “You’re not seriously still worried about getting caught, are you? I could kick up some dust so no one sees us.” The air answers Veronica’s call, swirling between us.

  “V, no.” I grab her hand. “You know you can’t.” Lady Ariana would skin us alive if we got caught. The reflexive stuff, like charcoal dust not sticking to our skin, isn’t regulated, but the active use of Elemental magic in front of Regs is strictly forbidden by our coven high priestess. It’s also against the laws of the Council, the group that keeps the three Witch Clans from fighting and makes sure we stay a secret. Breaking their laws comes at a cost. We could be banished from our coven or worse.

  She sighs, and her magic bleeds out of the air. “Relax, Hannah. Please?” V rests her hands on my waist and tugs me close. “This could be our last chance to get away together before I leave. We should enjoy it while we can.”

  I nod, even as her words sting.

  “Okay?” She leans forward until her lips are only a breath from mine, and a tiny thrill dances along my skin.

  “Okay,” I say before sinking into her kiss. I lose myself in her, the heat of her body against mine, the soft touch of her lips. Her tongue dances with mine and—

  “Uh, girls?” A familiar voice calls out to us. Veronica and I spring apart to find a very red-faced Ms. Parker standing on the sidewalk several yards away. “You’re not supposed to be over there.”

  Red-hot embarrassment burns me up inside. “Sorry!” I call back, mortified as I move away from the trees. Veronica trails behind me, and the air whispers her barely contained laughter across my skin.

  At least one of us finds this funny.

  Chapter Two

  Gemma is still laughing at me when we board the ferry back to Manhattan.

  “You are a terrible friend,” I mutter as we find spots together along the lower deck railing. “Just the absolute worst.” The ocean air buzzes against my skin, calming the fiery embarrassment on my cheeks. I stare out at the water, and the rolling of the waves nurtures a gentle hum in my bones. My magic stirs in my chest, desperate to connect with the elements before I’m shuffled back into a world of concrete and steel.

  The ocean, more than anywhere else in this giant city, feels like home.

  “You know you love me.” Gem glances over her shoulder at Mrs. Abbott, who was assigned as our parent chaperone at the start of the trip. She’s been keeping an extra-close eye on me since the Liberty Island Incident though, and Veronica got switched to a different chaperone entirely. Gemma snorts trying to keep her laughter in check. “I wish I could have seen the look on your face when Ms. Parker caught you.”

  I glare at my best friend. “Not. Helping.”

  “Oh come on, it’ll be okay, Han. I doubt she’s going to call your parents or anything.” Gemma turns her back on the water and leans against the railing, the breeze making her golden hair dance in front of her face. “And it’s not like they can send you two home early.”

  “I’m not worried about being sent home. But the only reason Veronica even agreed to come to New York was to spend time together before she abandons me for college.” I sigh and turn, copying Gemma’s posture against the railing. “She’s not interested in any of the museums. She’s going to be miserable.”

  A crinkle forms in Gemma’s brow. “Did she say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “That she’s going to abandon you when she goes to college?”

  “What? No.” I try to backpedal, but Gemma just stares at me until I relent. “At least, not exactly. She just keeps talking about how hard it’s going to be when she goes to college and how much long-distance relationships suck.” It started almost as
soon as the first acceptance letters came in, and it got worse once she officially decided on Ithaca College, a private university in a rural part of New York State. “I’m just being irrational and needy. Ignore me.”

  Gemma reaches for my hand and holds tight. “Have you talked to her about it?”

  I haven’t mentioned it, mostly because I’m terrified of the answer. “You know what’s ridiculous?” I say instead. “This whole separation thing. I bet you ten dollars Ms. Parker only switched V to a different chaperone group because we’re both girls.”

  “Really?” Gemma asks, letting me change the subject even though she still has full-on Concerned Face. “I thought Ms. Parker was pretty cool about that kind of thing.”

  “I thought she was, too, but you never really know.” It’s especially hard to tell with adults. They can talk a good game, but when push comes to shove, actions speak louder. Gemma’s parents are a perfect example of that. They’ve never said anything homophobic, but all the new rules they made up after I came out tell a different story.

  Gemma scans the boat, where our classmates are in little clusters among the other tourists. “I could find Jake and see if he’s up for a little PDA to test your theory.”

  “You really don’t have to do that. And Jake can go to hell.” He and Gem dated briefly earlier this year, and I hated the way he treated her.

  “He wasn’t that bad.”

  “He was, Gem. He made you go to all of his lacrosse games but never showed any interest in your dance. He never let you pick a movie or choose where you got food. And, the pièce de résistance, the asshat never respected your opinions and invalidated your feelings at every turn.” I tick each offense off on my fingers. “I’m sorry, but he was the actual worst. He never deserved you.”

  Gem raises an eyebrow. “Veronica always picks the movies, too.”

  “That’s different. She—”

  “Loves you and is totally amazing, I know.” Gemma sighs, and it’s like her entire body deflates against the boat railing. “And you’re right. I was completely miserable with Jake. Except when we were kissing. He was amazing at that.”