These Witches Don't Burn Read online

  I can’t do this. Not anymore.

  As Veronica takes a deep breath and copies my technique, I pull myself up and escape the clearing, struggling against the pull of the wind at my back.

  “Hannah, wait.” Branches snap behind me as Veronica rushes to catch up. She pulls me to a stop one bend before the cars, where we’re still hidden from view.

  I flinch away from her touch. “What do you want?”

  Veronica steps forward, but she doesn’t snap back. She looks . . . confused. “Why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “You stood up for me. Against Lady Ariana, of all people. Why?”

  I force a shrug, but the movement is constricted by her closeness. “If Benton hadn’t caught me, I might have done the same thing.”

  “But you didn’t.” Veronica shakes her head and steps closer. She trails her fingers down my bare, dirt-streaked arm. “I think it’s more than that.” She tries to lace our fingers together. “Do you still love me?”

  Her words rattle through my rib cage, and it’s all I can do to shake my head. I pull my hand from hers and step out of reach. I can’t let her see how much my skin sings under her touch. How true her words used to be.

  “Come on, Hannah.” Her voice is breaking, and I can’t bear to look at her. “We were so good together.”

  But we weren’t. “I can’t do this right now.” I try to turn away, but Veronica blocks my path. She steps closer, and her familiar scent—floral body wash and coconut shampoo, now with a hint of earth—washes over me. It floods my senses until I’m drowning.

  Veronica leans forward, her forehead resting against mine. “You can’t deny you miss me,” she whispers, her breath warm on my face. “I miss you so much.”

  I want to tell her no. Tell her she’s wrong, that I never loved her, but I can’t. I did love her. First as a friend and then as the girl I thought I’d marry. And now, with her so close, that’s the only part I can remember.

  In my silence, Veronica leans in and closes the final gap.

  And then I’m flying.

  Her lips are warm against mine, and all the feelings I tried to bury flare back to life. The love, the passion, the heat of everything we shared. Against my better judgment, I kiss her back. Nothing about this moment is tender. It’s frantic. Hungry. Full of hurt.

  I wrap my arms around her waist, my hands slipping along the thin fabric of her dress. The one we picked out together. I pull her tighter to me, until our bodies are flush, but it still isn’t enough.

  Veronica bites my lip, and the pain reminds me of all the reasons this has to end. I pull away, hating how much her sudden absence affects me. My body doesn’t feel whole without her pressed against it.

  “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.” My breath comes out in a rush, and I’m powerless to stop the tears. “We’re over.”

  “But why? We were perfect together. We can have that again.” Tears pool in her eyes, making the green shine bright. “You want me just as much as I want you. That kiss proves it.”

  “It only proves I’m lonely.”

  “Oh, please. There was passion in that kiss.” Veronica brushes away her tears, her movements harsh, like she hates to show weakness. But then she softens. “I love you.”

  “No, you don’t.” I shove past her and continue toward my parents’ car. I’m bursting with all the reasons we can’t be together. “You loved having a girlfriend who never said no. The second I stood up for what I needed, you abandoned me.”

  Veronica grabs my arm and spins me back to face her. “That’s not true.”

  “It is!” My voice reverberates through the woods, startling birds into flight. “I told you I wasn’t comfortable with those Caster Witches, but you didn’t care! You were so busy trying to impress them that you didn’t listen to me.”

  “Hannah—”

  “No. You don’t get to spin this. Not again.” My breath comes in short, painful gasps. A phantom ache spreads through my limbs. “You didn’t even help me when I was attacked by a Blood Witch, because you were too busy sucking up to people we were never going to see again.”

  The memories threaten to pull me down like an undertow. Pain blossoming across my face. My blood on the other witch’s hands. Her smile as she took control of my body and forced me to my knees.

  “Can I speak now? Or are you going to cut me off again?” When I cross my arms and say nothing, she continues. “I’ll admit, the thing with the Blood Witch was not my best moment—”

  “She nearly killed me. Do you have any idea what it feels like, to have your body possessed by Blood Magic?”

  “—but you can’t throw away our entire history because of one bad decision,” she finishes, like she wasn’t even listening to me. Which is half the problem right there.

  “Fine, forget New York,” I say, even as I remember the feel of the witch’s hands closing around my throat. Veronica was so taken by the trio of Caster Witches we met in Manhattan that she refused to listen to me. She even abandoned me in Central Park when I begged her to stop talking to them. The Blood Witch attacked moments later, mistaking me for one of the Casters.

  I shake the memories away and focus my anger on Veronica. “Our entire relationship was me doing whatever you wanted. You decided when we’d hang out and what we’d do. You always picked the restaurant. You even tried to decide how and when our relationship would end!”

  Veronica falls back a step, confusion creasing her brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not oblivious, V. I caught every one of your ‘long distance is so hard’ and ‘holding on to high school partners in college is almost impossible’ hints. I know you were planning to break up with me when you left for school.”

  “I never said I wanted to break up with you.” Tears shimmer in Veronica’s eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I’m not wrong. Long distance is hard, but I think we can make it. I want us to make it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” I step around her and head toward the cars. “It’s too late to go back to the way we were.”

  “Why?” Veronica reaches for my wrist and holds firm. “Why can’t we go back?”

  She’ll never understand. The realization washes all the fight out of me, leaving behind only heartache. I gently pull my wrist from her grip. “Because,” I say, my voice so soft it’s nearly swallowed up by the trees, “I’m standing here, telling you how much you hurt me, and you can’t hear it.” Tears fill my eyes. I’ve lost the strength to hide them. “You broke my heart, and you didn’t even notice. How can I . . .” My throat closes up, and I look away. “How could I ever trust you to put the pieces back together?”

  Veronica is silent after that. I glance up to find her watching me, but she doesn’t speak.

  I don’t expect her to. There’s nothing left to say. I turn again to leave.

  “This conversation isn’t over.”

  My response sticks in my throat. I can’t even look at her. “Yes. It is.”

  6

  THE CONFRONTATION WITH VERONICA leaves my nerves jagged and raw. I ignore my parents’ attempts to talk about it, choosing instead to spend the rest of the weekend locked in my room, blasting what to others may seems like a bizarre array of music. To me, it’s like comfort food, warm and soothing. My playlist shuffles from screaming heavy metal to heartbroken show tunes to forlorn pop ballads. I listen to my favorite breakup song over and over, sobbing until I can’t breathe. Until Mom begs me to play something else. Anything else.

  That’s when I switch to headphones and throw my pain on a canvas, not caring how much paint splatters all over my clothes.

  My hands are still covered in vibrant colors on Monday, and it takes forever to scrub my skin clean as I get ready for work. At some point last night, my insides shifted and rearranged, replacing pulsing pain with boiling rage. I cann
ot believe Veronica cost me an entire month of training and got me banned from this week’s lesson. She knows how much I’ve been dying to learn the next phase of magic. I bet she doesn’t even care.

  The smell of coffee lures me into the kitchen, but I grab an energy drink from the fridge instead. Coffee may smell great, but it tastes like dirt. When I plop into my chair at the dining room table, Mom shoves a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of me.

  “Long shift today?” Dad asks as he sweeps into the dining room with his coffee thermos. He’s dressed for court, trading in his usual goofy ties for a slate-gray one. He’s had a full caseload since his boss, the district attorney, went on maternity leave, spending more time than usual in court.

  “Uh-huh.” I wonder if Dad’s cop buddies have any theories for him about the weekend’s bonfire. My phone alert goes off, a five-minute warning before I need to be out the door. I take another bite before swallowing the first.

  Dad kisses Mom goodbye. “Have a good day,” he calls as he heads for the door.

  And then it’s just Mom and me. Goody.

  She tries for small talk, asking about my art and my plans for the week, but I lob one-word answers in response.

  “I really wish you’d stop with the sulking.” Mom sips her coffee, her eyebrows raised as she waits for my answer.

  “I’m not sulking. I’m eating.” My phone beeps again. If I don’t leave in two minutes, I’ll be late. “Sorry, Mom. I have to go.” I shove the toast in my mouth and deposit the plate of half-eaten eggs on the kitchen counter. I almost make it to the door before Mom calls out to me.

  “Hannah. Wait.”

  I wait. But not patiently. “Mom, I’m going to be late.”

  “I just . . . I know this was a hard weekend for you.” Mom’s face softens for the first time since my grandmother’s punishment. “Lady Ariana’s lessons may seem harsh, but everything she does is for the good of the coven. She loves you.”

  “Was your old high priestess this tough?” Mom used to belong to a smaller coven in a coastal town a few hours from Seattle. She moved to Salem for a job at the university, and when she fell in love with my dad, she stayed.

  Mom pauses, too long to be telling the truth.

  “Never mind. I have to go.” I slip out the front door just as my final alarm rings on my phone.

  I drive to work in an angry haze. I’m not oblivious. I get why we need strict laws—exposure would be catastrophic—but I wish my parents could stand up for me once in a while. I wish my grandmother was more like Gemma’s, someone who’d bake me sweets and host sleepovers. A grandma who’d spoil me rotten, let me stay up too late, and make all my favorite foods.

  With that particular pang of jealousy souring my hastily eaten breakfast, I arrive at the Fly by Night Cauldron. The lights are on, but the CLOSED sign still faces out.

  “Lauren?” I call to my boss as I push through the already unlocked door. Tightness constricts my chest when she doesn’t reply right away. “Are you in here? Should I change the sign?”

  A chair scrapes somewhere in the back of the shop. I tense, and my magic flares, reaching for the air around me. I shove the magic down, burying the impulse. “Lauren?”

  “I’m with a customer. Go ahead.” Lauren’s voice floats through the shop like incense on a gentle breeze, and the power swirling under my skin finally relaxes.

  I flip the sign to OPEN and head for the register to clock in. I punch in my four-digit passcode as a curtain to my left flutters, then rips open. Lauren stands on the other side with a man, his back to me. I can’t hear what he says, but it elicits a blush from my boss. Lauren gestures toward the door, and the man turns.

  Shit.

  Detective Archer. At my work. What is he doing here? As the detective passes the register, his gaze lands on me. Recognition lights his face, but he merely nods to me and continues out, the bell above the door jingling his departure. When my heart rate returns to normal, I look to Lauren. “What was he doing here?”

  “Hmm?” Lauren fusses with her hair, the wide sleeves of her dress falling to her elbows. “Oh, Ryan? He’s new in town. I guess he’s introducing himself to all the local business owners.” She sighs and leans her hip against the counter.

  Something doesn’t add up. “What was he doing in the back?”

  Lauren’s face flushes even redder. “I offered him a tarot reading. On the house.”

  “Anything interesting?” Maybe something came up about the bonfire. Not likely but not impossible either, especially since the detective was investigating it so recently.

  “You know I can’t discuss a client’s reading, Hannah.” Lauren may look like a ridiculous cliché—with her old-fashioned black dress, dark hair hanging well past her shoulders, and a pentacle the size of a baseball swinging from her neck—but she’s a professional through and through. She isn’t some Reg playing dress up, either; she’s the real deal.

  Well, sorta.

  Lauren wasn’t born to the Witch Clans, but she’s a legitimate Third-Degree Wiccan High Priestess. She’s studied Wicca for over a decade, advancing through the stages of initiation, learning all she can about the magical properties of herbs and moon phases and crystals and the rest of the natural world. Providing counsel to her own initiates and those who come to her for guidance.

  She’s almost like a Caster Witch, brewing potions and weaving spells. The same thirst to always learn more.

  But that’s where the similarities end. Lauren isn’t a Caster. Her magic has nowhere near the reach. The immediacy. The strength. And yet there’s no denying the power she does have.

  “I will say this, though,” Lauren continues, glancing toward the door to make sure Detective Archer isn’t lingering on the premises, “that man is going to be good for Salem.” She sighs, a soft, dreamy sound, and then seems to realize I’m still standing next to her. “Why don’t you dust the shelves while we wait for Cal to arrive.”

  “Cal?”

  Lauren nods. “He interviewed yesterday and was eager to get started. When he gets here, can you teach him the register? I’ve got back-to-back appointments most of the day.”

  “Sure,” I say, reaching behind the counter for the dust cloth and Lauren’s homemade cleaning spray, a mixture of water, vinegar, and lemon oil. I’m fairly certain she blesses each batch under a full moon for good measure.

  I start with the counter, then move to dusting the tops of the mirrors and picture frames that hang along the back wall. Customers always get a kick out of Lauren’s Shoplifters Will Be Hexed! cross-stitched sign.

  The bell above the door jingles, and I turn to herd the day’s first official client back to Lauren’s private reading room. Most of our customers are drawn to the shop by Lauren’s reputation with tarot, and today is no exception. I lead a short man in a crisp black suit to the back of the shop, where Lauren has candles and incense burning to cleanse and prepare the space. When I head back to the counter, there’s someone drumming their fingers along the glass.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I just finished cleaning that.

  The drumming stops, and the guy turns with a wide grin that immediately puts me at ease. He’s about my height, his blond hair shaved on the sides and longer on top. He’s wearing dark jeans and one of our Cauldron T-shirts. “I’m Cal. I’m supposed to start work here today.” He gestures at our matching purple T-shirts to illustrate his point.

  “Hannah,” I say, shaking his hand. “Lauren’s busy, so she asked me to show you the ropes.” I gesture for him to follow me behind the counter. “Did she give you a code for clocking in?”

  Cal nods, reaching into his back pocket for a small moleskin notebook. He flips it open and riffles through a few pages. “Yup. Right here.”

  I pull up the clock-in screen on the register and have Cal punch in his code. “Are
you new in town?” I ask as he finishes up. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “It depends on how you define ‘new.’ I just finished my first year at Salem State. I’m from Boston initially, but I decided to stick around and earn some extra cash while I get ahead in my courses.” Cal gestures to the register. “Mind if I try?”

  “Sure.” I return the ancient register to the cheesy early 2000s home screen and watch as Cal brings up the clock-in function. “Why do you have to get ahead?”

  “College isn’t cheap,” Cal says, like it’s an obvious answer. “If I can finish my computer science degree in three years, I’ll save an entire year of tuition and housing costs. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What are you studying in college?”

  My cheeks warm, but there’s something so earnest about how Cal asks that I don’t mind telling him the truth. “I’ll actually be a senior at the high school this fall. Veronica’s going to college this year, though. She’s going to study journalism at Ithaca College in New York.”

  “Who’s Veronica?”

  My heart skips a beat when I realize what I’ve done. I thought this stupid reflex, this subconscious need to include Veronica in every part of my life, was broken. Dead. Gone.

  “She’s my ex,” I whisper, my stomach clenching as I wait to see how Cal responds. Coming out is always nerve-wracking, no matter how many times I do it. And now that Veronica and I are broken up, there’s an added sting of loss along with the rest of the anxious emotions.

  Cal pauses a moment, considering me. Then he lets out a knowing sigh. “My first boyfriend broke up with me a few months before he went to college, too.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, instantly feeling a tighter kinship with my new coworker, like seeing a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. “What happened?”

  “Some of it was the usual stuff, like not wanting to juggle a relationship while we went to separate colleges. Mostly, though, I don’t think he wanted to date a guy.” When Cal sees my confused expression, he clarifies. “I’m trans. I came out senior year.”