These Witches Don't Burn Page 7

  Dad shrugs. “The runes seemed legitimate, but a Reg must have copied them from the internet.” He leads us into the dining room. “The coven is safe. I promise.”

  I try to feel relieved, but mostly, I feel confused. How could I have been so wrong?

  Dad and I follow Mom to the table, where she turns her curious gaze on me and studies my face. “What’s with this sudden obsession with Blood Witches? You’ve never worried about them before.”

  “I—” All my secrets threaten to spill out, but I swallow them down before they make it to my lips. I’ve already lost a month of training because of these fears. If I tell my parents what happened in New York, if anyone finds out, the Council will come for me and Veronica. They’ll come and they’ll strip away our magic piece by piece until we’re nothing but hollowed-out shells. Until we’re nothing more than Regs. Worse, even, since we’ll know how much we’ve lost.

  “I don’t know,” I finally say, unable to find a suitable lie.

  “We know the breakup with Veronica has been hard for you,” Mom says, her words cutting straight to my heart. “But you have to find a more productive way to channel your frustration. Looking for monsters that don’t exist isn’t a healthy way to spend your summer.”

  “That’s not what this is.” But her words strike a chord. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am looking for villains to distract myself from the Veronica Situation. And Evan is clearly up to something. He works at the museum. The runes could be part of whatever pagan curse he’s casting. Maybe he practiced at home until he perfected them. That would account for the lack of hesitation marks.

  “Channel whatever ‘this’ is into your art. Leave coven business to the adults.” Mom grabs one of the smaller boxes. “Biscuit?”

  “Sure.” I take one of the now-cold biscuits and drop it on my plate. “You swear there was no magic in that blood?”

  “Cross my heart,” Mom starts.

  Dad finishes the saying. “And hope to die.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I trust my parents.

  I really do.

  But day after day at the Cauldron, as I restock some of the same tools Evan bought for his bloody rituals, the worries pick at the back of my mind. What if my parents were wrong? What if they lied when they said the test was negative? It’s not like I would know. They never explained the intricacies of their spell. Never explained what the different colors meant.

  Or maybe a Blood Witch made Evan draw the runes for them. It’s not impossible. A few years ago, Lady Ariana told us about the Blood Witch who instigated the accusations during the witch trials.

  According to my grandmother’s stories, a Blood Witch named Elijah grew jealous when the Caster woman he fancied fell in love with a Reg man. When Elijah’s Blood Magic failed to make the woman he desired love him back, he turned to the most sinister parts of his power. Despite the growing dangers of Witch Hunters, Elijah sent children like Abigail Williams and Elizabeth Parris into fits until the town was in such a frenzy he could accuse anyone he liked. Elijah started with the Reg man who had married the young Caster woman. In the end, when she still refused him, Elijah accused the very woman he claimed to love.

  The Council, which up until that point had only gone after Witch Hunters—a secret society of Regs who had discovered the Witch Clans and sought to destroy us—decided something had to be done about Elijah. They sent agents to Salem to strip the Blood Witch of his dangerous magic, but he resisted. In the end, the struggle killed him, and his crimes led to the creation of the Council laws we live by today. After the witch craze in Salem ended, and the rest of the living Caster families fled, the Council banned Blood Witches from the town and stationed a handful of Elemental families here. Our coven, and our family, descended from those first Elementals.

  I was fourteen when Lady Ariana told that story, a little over a year after I passed my first initiation and no longer had to wear a binding charm to suppress my magic around Regs. I had nightmares about Blood Witches for weeks.

  A sigh spills past my lips as I restock the candles. I hate that there’s no one to talk to about this. Normally, I’d call Gem, but she has no idea magic is even real. My parents think I’m projecting breakup issues, and my grandmother is a little on the scary side.

  There’s no one to confide in. No one to help make sure my parents were right about those runes. No one except . . .

  Nope. Not an option. Not even a little bit.

  I spend the last two hours of my Friday shift trying to focus on other things. Like the creepy customer buying supplies for a love spell or the hipster teen who tries to slip a baggie of incense into his pocket. I even help Cal reshelve the books to distract myself. But no matter what I’m doing, the option that’s not really an option?

  Yeah, that keeps winding its way through my brain.

  By the time I clock out and head for the parking garage, my stupid idea has turned into my last beacon of hope. I pull out my phone and stare at the blank text. Screw it. I punch in her number and hover over the keypad. It takes three tries before I can hit send.

  HW: I need your help.

  Ellipses bounce below my message.

  VM: Where are you?

  This is a bad idea. I should tell Veronica it was a mistake. Pretend I meant to text Gemma. Or Benton. Or literally anyone who isn’t her. Instead, I lean against my car and type my response.

  HW: Meet me at my place. Twenty minutes. Bring the book.

  I unlock my car and slide in the front seat.

  VM: I’ll be there.

  My skin flushes as I pull out of my space and drive down the winding parking structure. This was a mistake. A terrible, irreversible mistake. But it’s also my only hope of putting these Blood Witch worries to rest.

  Veronica is waiting for me when I get home, leaning against my front door.

  Stay strong. You can do this. I cut the ignition and climb out of my car. “I want to make one thing clear before we go inside.”

  Veronica raises one eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

  “This isn’t a social call. We’re not getting back together.”

  “Then why am I here?” Veronica starts toward me, but I put up one hand and she stops.

  “I need your help.” I step away from my car, ignoring how incredibly exposed I feel. “Did you bring the book?”

  Veronica raises her purse in response. It swings like a pendulum as I walk up the driveway and unlock my front door. My ex follows me inside and up the stairs. When we’re shut in my room, I turn to explain, but Veronica isn’t looking at me. Her attention is trained on the newest additions to my walls.

  “When did you do this?” She’s stopped in front of my latest piece. I started it a few days after we broke up, a self-portrait of a girl betrayed. Yet with each layer it morphed into something almost resembling strength. Freedom. “You look so . . .” she starts and trails off.

  “So what?”

  “Broken.”

  I stiffen. “I didn’t bring you here to criticize my work. I can’t stop worrying that there’s a Blood Witch here. Even if it’s not the girl from New York, there are others.”

  No one—except perhaps the Council—knows exactly how many witches are in the US. Lady Ariana says that for every ten Elementals, there are probably seven Casters and only two Blood Witches. They’re uncommon, even for witches, but they’re still very much alive.

  And some of the most powerful among us.

  Veronica finally turns away from the drawing. “Hannah, there’s no Blood Witch. Lady Ariana said so.”

  “Then explain this.” I pull up the pictures of the bloody runes and hand the phone to Veronica. Her eyebrows inch up her forehead as she examines the photos.

  “This looks like the apartment in Manhattan.” A tremor shakes her voice. “Where did you find this?”


  “The Witch Museum.”

  She glances up from the images. “Here? We have to tell someone.”

  “I already showed my parents.” I take my phone from her and slide it into my back pocket. “I even got a sample of the blood. They say it’s nothing.”

  Veronica’s whole body seems to melt with her exhale. “Why didn’t you lead with that? If your parents tested it, then it’s nothing. Why am I here?”

  “Because you owe me.”

  Her sharp burst of laughter fills the room. But when I don’t relent, Veronica studies me. “Wait. You’re serious?”

  “I stood up for you in the woods and had to skip this week’s lesson for my trouble, so yes. I’m serious. At least humor me. Help me make sure our coven is safe.” I motion for her to wait and slip downstairs. I return with a large bowl and bottle of water from the kitchen.

  Veronica’s sitting on my bed now, her legs crossed underneath her. She gives me an unamused look. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You and I are going to scry for the Blood Witch.” I pour the water into the bowl and set it on my desk. “That’s why I had you bring your grimoire.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Veronica reaches into her bag and pulls out her personal Book of Shadows. “Why can’t you be a normal ex and post angry poetry online?”

  I ignore her question and reach for the grimoire. I wish I had all day to pore over these pages. They’re full of magic Lady Ariana keeps hidden until we’re at least eighteen. After our final initiation ceremony, our weekly classes end. Instead, we have one-on-one lessons with our high priestess whenever she deems us ready for more power. Newer skills. That’s when we’re permitted to copy spells from the coven grimoire. Under supervision of course.

  When we were still dating, Veronica told me she felt something as she copied over the words and diagrams exactly. This pressure in her head that would build and build until understanding finally clicked into place as she finished the final strokes of her pen.

  About a third of the way through Veronica’s grimoire, after all our history and the intricate family trees for each of the twenty-three extended families with ties to our coven, I find the section on scrying and skim the pages. “It looks like we need something for contrast in the water.”

  Veronica breathes out an exaggerated sigh, like she’s resigning herself to this process. “Lady Ariana taught me to use black ink, but Mom sometimes uses food coloring in a pinch.”

  “Would paint work?” I head for my art supplies on the other side of the room.

  “I don’t know. We can try.” Veronica extracts herself from the bed and comes to stand beside me. “Add enough so that it can swirl around and make patterns.”

  I squeeze the paint over the water. It turns cloudy, and shapes start to form. “Now what?”

  “Now you step back and let me do this.”

  “Uh, no.” I return the paint and stand beside Veronica. “I’m doing this with you.”

  “You’re not eighteen.”

  “And I don’t get to learn this on my eighteenth birthday, because of you. I’d say this falls under the you-owe-me category.”

  Veronica groans. “Fine. But when it doesn’t work right, don’t blame me.” She places her hands on either side of the bowl and instructs me to do the same. “First, we need to warm up the water.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “If you’d stop interrupting, I’d tell you.” Veronica shoots me a look before closing her eyes. She takes several deep breaths, and I do the same. “Show us yes,” she instructs the water, opening her eyes to observe.

  The bowl grows warm beneath my fingers, and the water spins clockwise, the paint inside swirling and dancing along the magical current.

  “Show us no,” Veronica says, and the water falls completely still before spinning counterclockwise.

  “This is so cool.” My words come out in a rushed, yet reverent, whisper. I can’t believe I have to wait even longer before I’m allowed to do this on my own. “Now what? Can we ask about the Blood Witch?”

  Veronica shakes her head. “First, we ask known questions to make sure everything is working as it should,” she says, smiling up at me. She knows how much this means to me, to be doing this kind of magic. “Why don’t you try? Ask something you know the answer to. Empty your mind of everything except your question.”

  My mind goes blank, and I have no idea what to ask. “Umm . . . Is my name Hannah Marie Walsh?”

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” Veronica asks, but I barely hear her. I’m too busy staring at the water before us as it spins a lazy clockwise circle inside the bowl. This is working. It’s really working. We can do this.

  “Can we ask about the Blood Witch now?” I prompt.

  “One more question first.” The water stills between us, and Veronica closes her eyes. The bowl warms beneath my hands as she silently asks her question. The water spins counterclockwise, indicating a no.

  “What did you ask?”

  Veronica glances up at me, looking smug. “I asked whether you’re really over me. Looks like you aren’t.”

  I yank my hands away from the bowl. “Liar.”

  “The water never lies.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the water,” I snap. “You must have spun it yourself.” Heat creeps up my neck. I should have known better than to trust her. “I didn’t ask you here to play games. I’m serious about this Blood Witch. How can we scry together if I can’t tell when you’re messing with me?”

  Veronica pauses, considering me, her hands still on the bowl. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good. Now come on. What are we asking exactly? Our thoughts must be in sync.”

  “I suppose we start with the most basic question: Is there a Blood Witch in Salem?” I step forward and slowly re-place my hands on the bowl. If Veronica messes this up . . .

  “Right.” Her voice is solemn now, no longer teasing, which is a good start. “Just like before. Hold that question in your mind and push it into the water.” Veronica closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

  I follow her example, breathing deep and slow as if I were meditating. Is there a Blood Witch in Salem? Is there a Blood Witch in Salem? Is there— My eyes fly open as the bowl burns hot between us. The paint inside swirls round and round. Clockwise.

  Veronica’s hands tremble and she pulls them away from the bowl. She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “I can’t believe it. You were right.”

  “Who is it?” I ask the water. “Who’s the Blood Witch?” The swirling stops. The water falls still. But then nothing. I look to Veronica. “You have to help me.”

  “We have to tell Lady Ariana.” She backs away from my desk. “I can’t believe this. Everyone said we were safe. My parents—”

  “Veronica, focus. We need more than a simple yes from a scrying bowl. We need real proof before we bring this to my grandmother. Without it, we risk getting in trouble for meddling. I don’t want to wear a binding charm again. Do you?” When Veronica shakes her head, I reach for her hands and bring them back to the bowl. “Help me do this.”

  I expect Veronica to say no, to pull away from my touch, but she nods her head. This time, the water trembles and the paint shifts like moving clouds. A figure forms at the center, standing alone. I’m about to ask Veronica if she knows what that means when two more figures emerge, standing behind the first. The water shifts again and shows the Blood Witch standing among a crowd.

  Veronica jerks away, knocking over the bowl. Water and paint spill onto my floor.

  “Dammit, Veronica! That’s going to stain.” I grab hold of the water’s energy, drawing the liquid out of the carpet and back into the bowl. Unfortunately, it leaves the paint behind. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Did you see how many witches there were?” Veronica collapses onto my bed and pulls her knees up to her chest. “
There were twenty. At least!”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think those were all Blood Witches.” Though I can’t back up my claim, my gut tells me I’m right.

  The series of figures runs through my head again. One. Three. Many. I grab my sketchbook and a bit of charcoal and re-create the details before I lose them. “I think the first image we saw was the Blood Witch we were looking for. The extra pair in the second image felt farther away.” I sketch them in the background of the main figure, trying to re-create the same perspective of distance I saw in the bowl. “It’s like they’re not as involved. Maybe they were the witch’s family? Or they’re part of a small coven?”

  Veronica shakes her head. “Blood Witches don’t have covens, not the way we do.”

  I run my hands over my face. “Are you sure we didn’t do something wrong with the scrying? Those figures could mean anything.”

  “Don’t blame me. This was your idea.”

  “I’m not blaming you.” I let out a breath to the count of ten to keep the irritation from rising. “Walk through this with me, please? We know there’s at least one Blood Witch in Salem. That first image was so close.” I glance at my sketch, running my fingers along the outline of a slender person.

  “These other two are farther away,” I say, pointing to the smaller figures I’ve sketched in the distance. “Maybe they’re on their way to Salem? Or maybe they’re related to the Blood Witch in some way? Parents or siblings or children or something? Who do we know that fits that description?”

  I turn the page in my sketchbook and work on the final image, the one with the Blood Witch surrounded by a group. The memory is already hazy, but I capture the positioning of each person as best as I can.

  Veronica slides her grimoire back in her bag. “I don’t know, Hannah. That description could apply to almost anyone. Maybe someone new to the area?”

  “Maybe,” I muse, thinking of Cal. He’s the only new person I know. But he’s so genuine and nice. There’s no way he’s a Blood Witch. “I think we should include Evan, too. He was at both the sacrifice and the runes. I’m pretty sure he’s an only child, and he works with crowds at the museum. That could fit for this last image.”