Wild is the Witch (11)

There’s no spell book or cauldron, no repeated phrases or rings of fire. There’s just the draw inside me that calls magic from its scattered position and pulls it into something potent.

I push open the old cottage door and collect wormwood and safflower, then head back outside and gather enough twigs and branches to create a satisfying fire. Then I begin.

Witches have a kind of internal switch that allows us to regulate when we’re receiving magic. We believe in leaving things as undisturbed as possible, in letting the earth exist on its own without our constant interference. We only flip the switch when needed, a call to the magic around us, inviting it to assemble into something new.

I exhale and concentrate on the energy around me, the protons and neutrons and photons and muons, and I dismiss them all until the only thing remaining is raw, untouched magic.

I flip the switch, and it rushes toward me in an incredible surge, thousands of particles of magic snapping into me as if I’m a magnet. My skin heats up and prickles with the weight of it, a physical reaction I will never tire of. I am the cosmos and energy and the matter of the universe held perfectly together with skin and bone.

Winter howls in the distance, a long cry that gets the other wolves going as well. I listen as they take their turns until one final howl echoes through the night and fades to nothing. I suspect it’s Winter’s way of checking on the new wolf, saying hello in the middle of the night when the humans aren’t around to keep him company.

I smile at the thought.

My skin burns hot with the mass of magic blanketing me, and I turn my attention to Pike Alder and his arrogant demeanor and hatred of witches and constant rotation of flannel shirts. I think about the way he laughed at the newscaster and rolled his eyes and dismissed Amy as untrustworthy without a single thought.

I think of the way his tone turned to ice, permeating my skin and turning my whole body cold.

She should have been the one to burn.

What is the one thing Pike Alder would hate more than anything else in the world?

The answer slams into my mind instantly, a spell so cruel it can only be called a curse.

A curse to turn him into a witch, to make him become the very thing he hates.

But the memory of that night on the lake makes me hesitate. There’s a reason it’s illegal to turn a person into a witch, a law that’s upheld in both regular courts and witches’ courts. It’s dangerous and unpredictable, and Amy was willing to risk everything because the person she loved wanted so badly to experience magic.

By the time I reached the lake that night, Alex was already engulfed in flames. I couldn’t see his face behind the red-and-orange light, couldn’t meet his eyes. Amy was crying, still trying to pull the magic from him even though it was too late. She was a Stellar, and if she couldn’t help Alex when her magic was most effective on him, I knew my Lunar magic wouldn’t be enough.

And I was right. It wasn’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the sounds of the night around me. I’m not on a quiet lake in Nebraska. I’m at my home on the Olympic Peninsula, surrounded by hundred-year-old spruce trees and briny sea air from the Pacific. It’s just me and a tradition I learned from my grandmother—there is no one here for me to hurt.

The spell will burn away with the pile of herbs, and that will be it. Hopefully, it will take my fear and frustration with it, make it easier for me to work with someone who hates what I am. Pike will never know, and I’ll feel better.

A lot better. I get to work.

The magic around me vibrates in anticipation, turning my skin to pins and needles, morphing into the shape of a curse that can turn a boy into a witch. I prepare to bind the spell to my pile of herbs when a series of four loud hoots punctuates the air.

I stumble back and squint into the night sky, even though trying to find the owl in darkness is a fool’s errand. But I’m certain it’s the spotted owl. I know because I can feel him watching me, feel his big eyes boring into me as if I’m prey.

I watch the sky for several moments, and when he doesn’t make another sound, I get back to my magic. Then it happens again, this time closer.

Louder.

Four short hoots with the middle notes closest together.

My heart races, and my skin crawls, not with the vibrant feel of magic but the awful creep of dread. The owl continues his call, again and again, louder and louder until I’m terrified the sound will wake up Mom, will wake up this entire peninsula.

I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing, and I release the magic from my control, letting it scatter and flee into the night. The curse will have to wait.

“Stop!” I shout in the direction of the owl, my voice unsteady and rough.

He listens. The hoots stop in an instant, replaced with the gentle sway of towering trees, a silence that is somehow worse than the owl’s incessant screams.

I rush to the workbench and turn off the light, then grab my flashlight and head back to the house. I walk fast and keep my head down, wrapping my arms around my ribs, but I feel his eyes on me the whole way there.

It isn’t until I get inside that I realize how fast and shallow my breaths are coming, and I quietly shut the door and lean back into it. I let my eyes close and my lungs fill, inhaling deeply in the safety of this house that so quickly became my home.

I hang my coat on the rack and take off my boots, then silently slip up the stairs and into my bedroom. I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed, trying to release the tension in my body so I can sleep.