5. Sammie

CHAPTER 5

SAMMIE

M r. Sullivan is completely still at my side, hands balled into fists. I'm not sure he is even breathing. The woman stares him down. They obviously know each other, and not in a good way.

"Step aside, Lewis. This is none of your concern. Coven business." Her focus leaves his stony glare, meeting mine. What coven business? Our family hasn't been part of a coven for generations. Not after they started warring with each other over territorial power.

I step forward. "I'm not part of any coven. I have no idea what you are talking about."

Mr. Sullivan grabs my hand, stopping me from moving any further. I glance back at him, then to where our hands are joined. His jaw grinds, his grip on my hand tightening.

"Leave her be, Anjelica," he snarls.

Why is he protecting me? I don't want his protection. Or his hand on mine, for that matter. I rip away from his hold and fold my arms across my chest.

"Whatever it is you think I've done, I assure you, I haven't." I hesitate, not wanting to say too much in front of my professor. "I haven't practiced anything in years. It barely exists anymore."

I tilt my chin in defiance as she studies me closer before huffing out an indignant laugh. And I sincerely hope she understands I am talking about my magic, the non-existent magic.

"Regardless, I will be keeping an eye on you, girl." Her minions close in.

Lewis—Mr. Sullivan—steps in front of me. My focus glazes over, burning into the back of his head. For a split second, I wonder what it would be like to run my hands through his gorgeous hair.

Oh my Goddess, Sammie.

"I have no idea why you are getting protective over this one, Lewis, but remember your expiry date," Anjelica coos.

"She is a friend. Leave her out of your sick games, witch."

Oh.

Another witch. And Mr. Sullivan and I are so not friends. He tolerates me, and I him. His time is almost up? What's that supposed to mean?

"Three moons left, Lewis. I'm sure you remember the price you paid for betraying me."

"It's not like you gave me a choice. And I don't need a reminder."

I turn over in my mind what could have possibly happened between them. Anjelica looks almost a decade older than Lewis—Mr. Sullivan. Maybe some college thing? Did something happen at work? Who holds on to vendettas these days, anyway?

"Stay out of my way, boy, or I will shorten what little time you have left." She scowls at him before turning, flinging her robe around with her. Ten out of ten for dramatic flair. But who wears robes anymore? The three minions traipse after her, casually glancing back, as if to warn us that we have triggered some deadly game. The eager maleficence on their faces makes my skin crawl, sending goosebumps awash.

Mr. Sullivan steps away, turning to face me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You should go inside."

"Yep." Spinning on my heel, I walk to the front door. Fumbling with my bag, I find the keys and slip one into the lock, twisting it. Shoving the door open and stepping inside, I look back. He stands, watching me. A heartbeat later, he is in my space, on the threshold of my house, as if he can't come any further.

His jaw works like he is trying to find words to say something. I hold his gaze for a moment before slamming the door. An actual second later, his car roars down the street. I push the curtain back on the window by the door. How? I didn't even hear him walk across the street.

The curtain falls as I release it and lean against the window, closing my eyes. Now coven witches are coming after me, accusing me of using my magic. I haven't tried seriously since the incident with Jackson. And it's mine to use, my power to hone, however I see fit. I remember Grandma telling me those exact words at the age of seven. She had been so excited when she found out I had inherited her powers. Her type of magic. Elemental.

After the incident, my parents stopped encouraging my magic, despite my grandmother's pleas. Not long after my tenth birthday, she died. Mom blamed her magic for her death. Said it had gotten out of control and consumed her and tore her apart. She had tried to harness all four elements in one spell. To do that and survive is rare; at least, that's what Dad said after the funeral.

My thoughts wander back to Mr. Sullivan. The way he felt the need to protect me. Embarrassment coils in my gut, and I groan. If witches are going to turn up confronting me, I need to be able to protect myself. Tomorrow, I will try again and make a plan to coax back my powers and learn to control them. Grandma's grimoire contains all the spells from her lifetime. I need that book. And I know just where to find it.

I t's the strangest feeling, sneaking into your own home. The basement window of our stone plantation home on Whately Road in South Burlington gives way easily, and I lower myself through the small space, feet landing on the cool stone floor.

Dankness and dim light fill the small storage space my parents hardly ever visit. Boxes of my grandma's things line one wall. I pluck the flashlight from my back pocket and click the button. The spear of light reaches the boxes, and I run it over each label. China and utensils. Clothes. Miscellaneous. Books.

Bingo.

I place the small light between my teeth and tug at the packing tape on the side of the box. After a few attempts, it curls under my fingers. I rip it up slowly to reduce the tearing plastic noise. Flinging it to the ground, I open the lid. All of Grandma's books, from her cookbooks to her journals, are stacked neatly inside the box.

I pull the top books from the stack and run a hand over the well-used, well-loved books she worked with every day. Breath catches in my throat, an ache growing in my chest. I miss her. Her love, her hugs, her food. Her laughter. The way her and Mom would work through problems together. No problem existed that those two couldn't handle.

"Hey Grandma," I whisper to the dust-covered possessions, so carefully boxed and stored. I pull more books out, searching for the brown leather tome she completed over her lifetime of witchcraft. With only three books left, I toss aside the smaller books, revealing the large brown book I have known my entire life.

Her grimoire.

I pluck it up, blowing the dust from the soft, worn cover. The gold-embossed symbol, the pentacle glitters even in the dim light. Resting my forehead on top of it, I breathe through a wobbly smile. It still smells like her.

After a handful of long moments, I pack away the books I pulled out and set the tape over the lid the best I can. I turn off the light and climb back through the window before tiptoeing my way across our front lawn.

"I've been wondering when you would come home for that," a soft voice says.

Breath caught, heart racing, I turn back.

Mom sits on the front step, dressing gown wrapped around her body tight.

"Momma, you scared me."

"Your dad would not approve, Sammie."

"I know. But it is part of me. Of who I am."

She smiles and stands. I walk to the steps, ascending the treads until I am one below her on the five. Her face is soft but pained. No doubt she is thinking about her mother.

"I will be careful, Momma," I whisper into her chest. She kisses the top of my head, arms wrapped around my shoulders.

"I know you will." She releases me, and I walk down the steps. "Sammie?"

I turn back. "Yeah, Momma?"

"Next time, use the front door. You scared the living daylights out of me, girl."

I smile at her. She shakes her head and walks back inside, clicking the front door shut behind her. I drop into the driver's seat of my car after tracking back to the block where I left it, feeling a little silly for thinking I had to break into my own house to get the book. But if Dad had found me, I never would have left with it. I hope Mom doesn't feel like she betrayed him by letting me take it.

Eager to try something small and dig into the dormant magic I haven't touched for years, I pull over. Rolling behind the nearest gas station, I make sure to park in the shadows. With the engine still running, I open the book. The front pages are covered with names. Our family tree. The next is adorned with the Wiccan Rede, the last line as familiar as my own hands.

If it harms none, mote it be.

I turn the page; it creaks with the movement. The first and easiest spell. I read over the phrases I haven't seen for more than a decade.

Spirit of air and wind,

May you feel my light.

Come to my mind,

Bend to me with all your might.

I hold out my palm and chant the passage over and over, watching the space above my palm intently. Wisps of air brush against my upturned palm. I repeat the phrase, pulling from my core, energy, and light. A small spiral of air twists above my skin, and I gasp. It shatters and disappears like fog dissipating under the heat of the morning sun in fast forward.

I huff a small laugh and close my hands around nothing. Closing the book, I place it on the passenger's seat. Hours later, I pull into the garage of the small blue home Serena and I live in. The house her mother owns, that we get to stay in for the entirety of our college careers. I turn off the engine and walk inside.

The sun is coming up behind me—my first all-nighter. And it had nothing to do with college study. I pad through the foyer and up the stairs to the right, rounding the banister to the first door on the right. Without bothering to change, I collapse into my bed, hand still gripping the grimoire.

Shadows close in around me. Mr. Sullivan stands on the edge of a cliff, shrouded in mist. The woman from last night stands at his back, a dagger piercing between his shoulder blades. He stands at the very edge, the wind tossing his hair about. He is wearing a blue sweater, dark jeans, black boots, and his usual black leather banded analog watch. He is looking back, his brown eyes burning into mine.

I can't breathe.

I feel tethered to him.

As if, if he falls, so will I.

Anjelica raises a hand, and he drops to his knees.

He closes his eyes.

She glances at me, and a smirk splits her face.

She removes the dagger from his back and presses it against his throat.

Bile claws its way up my own.

No.

Lewis opens his eyes and finds my gaze.

I drop to my knees.

She is going to kill him.

The haze around us shifts with the breeze, and the moon's full light illuminates the rocky ground.

"Your last moon, Lewis. Anything you would like to offer up?" she hisses.

"Go to hell, Anjelica."

"Very well."

The blade slashes its way across his Adam's apple, and blood spills down his neck, the muscles working as his breathing turns shallow.

The scream that flies from my mouth splits the air, rattling through my skull.

My vision narrows.

My palms burn.

The tether between us tugs hard. Pain swallows me whole and I collapse to the ground.

A second later, Lewis hits the ground, face-first.

My heart stops. Chest on fire.

I bolt up in bed, rapid shallow breaths burning their way from my chest. I press a hand over my mouth to strangle a cry.

Lewis was bonded with me. Like the stories my grandma used to read me about witches she had known long ago. Bonds between two witches.

Lewis is not a witch; I would have felt it.

But in the dream, we were bonded. I shove the blanket off, too hot from the sun pouring in from high up the window. Hard velvet touches my hand.

The grimoire.

Lewis's face floods my mind. What is he?

Mr. Sullivan?

Lewis.

The tug from my dream is still there but faint. Hours after I used my magic purposely.

As if every part of me is waking up.

Holy shit.