Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cassie spent the day googling everything she could about the term he'd used. But all that came up was a ton of stuff about shoes, and streets in England, and baked desserts. There wasn't one thing that she could see about the sort of witches who could half do magic.

Or how you could figure out if you were one.

And that was good, in one way, because it meant that she wasn't about to be unearthed as an unwitting destroyer of worlds. But it was bad, in another, because now everything made even less sense than it had before.

She had a million more questions, and what seemed like no way to answer any of them. There didn't appear to be anything in the house of horrors that really explained things. No secret note saying, now I shall finally reveal your legacy to you . No ancient books handing down the secret lore of some supernatural cabal.

All she found were spooky things all over the house, ready to scare her half to death.

Heck, even non spooky things made her jump out of her skin now. When the doorbell chimed the next morning, she came extremely close to screaming. And it wasn't until a voice called out, "Hey, I have a delivery here for Cassandra Camberwell" that she managed to open the door.

But even then she kept the chain on.

The deliveryman had to squeeze the parcel through the gap, while she eyed him suspiciously for signs of the supernatural. Which turned out to be a bummer, because the parcel was apparently a fruit basket. And fruit did not take kindly to being crushed between a door and its frame. The bananas were mush; the grapes had been flattened. Her fingers were sticky from the pulp of an orange when she read the card.

Saw you were back in town, so happy to see you. Pretty sure you hated the flowers I sent after everything that happened, so thought I'd try a fruit basket instead , she read, and felt her heart lift and sink all at the same time. Because oh, Nancy was lovely, she was so sweet, it was so nice to know that someone who barely even knew her cared that much.

But it also meant she was definitely going to have to make that call. Even though she was now mired in even wilder stuff than she'd been before. How would I ever manage to explain any of this to someone that sunny. I don't even know how to explain it to myself , she thought, as she did her best to rescue the rest of the fruit.

And that was probably why she didn't sigh and roll her eyes the second she saw him through her kitchen window, strolling out from the woods and across the grass. Instead, something weird happened inside her. Her stomach seemed to clench and collapse at the same time; for some inexplicable reason her breath caught in her throat. And she had the strongest urge to do something very inadvisable.

Like race immediately to the door and fling it open. Then yell about seventy different questions at him.

But thankfully, she managed to get hold of herself. She focused on drying her still-wet-from-the-sink hands on her jeans. And straightening her series of misshapen sweaters and cardigans into something resembling an outfit. Then she waited, calmly, for him to knock. Or maybe call out her name with the same sort of impatience she'd seen in him the night before.

Only for some reason, all she got was the clomp of his boots on her porch. Back and forth, back and forth. And it was followed by something even weirder—a rifling, papery sort of sound. Like he was busy going through a bunch of legal documents on her doorstep.

So of course she had to go and prove to herself that he wasn't. This will have a normal explanation , she thought as she crept to the door.

Then she peered through the peephole, and somehow he was doing something even more deranged than she had imagined. He had a notepad in his hands. And he was scribbling in it , furiously. He filled an entire page with that thick print of his, as she watched. Pressing down on the page too hard, as usual. Every letter just as cramped together as she remembered.

Then—best of all—she looked at his face in the middle of this note-writing, and caught him doing the thing he had once been so self-conscious about. The thing he'd forced himself out of when he'd made the jump to being cool.

He mouthed the words he wanted to write as he wrote them.

Like he was really struggling to get them just right.

Then he folded the piece of paper and stooped, and next she knew those words were skittering under the front door. They slid to a stop by her right foot, about a second before she heard him clomp his way back off her porch. Like he was just going to leave, she realized. And she couldn't force herself to hesitate.

She snatched up the note, and flung open the door, and called out his name.

And watched him jump almost out of his skin. He actually clutched his chest in shock. "Oh god," he gasped. "I didn't think you'd want to come out and talk to me, after… you know. All the breaking into your house and almost biting you into pieces and the whole mangled arm being trapped inside my arm thing."

All of which made her feel better about her choice to stop him. Not to mention even more curious about the piece of paper in her hand.

"So that's why you just left me a note," she said. "To explain all of that."

"Well, no, not exactly. But anyway, you'll see when you read it later."

" Later ? Dude, I am not waiting for later. I'm looking now."

She unfolded the note, all in a scramble. But he stepped for ward before she could actually get to the words. "Oh god, please don't, not in front of me," he said, and she narrowed her eyes in response.

"Because you want to run away before I see the mean things you've put."

"I haven't put anything mean. I just. I wrote it in a rush. It might not be all that. You know, it's kind of like. I mean the thing is—" he tried, then cut himself off in the middle of this nonexplanation when he saw what she was doing. "And you're just going right ahead. Okay great. Awesome. Fantastic."

But what did he expect? She couldn't afford to wait for him to waffle his way out of this. That would just make her a fool who constantly fell for his evil pranks. Plus she wouldn't get any opportunity to yell at him about the probable horrid contents.

And she really wanted to yell at him about them. She wanted to yell so much that when she read the words Dear Cassie , she felt her entire body tense up. As if he'd actually written, Hello You Ridiculously Naive Butthead . And she didn't unwind as she read on. She didn't relax. Even though the rest was even more astonishing than that first part.

I just wanted to somehow tell you without bothering you that I'm really sorry about the whole arm being inside-out thing. And the almost eating you thing. And the breaking into your house thing. And the making you think I slept with your grandmother thing. Damn, I apparently have a lot of things to apologize for. I haven't even gotten to the high school thing , he had written. Though she went over it so fast she wasn't sure she had read it right. It felt as if she couldn't have, if it was that full of contrition.

Yet a second go told her the same thing.

And then there was more.

Well anyway, I know that I can't make up for any of that, both because there's so much of it but also just because it's all really bad and scary and you're probably traumatized. In fact I know you're traumatized after seeing the way you hold yourself when you even so much as see me. So god knows where you're at now, trauma-wise. But I promise I will not make it any worse anymore. I will stay away so you can find peace and heal and be happy , she read, word by excruciating word. Heart pounding harder and harder with every single one she fully processed. Half of her wanting to laugh at the ridiculous way he'd put things, half of her wanting to cry over how much more true the ridiculousness made it feel.

And even more so when she read the sign-off: Yours sincerely, your ex-best friend, Seth Brubaker . Because it was pretty much the exact thing he used to write when they were kids. The ending he'd always given his notes before he passed them to her in class or slipped them underneath the front door or left them for her in secret places. Those strangely formal words, which felt so personal and so warm at the same time.

And still felt like that now.

She knew they did, because she was fucking tearing up. She had to blink a lot to stop it happening—and still only really managed because something else caught her eye. More words, after the sign-off. A postscript, just casually there like no big deal. Only it was a big deal, it was a very big deal, it was so big a deal she briefly felt like she was choking on her own breath.

She had to reread the words about ten times before they sank in. Yet still didn't fully know what to say about them once she had. Instead she looked up from the page, slowly. Eyes narrowed. Part of her sure this must be the gag. Most of her knowing it wasn't.

All of her irritated beyond belief that he'd put it like this.

"Seth, did you just seriously end this really nice, otherwise mostly normal-seeming note with an absolutely bonkers thing like oh shit p.s. I think you might be a super-powerful witch ? Or am I just hallucinating that part?" she asked.

But he didn't even seem to get what the problem was.

He just hit her with this hopeful, reaching sort of expression.

"You think the note is really nice?" he asked.

At which point, her heart started hammering for a different reason. A very supernatural, witch-based reason.

"Well, I did until I got to this part."

"But that part isn't meant to be a mean joke."

"Seth, I get that. But what I don't get is you tacking it on the end like it's not extremely vital information that's making me want to pass out. I mean, I spent last night convincing myself I'm not even half a witch, and you're throwing this at me?"

"I didn't mean to throw it. I just wasn't sure how to fit it in with the other, more important stuff," he said, and, oh dear god, he meant it. It was all over his face—that look that said he was puzzling through something, inwardly, instead of trying to convince her of something that wasn't true.

He really thought being sorry was the big deal here. Everything else didn't matter. Or at least, it didn't matter to him. And that was so overwhelming she didn't know how to deal with it.

But thankfully, she had a whole other overwhelming thing to focus on.

"You fit it in by leading with this , Seth. You lead with witch things. And then you explain why exactly you're thinking something this nuts, so, you know. Maybe I don't end up thinking your brain must be melting. Because I melted it. With the super witch powers you mistakenly think I have," she pointed out. She even mimed some of the melting and the powers, for emphasis.

But all she got in response was: "Okay, so then maybe I'll just write you another note."

And then he actually got out his pen and his notepad .

"For fuck's sake, Seth, don't write it down when I'm directly in front of you."

"But you've made it pretty clear that you don't want to talk to me."

"I don't want to talk to you about ordinary things . But when what you need to say is about harrowing, incredible supernatural nonsense that might make me accidentally turn the world inside out, then please. For the love of god. Feel free to disregard those instructions. Disregard them to the maximum degree possible ," she burst out, and oh thank god, thank god, she could see it sinking in.

Though it seemed to take him a long time to come up with an answer. She could practically see him doing conversational algebra in his head.

"Okay, so I should just go hard on this one particular topic," he finally said.

And though she didn't want to mentally bless him, she could feel the blessing happening anyway. It made her give him two thumbs-up as she answered. "You bet. Really swing for the fences. Say seventy thousand words."

"I don't know, Cassie. Seventy thousand fence swings might be a lot for you."

"They won't be. I need to hear them. I want to hear them. Please go for it," she said.

Only then he just started lifting his jacket and his jersey, for some reason.

"Oh thank god, now I can just show you," he said, and when he did she got this little frisson of fear. And it doubled when he added, "I mean seriously, look at this."

Because it sounded as if there was something terrible there.

She almost didn't look. And when she finally forced herself to, she went about it whip quick. One turn of her head, one narrowed eye, and there it was. His torso, all honey-gold and smooth and perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with it at all, it looked like.

Yet somehow, she didn't relax on seeing it. Instead, her body seemed to tense harder. Like it had that time they had gone swimming together as newly minted teenagers. And he had stripped off, like all the other times he'd done it before.

But, weirdly, it hadn't felt like all the other times.

It had felt different, very different. Suddenly she had found herself staring at a lot of things—like how smooth his skin was, and how big his chest looked, and how hairy he was getting. And not just hairy on his upper body, either. But lower down. Close to the waistband of his shorts. That little trail, leading down down down to things she never, ever thought about.

But she had started thinking about them, then.

And she was definitely thinking about them now.

He was a lot thicker and furrier, at this point. And his jeans were very, very low slung. She could almost make out the start of something more, something that made her go all hot and weird and embarrassed. Just like she had that heated summer day.

Only this time it was much, much worse.

Because back then, he had gone all hot and weird and embarrassed too. He had clocked her suddenly much bigger chest, and gone bright red. She remembered him whipping his head away, fast, and then looking at almost anything but her for the rest of the swim.

Like they were in this thing together, somehow.

But of course that wasn't the case now.

She was fully dressed. And even if she hadn't been, he clearly didn't care about whatever her boobs looked like. His eyes almost never left her face. They stayed there no matter what she was doing—and that was good. It was fine by her. She didn't need his approval, his desire, his gawping at her body like he had back then.

But it did make her gawping at him more mortifying.

Never let him know that you like a single thing about him, she told herself, firmly.

Then she put her shoulders back, and lifted her head, and responded. "Yeah, okay, Seth. I get that you have a six-pack now," she said, and rolled her eyes. Though it didn't exactly have the intended effect. He just glanced down at his own stomach with this pleased look on his face.

"You really think I still have a six-pack? I thought I kind of lost it when all this madness made me want to eat everything all the time, and sleep so long it feels like a coma, and also—just generally being this way makes you a lot thicker and burlier, you know?" he said, all affable and blasé about it. While she carried on floundering in this sea of weird feelings.

First there had been that flush and the urge to stare, and now here was another fucking rush of concern. Your entire body and metabolism and sleep cycle changed , she wanted to say. But even after she managed to fight that down, nothing good took its place.

"Well, even if it has, it's definitely still there," she blurted out.

And could only thank her lucky stars that he didn't take it like a compliment.

"Right, but I mean, it's less defined."

"Something being less defined is not a bad thing."

"So you like it thicker like this, you like more of a belly."

"What the fuck does it matter, Seth? That's not the point."

She flushed even harder at the end of those words, thoroughly flustered now and not sure how she had somehow made everything worse. Though, thankfully, he still didn't seem to notice. "Right right right, the point is the scar I'm trying to show you," he said.

So now all she had to do was go with this.

"I don't see any scar," she tried with as much confusion as she could muster.

Then almost let out a sigh of relief when he seemed to seize on it. "Exactly. Exactly, " he said, like a mad scientist gasping that he'd proven his deranged hypothesis. "There used to be a ten-inch groove in my side right here, where things didn't go back together properly. It was so deep I could put my finger in it up to the first joint. For years . And now look. It's gone ."

Then he actually made the gesture with one hand. That magical poof gesture.

All of which made it even easier to stick to the meat of this conversation.

"What, as in you lost it somehow?"

"Lost it? What the heck, no ."

"Don't say ‘What the heck' at me as if what I said is so absurd, Seth. Yesterday you told me vampires exist. I watched your face grow fifty extra bones and a thousand more teeth. Things wandering off your body is not that far-fetched by comparison."

"Okay, and that's fair. But nothing wandered. I drank the soup, and it healed ."

He said the last word in a breathless, almost hushed tone. Like that mad scientist hadn't just proven something deranged. He had proven something awe-inspiring. Something that was going to make her mind melt right out of her head—if she would only dare to really look.

And it was this, more than anything else, that made her reach forward and lift the jersey he'd just dropped. Just with one finger, just enough so she could see the side he'd pointed to. No big deal, she told herself. She could be cool and scientific about it.

Only it didn't feel scientific, once she was there.

Because the thing was, he let her do it . He didn't act weird about it, or wonder aloud what on earth she was doing. He simply watched her expose his body, in this almost curious and kind of eager sort of way. And for some reason, the curiousness and the eagerness made her go even hotter than just seeing him had. Her whole body flushed the second she realized his eyes were on her; suddenly her hand seemed to be shaking.

Even though he was only doing this because of the scar.

He just wanted her to see what was there. Or more accurately, what wasn't there.

Because once she had managed to get herself under control, she could see he had told the truth. There was definitely nothing. No marks, no grooves, no scars. Not even any evidence of what must have initially mauled him into being a werewolf. His skin looked flawless—better than flawless, in fact. It was as if he'd started using some kind of rejuvenating moisturizer, of the kind that made everything dewy and glowy and healthy looking.

Though she still wasn't sure if she should concede.

"Well, maybe you're mistaken," she said.

So of course he hit her with an exasperated look. "How could I possibly be?"

"Maybe the scar was on the other side."

"You think I might have gotten the position of a ten-inch groove on my own body wrong. And then failed to check all the places it could have possibly been." He shook his head. "Man, your opinion of me is really at an all-time low."

Good, think that , she thought. Believe that I think nothing of you .

But the problem was, she knew she was only trying to paper over her own weird feelings. About the quarry, about his body, about the way he had looked at her. So she couldn't exactly go with something like that. "It isn't. I just. You know. Maybe all this body horror messed you up."

"Oh, this body horror has definitely messed me up. But not enough to get this wrong. There was a hideous half-healed scar right here, and now it's not. And it disappeared about thirty seconds after I took your medicine."

"It wasn't medicine," she protested, as she dropped the jersey and looked up at him. Though staring at his completely earnest face wasn't any easier than staring at his side. He still looked just a little too eager. And, plus, now he was trying to make her face the other elephant in the room.

The magic elephant, which he somehow believed she had made.

"Whatever it was," he said. "It happened."

"Okay but. Maybe it wasn't the soup I created."

"Then what would you suggest did it, exactly?"

"It could have been your werewolf powers kicking in late."

He chuffed out a laugh at that. And shook his head too. Like she was being that ridiculous. "It doesn't work that way."

"Well, I don't know, Seth. I just learned about this stuff ten seconds ago."

"And I didn't. So I know what happened. Whatever you make doesn't just work the way your grandmother's soup did. It isn't just a cobble-level thing. It doesn't just lessen the impact of transforming or make me less aggressive. It actually obliterates it. It stops it in its tracks. And then it reverses whatever transforming did to me."

Again, with that surety. That confidence in all the mad things he was saying. It was unshakable, in a way she was starting to find very frustrating. Mainly because she had no way of knowing, as things stood, about how right he could possibly be. He had all the understanding and she had none of it, and that made raising questions incredibly difficult.

But damn it, she had to try.

"Okay, but you can't know that for certain yet. I mean, don't you have to, like, wait for a full moon to see if it has that effect? Because it might come and you might drink the stuff and then still turn," she pointed out.

But all he did was look at her like she was mad.

"The moon isn't what makes me transform. It's usually—" He stopped midsentence and swallowed thickly. Then his eyes seemed to briefly skitter away from hers. Like it was hard to think about. Though if it was, the difficulty passed pretty quickly. "It's usually other things. Different things for different wolves. Maybe some turn because they get angry. Or sad. Or too happy. Maybe for others it happens because of hormone… fluctuations. Something spikes inside them and a kind of countdown starts. And when that happens with me, I can do all my breathing exercises and maybe play solitaire or stick my… my head in a freezer to slow it down. But sooner or later it will happen. It was starting to happen again this morning when I woke up… in an agitated state. Then I drank that soup, and you know what I feel now?"

"Tell me."

" Nothing ."

He leaned forward as he breathed the word.

Which put them very close together, because apparently she had been leaning forward too. And she couldn't stop, because now he was explaining exactly what that one word meant. "For the first time in ten years, my whole body feels quiet. It feels completely at peace. It feels normal. Do you know what it's like to get even five minutes of normality? To not have my heart race and pound, and my skin feel like it's burning off my body, and my gums ache until I think my teeth are trying to burst right out of my head? I can't even make out the pain of all the old scars. Because that groove wasn't alone—I had dozens. Look at this."

He turned his back to her, lifting his jersey again as he did. This time, however, it wasn't quite as jarring. She didn't have the urge to avoid looking at the smooth expanse of skin he revealed, right up to the nape of his neck. No, she had the urge to do the opposite. She almost stepped forward to see it more closely.

Even though she didn't need to. He was already making things clear.

" Four years my left shoulder blade has been in the wrong place. You'd never know it now. That arm you saw yesterday, I thought I'd be living with that for the rest of my life. Check it out. Gone. Like it was never there. And then there's what seems to be going on here," he said, in a way that sounded ominous. Though she didn't realize how ominous, until he started unbuttoning his jeans.

And then it was flustered panic time, again.

"Oh my god, I believe you, I believe you, please do not take those off, okay? I'm already at my limit. The sight of your probably enormous werewolf dong will absolutely push me over the edge," she blurted out before she could stop and think about it. And even though that meant she'd accidentally talked about his penis, she couldn't regret it.

Because it did make him hesitate.

But then he said this: "Cassie, I was just going to show you my thigh."

And her face immediately went all hot again. "Right. Right. Your thigh. Of course," she squeezed out. Much to his amusement-slash-indignation.

"I mean, what do you take me for?"

"Sorry, I'm just all shaken up."

"I know, but come on. I'd at least warn you before I flashed that huge thing."

He shook his head, still appalled by her terrible assumptions.

Because clearly, he hadn't fully realized what he'd just said. That was okay though—she definitely had. And it meant that her eyes went really big, no matter how much she tried to make them not. She even attempted to turn her face away, before he saw.

But it was too late.

"Shit," he said. "Shouldn't have confirmed that it's huge, should I?"

Because he was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, he was almost as much of a big goofball as he'd always been. Like a golden retriever if it suddenly became a person, she'd once thought. And that was super nice. But also infuriating.

"Probably would have been best for my mental well-being if you hadn't," she said.

"Sorry. It just sounded like you knew already. You said it so confidently."

"I was joking . I was just being funny ."

He nodded, regretfully. "Yep, I see that now."

"Wish you'd seen a second ago, so I didn't have to have the image lodged forever in my brain. But you know, those are the breaks. One second your head is empty of your mortal enemy's potential penis, the next you have to live with it endlessly unraveling in your head like a Fruit Roll-Up," she sighed, weary and sarcastic enough that she thought this would be the end of the matter.

But oh no. No, no. He kept right on going.

"Well, you know it's not so long that I have to wind it up. Usually I can just kind of keep it down one thigh and then wear long, tight shorts, and it sort of stays in one place and oh my god I need to stop talking."

"You really do. Before I die of this conversation."

He winced. "Sorry, sorry, I just felt like I needed to explain."

"Explain important things, Seth. Like the scars and the soup and you somehow thinking I'm a more powerful witch than my grandmother."

"You are more powerful than her. It's not up for debate."

She made a frustrated sound and looked away. Tried to give herself time to come up with fifty reasons why he was wrong. But before she'd even managed to get to one, he cut in. Firmly, like on this he had no doubts, no worries, no sense that he was fumbling things.

"Be honest," he said. "Who wrote those recipes?"

" She did. She wrote them all down."

"You don't sound so sure about that."

"Well, I am. In fact I'll get them. You can see her handwriting for yourself," she said, then went to do just that. She turned, but didn't even make it up the porch steps. He had an answer for her, almost immediately. Just loaded in the barrel, ready to fire right at her back.

"Her handwriting might be in those journals, but I'm willing to bet you told her what to put," he called out. Then after a beat, "Go on, tell me that's not true. Tell me that she would scribble away based on some other witch's ideas that she just failed to mention in any form, and you never get this overwhelming feeling that she was doing it ever so slightly wrong. You never stopped her, you never corrected her, you never thought if she just stirred three times instead of four, all would be well."

She tried to scoff. Only the scoff didn't want to come out.

All she managed was a faint breath puffing out of her, as his words sunk in. As her mind went back over those summer days, and the number of times her grandmother had paused while writing, and looked back at her, and said something like, what do you think, Cassie? What do you think, one spoon, or two?

And hadn't she always had an answer? Hadn't she always just—

"That's not. That didn't. I didn't," she stuttered out.

But oh, the memories that were rushing in. The way she couldn't fight them, no matter how hard she tried. And of course it was showing. Of course her gaze had turned inward.

"You did. I can see it all over your face," he said.

Though she wasn't yet willing to give in. She couldn't give in, this was bonkers.

"Well, you're not reading me right. Because I am not Gertrude the Great. I didn't come from an ancient bloodline of all-powerful witches, or learn things from terrible arcane texts that no mortal eyes should behold."

"Yeah, and that doesn't make it any less likely that you did this."

"What do you mean? Of course it does, that's all witches are."

"That's all people think witches are. But that is not what your grandmother told me. According to her it can happen just as easily to anyone, as it can to someone who got it from their mom or their auntie or their assortment of weird ancestors. And it's not always on purpose either. You don't necessarily have to study great tomes of spellcraft. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes it's just an instinct, an accident. You want something enough, and it converges with something you're most likely messing up, and that's it. You know how to make magic happen. You feel it, down deep in your bones. You see it, even if you don't know you do or understand how you're doing it. Like making out the image in those magic eye pictures, is the way your grandmother described it to me," he said, all in a rush that should have sounded ridiculous.

But here was the thing: it didn't.

It sounded perfect.

As soon as he said the words "magic eye," she felt something inside her click. Like, yes, that is exactly it. That was exactly what it felt like when my grandmother said do you think we should add more of this? Do you think we should do that?

The image just… became clear.

But oh that knowledge only made her feel more desperate to deny it.

"I don't believe you. I don't believe any of this," she said, frantically.

While he stayed calm. God, it felt like he got calmer by the second.

"Fine, then I'll prove it to you."

"Oh, what are you going to do? Shake me until spells fall out?"

"No. I'm going to tell you that what I need is a really good night's sleep. So I've decided to make myself something that will put me out like a light. And I think maybe the best way to do that is to start with some milk, and then I'll add some cloves, and some nutmeg, and oh, you know what? I bet if I put it all in the microwave for thirteen minutes and—" he said, all nice and slow and easy. Deliberately nice and slow and easy, she felt, until every word built on this feeling inside her, this terrible feeling that she couldn't stop or shake or do anything about.

And then she just broke.

She had to break. She had to cover her ears and yell.

"Stop stop stop, okay, stop! Oh my god, it's like I have bees under my skin, it's like I want to claw my own face off just listening to you get it all wrong. Sleep is well water under the moonlight, you put well water under moonlight for three nights and then stir in a single seed from a dandelion counterclockwise and oh my god, how do I know this? How is this in my brain? Where did it come from?" she cried out, half wanting to know and half not wanting to know and all of her sure he was going to reply with something completely useless.

And then he did, and it was even worse than she had feared.

"I have no fucking clue. I only know that it is definitely in there."

"So then help me get it back out, Seth. I don't want to melt in the rain."

"Witches don't melt in rain. They don't melt in anything."

She put her hands on her hips, fuming for reasons she couldn't even grasp. "Okay then, maybe I'll be the one accidentally doing the melting."

"You won't. Unless you want to, that is."

"And how do you know I can just want to and it will happen?" she asked, sure that she had him there. Only now he was looking at her in this steady, soft way. And his voice, when it came, was soft too.

"Because your understanding of what to do and what not to do is so deep in you that your grandmother told you that you should stop baking and cooking. And without even understanding on a conscious level what she meant, you did. You made no mistakes, you had no accidents, you conjured up precisely nothing," he told her. Then when she offered nothing in reply, when she felt too stupefied to form words, he held her gaze. He said, "Tell me I'm wrong."

And she just didn't know how to argue with that.

All she could come up with was something shaky as fuck.

"You're not wrong. But only because I ate a lot of takeout."

"Come on. I bet you've made at least one sandwich in that time."

"Well, yeah. Of course. But a sandwich was never going to do anything."

"Right. Because I'm willing to bet you made sure it didn't. Like one time you were reaching for something like elderberry jelly, and you stopped with your hand almost on it, and looked down at the ingredients you had already combined, and then for no good reason you could think of, you chose something else instead."

She went to protest again. Her lips parted, her breath hung at the back of her throat, waiting to push the words out. But the words never arrived. They couldn't, when her mind was too busy going back, again. And this time, it was over every single little thing that exactly fit what he'd just described.

She remembered brands she'd chosen at the grocery store over other brands, for no good reason. Things she'd wanted to add to coffees but hadn't; food other people had made that she'd hesitated to eat. Like she'd had a constant little voice in her head, telling her danger danger danger. Even if it was just about a certain combination of ingredients that she hadn't made.

But that still felt wrong.

And it went deeper than that. There was more than what he'd suggested. Like the times some colleague or semifriend had said they wanted something they couldn't have. And she'd come so close to telling them—just add honey to that cup of tea. Just let it sit outside, when the moon is fat. Just do this and this and this, and everything will be okay.

Then kept her mouth shut, instead. Because she'd promised.

But also because she had been afraid.

Deep down, she'd felt fear about what she could possibly do.

And so she'd limited herself, in the same way she'd limited herself about other, more ordinary things. Going from temp job to temp job because she might fail at something more secure. Never filling out those college applications to study medicine the way she'd always wanted to—because what if she wasn't good enough there either?

All the friendships she'd been afraid to make. Every date she'd avoided going on.

Always afraid of having the rug pulled, the way he'd pulled it.

And now here he somehow was, being the one spreading it all out before her. Bigger than before, better, enormous. Because this wasn't just friendship or a possible career or something she could study. It was way beyond that. It was her entire sense of self being turned on its head.

And she just didn't know how to cope with that.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. I'm going to throw up," she found herself saying. But when she did—when she had to lean over and rest her hands on her knees and take deep breaths—he kind of came toward her. He held out his hands to her.

He said, "Okay, okay, just tell me what to do. Should I hold back your hair?"

As if it weren't enough on its own that he was being so steadfastly the opposite of everything she'd believed about him for the last ten years. He had to keep compounding it, over and over. He had to keep proving her wrong on that point at every turn.

While also telling her that she was something powerful and incredible.

I could turn you into an ant for what you did, and you don't care. In fact, you're happy about it , she thought. Then had to hold a hand out to stop him, as the swell of affection toward him grew. As it started to make her feel warm again, like his goddamn juicy stomach had. "Fuck no, that will only make it worse. Stay over there, just stay there," she gasped out. Then he did, oh god, he actually listened and stopped in his tracks. And he remained there, a foot from her, while she wrestled that sick feeling back under control.

She had to sit down and put her head between her knees.

Yet when she looked up, he was still there. Face a maze of con cern. Every muscle tensed. One hand sort of hovering close to her, like he was waiting to catch her if she slumped into a faint. Even though his hovering hand was the thing most likely to make that happen. She saw it held out and felt even hotter and weirder than she already did.

But this time, she got her feelings under control quick. She made herself focus.

Think about what's actually important here , she told herself. And she did.

"So what do I do now?" she asked. A little bit weak and wavery about it at first. But then firmer. Surer about things. "Do I have to go look for others like me? Do I have to find a coven?"

"I don't think covens really exist anymore. Witches are pretty rare."

"Because of all the witch trials and things like that?"

It has to be, she thought.

But he was already batting his hand at her.

"Oh god no. No human dude could burn a real witch. In fact, real witches spent a lot of time burning those dudes for burning ordinary people. No, no—they just tend to attract certain types, thirsty for their magic. And then said witches end up dead or missing. Or they hide. Plus, often they never even realize what they are. Their magic is so minor they just chalk what happens up to the universe being weird."

"Which means there's no one I can ask the millions of questions I have."

He hesitated then.

She saw it happen—he took a breath as if to say something, before letting whatever it was just hover on the tip of his tongue. Then after a moment, he just went for it. "Well, there might be someone. But I don't know how you'd really feel about him being that person. You know, because he did a really bad thing to you. And then almost ate your face off and accidentally humblebragged about his giant penis," he said. Because he was absolutely ridiculous.

"Yeah, and now he appears to be doing it again."

"I know. Which probably gives you no confidence at all in this suggestion."

"A lot of things give me no confidence. I mean, why would you even want to help me with this? What are you going to get out of it? Because I can't imagine you want to do it just to hang out with me," she said, and laughed as she did so. Of course she did—that idea was preposterous.

And so much so that he laughed too. He laughed loudly .

He was animated about it. He even slapped his knee, like a cartoon character.

"Right. Right," he said. "Because it would be super weird if I did. Is what you mean."

"Well yeah. And especially considering how much it would suck for you."

"Oh god, yeah. It totally would. You know because… because of the. The…"

"The fact you would have to spend endless hours in my company, having tons of long, long talks about what I've become and what you've become and what the world is actually like," she finished for him, when he didn't seem to quite know how to. Then she shook her head, still half laughing. "I mean, can you imagine? We'd probably have to have lunches together and dinners, and I'd have to call you at midnight when I'm melting down. It would be a nightmare for you."

"Wow, yeah, that sure sounds the way a nightmare is."

"Doesn't it though? Just completely awful."

"Uh-huh. Really bad. I do not want that at all."

"Exactly. So then you should probably retract your offer," she said. Lightly, she thought. Though somehow it didn't feel quite as light when it was out. It felt more like she was nudging him. Like she was saying, okay, so why aren't you taking it back? Why aren't you saying you don't want to help me after all?

And especially when he did not immediately do it.

In fact, he didn't immediately do anything. He just kind of stared at her. Then he swallowed, very thickly and very visibly. Like something about all of this was making him nervous. It was putting pressure on him, and he wasn't sure how to resolve it. Even though she couldn't fathom what that pressure or resolution might be. It was a fact that doing this would be a bad experience for him. It was totally a fact.

Tell me it's a fact, she thought at him.

And was relieved when he said, after a moment of thought, "Okay. Okay, but what if there was something I wanted in return? I mean, something other than being nice to you. Or getting to do all that stuff together, all that talking and hanging out and sharing-grilled-cheese-sandwiches stuff you just said."

Because yeah, that made sense. Him wanting something made sense.

Even though that last part sounded a little weird.

"I don't think I mentioned grilled cheese," she said, and for just the barest second it seemed like panic flashed across his face. Before he let out a little laugh, and gave her a shrug, and finally responded with something reasonable.

"Oh you didn't? Well, you know. I was just… embellishing. Based on what we used to do a lot together. When we spent so much time with each other, talking and having fun and eating good stuff like that," he said—and okay, that all made sense.

But there was still a question that needed answering.

"Great. Then that just leaves what you want in return for helping me."

"Yeah, I was getting to that. If you just give me a second."

"You need a second to come up with a reason you're offering me your help, when you made the offer already? Come on, I don't believe you. You must have something in mind. Like something to do with me being a witch. A spell you need me to do, or something along those lines," she said, rolling her hand in the air like come on, get to the point.

And he did. All in a big burst, like it was a relief to get it out. "Oh god, of course. Of course that's what I could want. A spell—like my soup. You could make me more of the soup that heals my wounds and helps me not to turn so often," he said, and then snapped his fingers.

Like, yes, I got the answer .

Even though he must have had the answer all along. He must have known he was only really making the offer for his own gain. It made no sense if he hadn't.

Though now that she was thinking about it, how much sense had she made? Because she hadn't thought of the soup either. She'd just imagined random other magic he might want, instead of the most obvious thing. And she didn't know why.

Or at least, she didn't until she went to answer him. Then had to stop herself, because what she wanted to say was: Yeah, but I would do that for you anyway. I would do it just because I can't bear the thought of you suffering. And I know that makes me weak and soft and foolish, but I can't help it. All I can do is pretend it's otherwise.

"Oh yeah. The soup. Right," she said. "That makes total sense."

"It does. Because then all of this is just a perfectly practical deal."

"A deal. Yep. That is exactly what I was thinking."

"No feelings involved. Nobody owing anybody anything."

"Just a straightforward, unemotional, completely reasonable transaction."

He nodded firmly. And she nodded back. Done and done , she thought.

Although she had to say, he didn't seem to be in any rush to look away. And for some reason, she didn't seem to be breaking their eye contact either. She was just staring at him and he was staring at her, and it was going on and on in such a weird way that it was a relief when he suddenly said, "So we should probably shake hands then."

Or at least, it was a relief until she realized:

What he'd said required bodily contact.

Way more bodily contact than had already occurred. And worse: there was absolutely no good way to get out of this one. "I think shaking hands is the thing two business partners usually do," she just had to squeeze out. Then she expected him to simply go ahead. To be confident about it in a way she couldn't be.

Only, for some unaccountable reason that didn't seem to be happening.

Instead, he looked like he was psyching himself up for battle.

He bounced on his toes. Clapped his hands together.

"Okay, so I'll just go for it. I'll just reach forward and take hold of you," he said. But still, he didn't. He just looked nervously at her hands. And back up to her face. And back down to her hands. So now it was on her, again, to make this seem normal.

"Yep. Just go right ahead and touch me."

"And then you'll touch me back."

"I definitely will," she said.

But honestly, she wasn't sure what was going to happen when he tried. It felt like she might scream, or slap his hand away, or maybe even run back into the house. All three possibilities were certainly building inside her, when he took a step forward.

Then he reached out his hand.

And somehow he wasn't forceful about it. He didn't do it firmly, the way she had imagined he would. He did it slowly, in stuttering stages. Like he was waiting for all the things she'd thought she might do: the scream, the slap, the run. And it was only when those reactions didn't immediately happen that he touched her. Just with the tips of his fingers, along the soft side of her hand. No pressure, no sense of him pulling her into anything.

As if he was still waiting for permission.

Even though that was silly, wasn't it? It was just a handshake. Nothing weird about that. And she told him so, by turning into his touch. Only a little, to indicate it was fine. But enough that he would know that it was, and go ahead.

Just get it over with , she thought at him.

And he obviously heard her, because he did. He took her hand in his.

Though took her hand didn't really cover the way it felt.

It was as if everything beyond her wrist had been swallowed up. She couldn't see one hint of her inside that enormous grip. All she could make out were his knuckles, so thick and heavy-boned that they almost seemed to have worn down the skin around them. And his fingers, big enough that they could fold around hers. And the way the thick, lush hair on his forearm had started to spread over his wrist, and downward to the base of his little finger.

Like the wolf had begun to make a mark on him, even when he looked as human as he currently did. And not just in terms of the hair, or the sheer size of him. There was something else too. Something she didn't notice immediately.

But she definitely started to, after a few seconds of his hand surrounding hers.

Because, oh dear god, the heat . The sheer blaze that seemed to be coming from inside him.

It was like he had molten lava for blood. She could feel it radiating through his skin and into hers, in a way that seemed to flood through her. It slid through her body and between her bones, until she started to feel thick with it. Ripe with it. All burned up and sort of blurry around the edges.

"Seth," she tried to say, but somehow it came out slurred.

Like she was in a steam room set to high, and someone had locked the door.

Another ten seconds and she was going to pass out from heat exhaustion—and she couldn't let that happen. He'd think she was all affected by bodily contact with him. Like before, only worse. Because this time, he seemed even less affected than he had by anything else. He was still shaking away at her hand, like he hadn't a care in the world.

Though she had to say, the handshake was going on for a long time. And he didn't seem to be saying a lot. He didn't seem to be doing anything. She couldn't even hear him breathing.

So when she went to pull away, she looked up.

But he wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at their hands. He was staring at them, transfixed, like they were the most fascinating things he'd ever seen. And it was only when she tried to pull away that he stopped. His head jerked up, as if he'd been caught spying on something he shouldn't.

Something filthy, she thought.

Even though that was ridiculous.

It was just a handshake. Nothing more, nothing less.

And if he walked away with one hand clenched and the other held spread open like it had just touched fire, like it had been burned by heated blood she didn't actually have—well.

She would tell herself that it didn't mean a single thing.