Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

VALERIA

M orning broke through my bedroom window, filling the room with pale light. Finally. I'd been up awaiting the sun for hours. My mind churned with a dozen competing thoughts like eddies in the river after a storm.

In the hazy, predawn hours, I'd almost convinced myself last night had been a vivid nightmare. But as I sat up in bed, gazing at the barren forest outside my window, I could feel the tender spot where Gwen's spell had hit my sternum. In the mirror on the wall, I made out the beginnings of a bruise that would be purple by midday.

Gwen Foster was a witch. Gwen Foster was that bright, flickering flame we'd seen in the locator spell, threatening to engulf our coven's little stone. It should've been impossible. Our power was in our blood, ancient and sacred, passed down through generations. Gwen's family had no magic. It was as if she'd just woken up with it. I couldn't wrap my mind around the how, the when, or the intense irony.

And I was baffled by the magic she'd used against me. As far as I knew, sunfire was the only spell that could strike someone down with a column of flames, but Gwen's fire wasn't bright orange like mine. It was silver—a pale, nocturnal brilliance.

I dragged myself out of bed and descended the great staircase. The grandfather clock struck seven as I passed the dining room. I paused to stare at it towering in its shadowy corner. The clock had belonged to Delfina Garcia herself. Like so many things in the Garcia house, its surface was inlaid with a smiling, gilded sun. Above the sun, little clusters of stars adorned the wood. Once, Luke had taught me the names for those stars and the constellations they made. I went to the clock and touched them with a gentle fingertip. Virgo, Libra, Cassiopeia. When Luke had shown me, his hands on top of mine as we'd traced the smooth wood, that sun's smile had seemed warm, inviting. Today, there was something smug about its laughing face, as if it understood perfectly well the poetic justice of last night's events.

I turned away from the clock indignantly and stumbled to the kitchen in pursuit of coffee. While the French press steeped, I opened Instagram. I'd posted a photo of me and Michael Boyd before the dance. My red lipstick shimmered; my hair lay perfectly over my beaded gown. How much simpler things had been a mere twelve hours ago. I scanned the comments. It seemed I wasn't the only member of the student body trying to process what happened at the dance.

Cute pic, but who saw Luke Nichols with Gwen Foster?

Strangest couple ever, but I'm kind of here for it. Does this mean beauty is out and weird is in?

Yes, please! Gwen had a #glowup

I put the phone down on the kitchen table with a bang, bitterness settling in my stomach. Luke and I understood each other's loneliness, if nothing else. When he dumped me, it had killed me to know he'd rather be alone than with me. Now, he'd rather be with Gwen Foster. This was a new ring of hell I was completely unprepared for.

I hated Gwen for everything that happened last night. For her fingers in Luke's hair. For her mouth on his. For the silver flash in her dark eyes as she lit that match with her power. But a secret part of me remembered Gwen as she'd been when the forest was ours: scabs on her bony knees, the two of us laughing as she boosted me up the trunk of a young evergreen. In those days, she was so wild and unafraid that it had made me believe I could be that way too. In all the years that followed, I'd never had another friend like her. Perhaps I'd never had another friend at all.

Footsteps on the stairs jolted me from the bleakness of my thoughts. My mom appeared in the kitchen.

"You're up early," she said. "Didn't you have a dance last night?"

"Yeah, I just…couldn't sleep." I poured a cup of coffee and retreated to the end of the kitchen table.

She would find out about Gwen's little magic show soon enough. Word traveled fast through our coven. But as she stood in the kitchen, silk robe cinched at her waist, dark circles beneath her eyes, I decided she wouldn't hear it from me. I couldn't deal with the barrage of questions that would follow, questions I didn't know how to answer. But maybe she could answer one for me.

"Mom?" I began as casually as I could. "Have you ever heard of a spell that makes silver flames?"

She turned to me curiously as she poured the remainder of the coffee into her favorite red mug.

"Moonfire," she said. "It's a defensive spell like ours and just as rare. The source of its power is the moon, rather than the sun."

"Our ancestors got pretty creative when they named these spells, didn't they?" I replied.

She shrugged weakly, uninterested in my sarcasm this early in the morning. Or ever, really.

"So," I went on, my pulse quickening just a little, "if you have moonfire, does that make you a protector like us?"

"It could. It's a powerful spell for a powerful witch. But we've never had any families with moonfire in our coven"—she paused a moment, her eyes on the trees outside the window—"as far as I know." I could see impatience gathering in her brow. "Valeria, I have to leave to meet an investor in"—she checked her Rolex—"twenty-eight minutes. Is there a reason for this line of questioning?"

My phone buzzed. A message from Petra appeared on the screen. I have news from the great beyond. You can thank me in person.

I stood, practically tipping over my chair.

"No reason, Mom. Gotta go!"

I grabbed my shoes and headed to the door, leaving her standing there with a look of perplexed irritation on her face.

Petra's house wasn't a far walk through the forest. I went out the back door. My garden's short green grass and landscaped azalea bushes were as vibrant as ever, but the dead tree line loomed before me. I had the weird urge to hold my breath as I stepped into the crooked shadows of a hundred bare branches. I was pretty sure I'd never get used to seeing the forest like this. The silence seemed to press in around me. I kept my head down and walked west until Petra's house appeared through the trees.

Her garden was less contained than mine, a mess of rock and vines. In the center of that natural disarray sat Petra, eyes closed, an old wooden talking board in front of her. Her fingers, decorated with chipped blue polish, hovered above the planchette. She exhaled and the planchette began to glide over the ancient carved letters.

My toe caught on a loose stone, and I stumbled forward, twigs cracking beneath my feet. Her eyes fluttered open.

"You can't resist making an entrance, can you?" she said with a wry smile.

"Did I ruin your concentration?"

She shrugged. "They were getting sick of me anyway."

I pointed to the talking board. "Who are you communicating with?"

"Spiiiiirits from beyond the veil," she replied like the narrator in some low-budget horror movie. Then she grew serious. "I think they're our ancestors, like, the coven members who came before us. This bad stuff that's going down—it's old."

"Old?"

"Yeah, it's a whole feeling I'm getting. This thing goes way back to the coven's early days."

"So did you ask these spirits what the hell is going on?" I said impatiently.

She looked at me as if I'd just asked for a Top 40 album at her favorite indie record store.

"Specific questions are way too needy. It pisses them off. You just have to"—she closed her eyes again—"let them know you're here and you're open. It's like those damn spirits have all the knowledge, but all they'll give the living are crumbs. Vague, maddening crumbs."

"Oka-a-y," I said. "And what crumbs did you pick up?"

"Malevolent magic," she said. "That's the type of magic that took our parents' power."

"Malevolent magic," I repeated.

"It's bad. You know how we draw power from different natural elements, crystals, herbs, the sun ?" She pointed at me like I was exhibit A. "Well, malevolent magic doesn't come from anything in nature. It comes from anger, hate, jealousy—all the harmful stuff we keep inside."

An old fountain stood in the center of Petra's garden, water cascading over its crumbling tiers. I raised a nervous hand and pulled a water droplet to my palm, letting it float above my fingers.

"Sounds lovely. What else?"

"That's all I got on malevolent magic and you should be grateful, 'cause it wasn't easy. Now, moving on to Gwen Foster?—"

"So you've heard."

"Yeah, Jayden called me and relayed the whole story last night. I never thought I'd regret skipping a high school dance, but I stand corrected," she said. "Okay, brace yourself because I have a bombshell and I cannot wait to drop it. Last night, when I found out about Gwen's sudden powers, I jumped back on the talking board—you know, to put the WTF vibes out there. Well, over and over, the talking board kept spelling midsummer ."

"What's Midsummer got to do with anything?"

"I couldn't figure it out either. Then I remembered there's this book, a Shakespeare play in my parents' study. A Midsummer Night's Dream . This thing is old—like, it's probably been sitting on that shelf since the dawn of time."

"Since the coven's early days," I said, flicking the water droplet into the grass at my feet.

"Yup. I opened it and I found a letter tucked into the pages. Some Victorian predecessor of mine must have used it as a bookmark."

From her back pocket, she withdrew a yellowed piece of paper and handed it to me. Deep creases ran across the page as if it had spent a century folded somewhere dark and quiet. I began to scan the flowery, ink-spotted script.

"It was written by my great-great-great-great grandmother, Mary Sarich, in 1880, twenty years after our coven founded Dorado. It's mostly about her boring trip to San Francisco. Probably took her like three weeks to get there via covered wagon. But look."

She rose to stand beside me and pointed to a faded paragraph. I took a breath and read.

I passed a woman in the street yesterday. She was destitute and mad. She made me think of poor Elizabeth Foster, whose power was revoked by our coven many years past. Elizabeth walks the streets in town like a mad woman, weeping and speaking aloud to no one. I can imagine no greater shame that could befall a witch. I fear all her children and her children's children will be destined to endure lives of equal misery, for it is truly against nature for those with witches' blood to live deprived of their powers.

I pulled my finger away from the page as if it had burned me.

"What—?" I began, but I had no words to finish the question.

"Get it? Gwen Foster is descended from Elizabeth Foster," Petra said. "She's descended from witches."

I gave her a cold stare. "I think I'm getting it."

"Our coven took Elizabeth's powers!" Petra announced, flinging the hair from her face triumphantly.

I'd seen Gwen's dad around town dozens of times. There was an emptiness in his wide, strung-out eyes. It was the same emptiness I could make out in my parents' eyes ever since they'd lost their powers. The Fosters had been tragic, miserable people for as long as anyone in town could remember.

"That's why her family's always had a few screws loose," I concluded aloud.

"Can you blame them?" she replied. "Ever since they lost their magic, it's like this piece of them has been missing. They forgot what it was generations ago, but they never stopped missing it."

My mind reeled. It was barely eight in the morning, and somehow, the mysteries surrounding Gwen had grown even more confounding.

"Why did the coven revoke Elizabeth's powers? There must have been a reason."

"It doesn't say. I've read the letter front to back. This is the only mention of the Fosters. But"—Petra's expression grew distant—"there's another letter we need to find. When I was on the talking board last night, this image kept appearing to me. Old yellowing paper covered in inky cursive. I think it's a love letter."

"A love letter?" I said skeptically.

"Yup. That's the energy I got from it. And I could sense its importance. I think it holds a lot of the answers we're after."

"Great," I said, leaning forward intently. "Where is it?"

She looked away, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't know. It might not even exist anymore. It might…have burned a long time ago."

"What?"

"When I saw it in my mind it was on fire, okay?"

"Oh," I replied, a hint of my mother's trademarked disapproval in my tone. "Isn't that helpful."

I wondered at this letter between lovers, its pages engulfed in flames. But there was already too much to puzzle over. My mind quickly jumped back to suspicion.

To Gwen.

"Our parents lose their powers and Gwen becomes a witch overnight? The timing is questionable." I pulled another drop from the fountain, letting it swirl uneasily above my palm. "She must have taken their magic. Some kind of spell or ritual to get powers for herself."

The thought had been rattling around in my head all morning, even before this new revelation. It felt good to say it out loud.

"Did you hear anything I said a minute ago?" Petra protested. "Malevolent magic took our parents' powers. So unless that silver flame thing she did last night is malevolent magic…"

"It's not," I replied, a little disappointed. "It's called moonfire."

"Cool," she said. "Like your thing, but with the moon."

I glared at her. "Yup, like my thing."

"Okay, so if Gwen didn't have magic to begin with, how'd she do a spell to get it?" Petra said, raising a brow beneath her shaggy bangs.

"I don't know! But it's the most logical possibility."

"The universe is full of possibilities," she replied. "Maybe she did it without even realizing it. Maybe she made a wish on a cursed dandelion or something."

I rolled my eyes. "Somebody chopped that tree down in the forest. You saw the leftovers of the ritual yourself. It had to be her."

Even as I said the words, I felt doubt tug at my insides. I'd seen the look of surprise on Gwen's face when those silver flames shot from her fingers.

"Fine," I admitted, irritation rising in my voice. " Maybe there's a chance she didn't know about her powers, but that doesn't make her any less dangerous."

"And this suspicion of yours has nothing to do with the fact that Gwen made out with your ex last night?"

Of course it did. As I'd lain in bed in that dark, predawn delirium, it wasn't the thought of Gwen's magic that kept me awake. It was the image of Luke as they danced, his face alight with a happiness I'd never seen before, his eyes on Gwen like he'd finally found something precious. Luke never looked at me that way.

"This has nothing to do with…who she chooses to date. I just don't trust her. She spends years moping around school, avoiding everyone in her path. She could have been planning this the whole time."

"So you think she had a two-part plan? Do some seriously evil magic, then throw on a pretty dress and go to a dance with your man?"

"The dress was not pretty," I corrected. "And her hair was a mess. Don't listen to the hype. Her makeover was unimpressive."

"From what I hear, Luke was impressed."

I shot the floating water drop right at Petra's forehead. She wiped it away with an unbothered grin.

"Luke hasn't been thinking clearly lately," I sneered. "He breaks up with the hottest girl in school, and now he's into a gangly, flat-chested weirdo?"

"Val—" Petra tried to interrupt.

"Who wears black to homecoming?" I went on, ignoring her. "She looked like she was going to a funeral."

"Val—"

"And who wears open-toe shoes with no pedicure ?!" I hurled the question at her with righteous indignation.

"Valeria, shut up!" Petra threw her hands in the air as if she'd just flipped an invisible table. "I don't care about her hair, or her boobs, or her toes! Maybe if you spent less time on your petty rivalry and more time worrying about the coven?—"

She looked away, unwilling to finish her thought.

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. My cheeks were hot.

"Listen, all I'm saying is maybe Gwen isn't your enemy. There are far bigger foes in this world than the girl who stole your boyfriend."

"She didn't steal him." I swallowed, my throat squeezing tight around the sobs that wanted to come. I felt stupid and mean and alone.

"Aw, come on. I was only hard on you 'cause you deserved it. You wanna talk about it and braid each other's hair or something?" Petra said, patting the grass beside her.

"No."

"Thank god," she sighed.

The sky was getting bluer overhead. The fountain bubbled a peaceful song. From her back pocket, she withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one with a silver Zippo.

I sat down next to her, my legs crossed.

"Why do you smoke those when you know they'll kill you?" I asked. There was no judgment in my question, only curiosity.

She gave me a strange little shrug. "Life is short," she replied. "Some lives are, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. Just more crumbs."

She leaned back on her elbows as she exhaled. Her hair fell away from her brow, and for once, I saw her eyes clearly. They were gray in the morning sunlight. She looked fragile like this, her vulnerability laid bare.

Despite myself, I recalled the vow I'd made the morning after I'd tormented Gwen on the quad. I'd sworn I would treat her better, show her compassion. Part of me still wanted to honor that promise. But everything was different now. Gwen wasn't my innocent victim any longer. Perhaps she never had been.

"What am I gonna do?"

The question wasn't directed at Petra, but she flicked some ash into the grass and said, "Try not being a dick."

The sound of crunching leaves broke the silence and Jayden emerged from the forest, a startled look on his face.

"Jayden?" I said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

He held up a metallic thermos with one purple-nailed hand. "On Saturday mornings, me and Petra drink elderflower tea and gossip about everyone. What are you doing here?"

I rose to my feet suddenly. "I was just leaving."

"Hey, don't go. I thought we were having a moment!" Petra protested.

"There's another moment I need to have," I replied. "And believe me, I'm not looking forward to it."

A few minutes later, I was trudging back through the forest, hundreds of dry pine needles crunching beneath my feet. The tears that had threatened to fall in Petra's garden had retreated, but her words rang in my head, mingling with the myriad of conflicting thoughts already bouncing around in there. I couldn't bring myself to trust Gwen now, but I had to admit—the girl I'd known in the forest had been immensely kind. I walked on, my steps quickening until Luke's house appeared.

Luke's house was a rambling, white, ivy-covered structure. The ivy, like the rest of the house, seemed to wind itself around a central tower, topped with a dome-shaped observatory. Yes, an observatory. The Nichols family's particular magical talents lay in astrology. It wasn't the kind of astrology you'd find in the back of gossip magazines. Luke loved the stars; he recognized the constellations like old friends. And sometimes he saw things in the night sky—things that had yet to happen.

Last year, not long after our midnight trip to the coast, he strolled up to me at school and said, "Ever seen an aurora?"

"A what?" I replied.

He shot me a sly grin. "My place, midnight."

At 11:58 that night, I'd quietly lifted the latch to the iron gate that bordered Luke's property. By now, we had an understanding. If his dad found out Luke's girlfriend had stopped by for a midnight visit, he would melt down like ganache over a double boiler, so Luke had moved a tall ivy trellis, leaning it conveniently beneath his bedroom window. His light was on, its glow warming the surrounding darkness. He'd been waiting for me.

A little rebellious thrill had run through me as I ascended the trellis toward his windowsill and slid the pane up. Once inside, he'd led me silently by the hand up the winding stairs to the observatory, the hum of night insects drowning out the sounds of our hushed footsteps.

"Look." He stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders, positioning me beneath the observatory's glass ceiling.

"What am I looking for?"

"Just wait."

The sky had lit up with brilliant waves of color—red and yellow, crimson and rose. Stars speckled the horizon like glittering shards of a mirror. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, the kind of beauty that makes you feel small and unimportant.

"I didn't know this was supposed to happen tonight," I'd whispered.

"These things aren't easy to predict," he'd replied. But Luke had predicted it. Down to the minute.

He'd slid his arms around me, his lips on my neck as the lights danced above us. I'd leaned into his kiss, pressing myself against his beating heart as if trying to fold myself inside it.

The bittersweet memory faded, and suddenly I thought of the eclipse. It was still over a month away, but I knew that when the moment came, I would feel Luke's absence like a thorn in my heart. I had imagined he and I would watch the darkness fall from the observatory's stony deck, his arms around me and his low voice in my ear, speaking of celestial things. Now I wondered if I'd spend the day alone in my room as the shadows gathered in the dead forest below.

I lifted the latch on Luke's gate. There was no giddy anticipation today, only dread in the pit of my stomach. The ivy seemed thicker, as if its green expanse claimed a little more of the house's white walls with every passing day. I skipped the trellis and walked up the steps to Luke's heavy wooden door.

I knocked once. There was a sound from behind the door—furniture creaking, followed by heavy footsteps. Alexis Nichols opened the door.

Luke's father had always been dapper in a dorky sort of way, but today his hair hung in unruly waves, and he squinted as the daylight touched his face.

"Valeria," he said, an unfamiliar rasp in his voice. "It's always a pleasure. Come on in."

Mr. Nichols wore a bathrobe over silk pajamas. I had the sneaking suspicion he'd been in pajamas for days. Possibly these pajamas.

"Thanks," I said, stepping into the foyer. "Is Luke home? I need to talk to him."

"Luke! You have a visitor," Mr. Nichols called up the winding wooden staircase before turning back to me. "Do—do you have any news? About how to get our powers back, I mean." I detected a note of desperation in his voice. It made me cringe a little.

"Um, not exactly."

An enormous chandelier hung above us in the foyer. I'd always loved its sparkling layers of crystal, the way it cast tiny rainbows over the walls. I trained my eyes on it now so I didn't have to look at Mr. Nichols. His slumped shoulders and obvious lapse in self-care reminded me too much of my own parents.

"I understand, I understand. I'm sure you'll get it sorted out. You've always been a bright girl."

He closed the door behind me and returned to the kitchen, his slippers shuffling on the hardwood floor.

"Oh!" he called as if he'd just remembered. "I made croissants. I hope you'll take one. I've made too many, as usual." I heard the sound of silverware tumbling to the floor and his strained exhale as he bent to retrieve it. "And take some home to your mother!"

"Um, sure. Thanks, Mr. Nichols," I mumbled.

"Valeria?"

Luke stood at the top of the stairs, not bothering to hide the look of surprise on his face. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt that fit him superbly. I stood in the foyer, looking at him for what felt like an inappropriate amount of time.

"Can we talk?" I said at last.

"Sure. Come up to my room."

"Keep the door open a crack, you lovebirds!" Mr. Nichols called from the kitchen.

So Luke hadn't bothered to tell his dad about our breakup. We both stood there a moment, frozen with humiliation, and then I climbed the stairs to meet him.

It was strange to find myself in Luke's room again. The familiar scent of pine and clean linen greeted me; the same leather jacket was slung over the chair. Everything about the room was familiar except the way we stood now, alone in opposite corners. We watched each other, neither of us speaking, until at last, I couldn't hold back any longer.

"You certainly move on quickly," I said, keeping my tone as casual as if I was commenting on the weather.

His cheeks flushed a little, but he still looked me in the eye, waiting for me to continue.

"And you went from me to Gwen Foster. That's quite a switch." Idly, I unfastened my ponytail, shaking my glossy hair free and letting it cascade over my shoulders. "Some might say you're a man of diverse tastes. Personally, I think you've lost your mind."

I held my chin high, waiting to see what my words would do to him, but in my chest, my heart beat like a wounded bird. He didn't flinch. He'd been expecting this.

"With all due respect, Val, who I go to a dance with is none of your business. Besides, don't we have something more important to talk about? Gwen's a?—"

"I know," I interrupted, unwilling to hear the word from his lips. "That's why I'm here. I need to speak to her. I don't think she'll see me right now unless I'm with you."

He eyed me like I was a cartoon villain who was about to announce my evil plan. "What are you going to do to her now?'

I took a deep breath and forced the words out. "I'm going to invite her to her initiation."