Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(3)

Fuck.

Today was supposed to be my day. I spent so many months working toward this. There is no backup plan, except to reapply again in another four months.

I mean to get up, but my ass is rooted to this chair.

“Selene?” the head witch says. “Thank you for your time.” Just the way she says it is supposed to be hint enough. She wants me to leave. The next interviewee might already be waiting out in the hall.

Emotion tightens my throat, and my hands are clasped so tightly, it hurts.

“I contest your rejection,” I say, staring up at the head witch.

She pauses a moment, then lets out an incredulous laugh. “You’re a soothsayer now? You peered into the future and saw your results?”

I didn’t need to, though her biting response is confirmation enough.

Before I can let it get to me, I straighten my spine. “I contest it,” I repeat.

She shakes her head. “That’s not how it works.”

Now I do stand, placing my palms on the desk. “I may not have the best memory, but I am persistent, and I can promise you one thing: I will keep applying and keep coming back here until you reconsider.”

It’s my toxic trait not to give up.

“If I may interrupt,” says one of the other women. It’s the witch with the wiry hair. “You might not remember me, but I am Constance Sternfallow.”

She flashes me a tight smile. “I think you are a fantastic candidate,” she says, “but your application is flawed in a couple of critical places. You need a better magic quest than the one you’ve submitted, and you need a familiar. I know it says that’s optional, but really, we do require it in most cases.”

Constance glances at the other women sitting at the table. One of them gives her a slight nod.

Returning her attention to me, Constance says, “If you can provide those two things—”

“Constance,” the head witch cautions.

“—then, Selene Bowers,” Constance continues, ignoring her, “you will be formally accepted to Henbane Coven.”





CHAPTER 2





All magic comes at a cost.

For sorcerers, it’s their conscience. For shape-shifters, it’s their physical form. For me, it’s my memory.

I’m a bit of an oddity among witches. For the vast majority of them, the spell components pay for their magic. And if it doesn’t, the rest comes from their ever-replenishing life force. And while my own power follows the same rules, it also takes a few memories while it’s at it.

It wasn’t always this way for me. I had a normal childhood—well, as normal as one can have when their mother’s a witch and their father’s a mage—but ever since I hit puberty and my magic Awoke, it’s been this way.

I step out of Morgana Hall, staring up at the cloudy sky, excitement and gut-churning anxiety twisting my insides.

I pull out my notebook and flip to the first blank page. As fast as I can, I scribble down the important bits:

August 29

Had the interview. A witch named Constance Sternfallow said you will be accepted if you can meet the following two requirements:

1. Go on a bomb-ass magic quest

2. Get a familiar





I try not to hurl as I stare down at what feel like two insurmountable demands. Magic quests are incredibly subjective; I’ll be at the whim of whoever reads my paper on the experience. And finding a familiar, a witch’s magical animal counterpart, is much harder than it seems on the surface.

I take a deep breath.

It’ll be fine. It’s always fine. I’m smart, and creative, and crafty as hell. I’ll manifest the shit out of this.

Shoving the notebook back into my bag, I glance at another dark Gothic building to my left. This is the coven’s residence hall for attending witches, and it’s where my best friend currently lives.

I cut across the grass to it.

As I approach, I pass two massive lamassu—sphinxlike stone statues with a woman’s head and a lion’s body—that stand on either side of the porch, the hybrid creatures protecting the threshold of the house.

Ahead of me, the door opens, and a group of witches pours out, chatting among themselves. I rush over before the door can close behind them, and after catching it, I slip in.

Today, the residence hall smells like mint and fresh bread, and I can see wisps of red-orange magic drifting from the spellcasting kitchen to my left, where one of the coven sisters must be baking something literally magical.

All supernaturals have some identifying marker to their magic—a color, a smell, a texture. It varies depending on the type of being you are. Witches and mages in particular are known for having colored magic—supposedly no two hues are exactly alike. And only witches and mages—and a few other select supernaturals—can see these magical differences.

I nearly go snooping around the house, drawn in by the sight of magic and the cozy feel of the place. It’s been a long time since I lived among other witches, and I miss the way their power calls to my own.

Instead of exploring, I cross the foyer to the staircase ahead of me and climb it. Sybil lives in one of the many rooms on the second floor. When I get to it, I call out, “Sybil—it’s me!” then promptly enter.

At first, all I see is the greenery. Her room is a mess of plants, shelf after shelf filled to bursting with whatever species she’s currently fascinated with. The vined plants snake around the room, twining around framed photos and light fixtures. It’s probably some sort of fire hazard, but then, from the faint pale purple shimmer of magic above me, Sybil might’ve already warded the room against that.