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.
She sits at her desk, her barn owl, Merlin, perched on her shoulder. When she hears me, she swivels around in her chair, causing her familiar to flutter his feathers before resettling.
“Selene!” she says. “Shit, is your interview already over? How did it go?”
I drop my bag and shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Sybil’s face falls a little. “Is that ‘I don’t know because I don’t remember’ or ‘I don’t know because I don’t know how to feel about it’？”
“The latter one,” I say.
I glance out her window, where I can clearly see part of Morgana Hall.
A coven is a strange thing—it’s a bit like a university for witches but also offers affiliated jobs and continuation classes for witches who’ve graduated. There’s also housing for those who prefer to keep their own company, and there’s even a graveyard for witches who want to stay with the coven even into death.
The truth of the matter is that joining a place like Henbane means joining a sisterhood, one that supports you and walks alongside you throughout your life. Who wouldn’t want that? Friendship, belonging, education, and a life that revolves around magic. I’ve yearned for it for as long as I can remember.
“You’ll get in,” Sybil says, drawing my attention back to her.
I give her a sad smile. “They told me my application was missing two requirements: a magic quest—”
Her brows furrow. “But you already had one of those,” she objects.
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t think they liked my Yosemite camping trip experience.”
Sybil makes an annoyed noise. “What more do they want? Mine was one of those group magic quests that the Witches’ Club offered back at Peel Academy,” she says, reminding me of our high school years at the supernatural boarding school. “That was the saddest excuse of a magical quest.”
After a moment, Sybil says, “So they want a different magic quest. Okay, that’s easy enough to arrange. What else?”
“They want me to find my familiar.”
“What?” Now she’s starting to look outraged. “But that’s not even a requirement. I know five witches personally who don’t have familiars. These things take time.”
Sybil’s own familiar tilts his head at me, like he too doesn’t understand.
I press my lips together, not saying what to me seems obvious.