I click it.
Oklahoma City—that’s…hmmm. Could I make that work?
Nah, probably not.
I filter the results to just international flights and begin looking again.
Reykjavík—don’t they have natural hot springs? Sounds nice.
Venice—I don’t know. It seems magical, but not in any sort of wild, natural way.
London. Paris. Athens.
I rub my head. All these are faraway destinations, but none of them fit the bill.
I take another swig of wine. Perhaps tonight is not the night.
I’ll sleep on it and hopefully come up with something tomorrow.
“Great Goddess’s left tit.”
I stare at the receipt for the nonrefundable plane tickets and the nonrefundable cruise I booked to the Galapagos Islands.
I mean, high-five drunk Selene for finding a destination I would legitimately love to visit.
But also, what in the actual fuck, drunk Selene?
A cruise? How did we even afford this?
One look at my credit card alerts me that we did not, in fact, afford this. Drunk Selene simply decided that future Selene would have to figure it out.
I spend a good ten minutes trying not to hyperventilate.
Maybe I can work overtime until kingdom come so I can pay this off. Or I could try to find more magical odd jobs. Those helped pay the bills this past year when money from my restaurant work didn’t quite cover it.
I take in the trip itinerary again.
This is what I get for drunkenly buying myself a magical quest.
It’ll be all right—I’ll fly to Ecuador, board the boat, enjoy the hell out of the cruise, try desperately to bond with some creature—any creature—willing to be my familiar, and then return to the States, where I’ll present my magic quest and my newly acquired familiar to the coven. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
I write all this information down in my journal and blow out a breath.
South America, here I come.
CHAPTER 3
I gaze out the airplane’s window, taking in the thick mass of clouds stretching off in the distance. Now that I’m actually in the sky and on my way, my excitement is sinking in.
I’m going to the Galapagos Islands. Forget travel expenses or magical quests—these largely uninhabited isles have been on my bucket list for a while.
When the view of clouds, and more clouds, and oh, look, more clouds, gets boring, I let my mind drift back to when I first became a witch.
Over three years ago, shortly after I began attending Peel Academy, a boarding school for supernaturals, I—and every other new student—went through an induction ceremony: the Awakening. For supernaturals this is an age-old tradition, one that manifests our latent powers.
We’re given a draught of bittersweet, and the potion brings to life our paranormal aspects. That’s when I first felt my magic stir within me, and it was when I learned of the steep cost it demands.
I return my attention to the book in my lap—Multifunctional Magic: Ingredients and Rhymes to Apply to Everyday Spellcasting. Because my mind is not always reliable, I have what I fondly like to call adaptive magic. Fancy for I’m just going to feel things out and wing it. I don’t mean to brag, but it has about a 62 percent success rate.
And honestly, that’s better than nothing.
But I’m hoping the more I study and learn, the more I can actually ease off my innate abilities and draw on things like lunar phases, crystals, spell ingredients, and incantations. I have to believe that the more knowledge I commit to my mind, the harder it will be for my power to completely erase it.
Empress…
I pause, a scowl pulling at the edges of my lips.
Did I just hear something?
A whisper of magic brushes against my skin, drawing out goose bumps.
Come…to…me…
I set my pen down.
Okay, what the fuck was that?
I glance around to see if anybody noticed. Most of the other passengers are sleeping or watching something on their personal TVs. I do, however, catch sight of a plume of indigo magic snaking down the aisle.
Is someone spellcasting—？
EMPRESS!
The plane lurches, and the deep-blue magic now lunges for me, the cloudy wisps of it twining up my legs and around my waist. I bite back a yelp when I see the dark strands of it moving higher and higher by the second, obscuring the bottom half of my body.
I spare the people around me a quick glance, but though a few passengers are looking around, no one else seems to see the magic causing the disturbance or the fact it’s only clinging to me.
I make an absurd attempt to push it away, but the magic is as ephemeral as smoke, and my hands move right through it. The man seated next to me gives me an arch look. Nonmagical humans can’t see power the way witches can. I’m sure I look ridiculous swatting at nothing.