Magic has always been there, humming under my skin. Not dramatic, not fireworks in the sky, just little things at first. Candles leaning toward me when I walk past. Dreams that felt more like warnings than fantasies. The kind of stuff you can't really explain without sounding crazy. I didn't ask for it. I didn't earn it. It's just... me.
I love the spells, the potions, the thrill of casting something ancient and feeling it ripple through the air. I love that I'm rising to the top of my classes, finally stepping into what I was born to do.
But I hate the assignments.
Specifically, the ones that require me to shadow an experienced witch.
Victoria Langford is the kind of witch you don't forget.
Not because she's powerful, even though she is, but because she leaves a mark. Not a bruise, not a scar. More like a residue, the kind of feeling that sticks to you long after she's gone. The way smoke hangs on your clothes or regret settles in your chest.
She's my assigned mentor for fieldwork. Lucky me.
The first time I met her, she didn't speak, just stared at me with eyes like wet ash, her pupils so pale they looked almost silver. Her skin was the color of old parchment, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones and a jaw that never seemed permanently clenched. Her hair was a tangled mess of gray and black, pulled back with a bone pin that looked suspiciously real.
She smelled like damp earth and rusted iron.
I remember thinking she looked like someone who'd already been buried once and refused to stay down. And I wasn't the only one who thought it; people whispered about her in the hallways, saying she had that look, that edge, like death had brushed past her and she'd stared him down.
I had to meet her today at a house on the far side of town, the kind of place people only passed when they were lost. The shutters sagged, the paint peeled, and the whole street felt forgotten. I was getting the heebie jeebies just standing there as she stared at the house in front of us.
She finally spoke after what felt like five minutes of heavy silence. Her voice came out low, rough. It wasn't the kind of voice you expected from her, and it left me with the uneasy sense that whatever spoke wasn't entirely her.
"You'll watch. You'll learn. You'll speak of this to no one."
I nodded. What else could I do?
That first assignment was a cleansing. Or at least, that's what she called it. A family had reported strange activity in their home—cold spots, flickering lights, whispers in the walls. I expected sage, salt, maybe a chant or two.
Instead, Victoria brought a crow in a burlap sack. The crow crying out, trying to escape.
She pulled the crow out and slit its throat over the threshold and muttered something in a language I didn't yet understand. The blood steamed as it hit the floor. The family watched from the kitchen, horrified. I stood frozen, my stomach churning.
Afterward, she told me the crow was a "conduit." She said it is used to absorb negative energy.
I didn't sleep that night.
Since then, I've seen her do worse. Bones buried under moonlight. Nails driven into wax dolls. Once, she made me hold a jar of teeth while she summoned something I couldn't see but could definitely feel.
She never explains. Never teaches. Just commands.
And always, the same warning: "Tell no one."
I haven't. Not my professors. Not even my mother.
Because Victoria doesn't just scare me, she knows things. Things she shouldn't. She once mentioned my grandmother by name. Said Lottie "had a promising future, before she got soft."
I didn't ask what she meant.
I didn't want to know.
Today, I'm supposed to meet her behind the old greenhouse on the academy grounds. It's been abandoned for years, overrun with ivy and moss. The glass is cracked, and the door is rusted shut. But Victoria has a key. Of course she does.
She's already there when I arrive, crouched beside a circle of stones etched with runes. There's a small fire burning in the center, and something wrapped in cloth beside it.
She doesn't look up.
"You're late."
"I'm on time," I say, checking my watch.
She smiles without humor. "Time bends for witches. You'll learn that."
I don't respond. I watch as she unwraps the cloth. Inside is a small animal—maybe a rabbit, perhaps a squirrel. It's hard to tell. It's already dead.
I take a step back. "Nope. No. Not going to happen. We're not doing that again."
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are darker today, like storm clouds before a tornado.
"You want power, don't you?"
"I want knowledge. Control. Not whatever this is." Making a gesture with my hands toward her and the dead animal.
She stands slowly, the firelight casting shadows across her face. "There is no control without sacrifice. No knowledge without risk. You think your mother is teaching you everything? She taught you to be safe. I'm teaching you to be strong."
I clench my fists. "There's a difference between strength and cruelty."
Victoria steps closer, and the air shifts, colder, heavier, like it's weighing me down. "You're not ready," she says, her words cutting clean. "You think you are, but you're still soft. Still afraid. Just like Lottie was, in the end."
My breath catches. "Leave her out of this."
Her smile is small, almost pitying. "She tried to protect you. From your dreams. From your bloodline. But you can't hide forever. What's in you will always find its way out."
The words sink into me like ice water. I don't understand what she's really saying, and part of me prays I never will.
She turns back to the fire. "Go. We're done for today. But next time, you'll bring something of your own. Something that bleeds."
I walk away without looking back.
But her words follow me.
What's in you will always find its way out.
I turn on my heel and walk away from Victoria, pulse hammering, jaw tight. No matter what I say, she twists it into something sharp. I need the air. Space. Anything else to think about.
This is the first year I've actually looked forward to school vacation. It starts on June twenty-second, my birthday. My plan is simple: sleep as much as humanly possible, only getting up for food and bathroom breaks, and definitely not to see Victoria or listen to her lecture me about "essential witch practices."
Shelby's picking me up today. We're going shopping for ball accessories, shoes, jewelry, and maybe a new clutch. She's the only person outside my family who knows I'm a witch. Telling her wasn't easy. I had to beg my mother for permission, and even then, she said no more times than I could count.
Eventually, she relented. But only after making me swear, Shelby would never speak of it to anyone.
I don't know why she was so afraid. It's not like we live in the 1600s. No one's going to burn me at the stake.
Shelby's never judged me. If anything, she's fascinated. She loves hearing about my classes, my assignments, and the spells I've learned. She laughs when I tell her how my potions smell like dead animals or gym socks. She's the only one who makes the weirdness feel normal.
Her little blue Volkswagen screeches to a halt inches from my feet. I climb in, drop my bag at my feet, and lean my head back against the seat.
It's been a long morning.
"I tried to cast a protection charm on a teddy bear," I mumble. "It caught fire."
Shelby's eyes widened. "You what?"
"Don't ask."
She snorts. "Okay, pyromancer. Where to?"
"Wherever the shoes are cheap and the coffee is strong."
We end up at the outlets, wandering from store to store, trying on everything from glittery heels to combat boots. After a few hours, we find them—the shoes. Midnight blue, covered in tiny sparkles, with a heel that makes Shelby's legs look like they go on forever.
She twirls in front of the mirror, grinning. "I look like a goddess."
"You look like trouble," I say, smirking.
Shelby's always been beautiful. Her dark chocolate hair falls in perfect curls just past her shoulders. Her bangs frame her heart-shaped face, and her skin glows like she's permanently kissed by the sun. She has this effortless confidence that draws people in.
I've always admired that about her.
We grab iced coffees and sit on a bench outside the food court, watching people pass by. Shelby's talking about the ball—how she wants to do her hair, what Evan's wearing, whether or not she should wear a mask with feathers.
I nod along, but my mind is elsewhere.
Victoria. The nightmares. The pendant around my neck.
And Lottie.
My grandmother's name feels like a spell in itself—heavy, ancient, dangerous.
I haven't seen her since we were in the basement. Since she took something from me. A memory. A dream. A piece of my soul.
As I wear the pendant she gave me. The silver crescent moon, etched with runes I've never been able to translate. She said it would protect me from "the things that live between dreams."
I didn't understand what she meant.
But now, with the nightmares returning, I think I'm starting to.