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For Obie & Anna, Ootie & Xing Xing, Space & Coco, Elmo, Ollie, Dr. Mabuse, and Coach & Chief

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Shakespeare, The Tempest

ELDER FUTHARK

Fehu Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two upward diagonal strokes branching from a vertical line, representing cattle. | fehu | cattle
Uruz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling an inverted U with slanted sides, representing an ox. | uruz | ox
Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. | thurisaz | thorn
Ansuz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two diagonal strokes branching downward from a vertical line, representing a god. | ansuz | god
Raido Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling an R with a triangular upper section and diagonal leg, representing a wheel. | raido | wheel
Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. | kenaz | torch
Gebo Elder Futhark rune, a simple X-shaped symbol formed by two crossing diagonal strokes, representing a gift. | gebo | gift
Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. | wunjo | flag
Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. | hagalaz | hail
Nauthiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke crossed near the center by a shorter diagonal line, representing need. | nauthiz | need
Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. | isa | ice
Jera Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol formed by two opposing bent strokes arranged diagonally, representing harvest. | jera | harvest
Eihwaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular zigzag symbol with opposing hooked ends connected diagonally, representing yew. | eihwaz | yew
Perthro Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a vertical stem and outward-pointing upper and lower sections, representing a cauldron. | perthro | cauldron
Algiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical symbol with two upward diagonal branches resembling raised antlers, representing a stag. | algiz | stag
Sowelo Elder Futhark rune, an angular zigzag symbol resembling a stylized lightning bolt, representing the sun. | sowelo | sun
Tiwaz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical line topped by two upward diagonal strokes forming an arrow or spear shape, representing a spear. | tiwaz | spear
Berkana Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two triangular sections attached to a vertical stem, representing birch. | berkana | birch
Ehwaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular M-shaped symbol formed by vertical and diagonal strokes, representing a horse. | ehwaz | horse
Mannaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical sides and crossing diagonal strokes in the center, representing man. | mannaz | man
Laguz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke with a single diagonal branch extending downward from the top, representing water. | laguz | water
Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. | ingwaz | egg
Othala Elder Futhark rune, an angular diamond-shaped symbol with two diagonal legs extending downward, representing home. | othala | home
Dagaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular hourglass-like symbol with vertical sides and crossing diagonal strokes, representing dawn. | dagaz | dawn

CAT

There is a girl in our bed. She is in my spot, making it smell, making him smell. I do not like it. I do not like her.

Your cat is staring at me.

Her voice is cloying, but there is truth in her words.

Ignore her.

He nuzzles her neck, but it is too late. Her eyes lock onto mine, which gleam like malachite in the dark.

She hates me.

She’s a cat.

It is a game we play. He brings them home; I send them away.

He moves lower down her body and her eyes close. Her smell changes, to lust, and pleasure.

I move too.

They do not notice me because I am silent, and they are occupied. His head is between her legs. I settle at the edge of the bed. I am far away enough for him to ignore. I curl forward and groom my belly. Softly, at first. As his vigor increases, and she begins to writhe, so does mine. The lapping of my tongue matches his, loud enough to reach his ears.

I hear him snort.

He is irritated but amused. He does not look up.

This is part of the game.

When the first bird chirps, I stretch and yawn. She is gone. I nudge his hand with my head, purring.

The door is closed, and I need to go out.

He runs his palm over my back and drags me to him. We are curled together. The bed is warm, and the smell of girl is fading.

But the door is closed, and I need to go out.

I put a paw on his foot. The foot must move. The foot does not move. I extend a claw. The foot moves, but not enough. I bite the foot. It kicks at me. I dodge.

This is another game we play.

I bite the foot again, and again.

Fuck!

I win.

I sniff at the bowl, but I do not eat. I stare at him. He stares at me.

You liked it yesterday.

Today I do not.

Dude, are you seriously giving the cat sashimi-grade salmon?

The Other One is at the table, crunching and slurping. His eyes are glazed, and he smells of sweat, mildew, and stale alcohol. He has not slept. He moves too much, even when he is not moving. He is loud and inconsistent. I do not like him.

No. She won’t eat it.

Mine turns and opens the refrigerator, rustling through its miserable contents. Some dried grains of rice flake off the outside of a carton and bounce on the floor. I chase them, for sport. I will not eat them.

He takes something else out. This is different; this is clean and fresh. He opens the box, and the air is filled with fulsome, savory smells.

What is that?

Ground lamb. Brown rice. Peas. It’s supposed to be good for her.

The Other One whistles. The shrillness rings in my ears, making them twitch.

That thing eats better than I do.

Me too.

Mine does not eat in the morning; he only drinks. His drink is strong and dark, earthy and nutty. It lingers on him and has become ingrained in his scent.

But feeding her is in our lease.

“Feeding” being the operative word here, not being her private chef. Whatever happened to good old kibble?

The Other One reaches out to grab me but jumps back when I swipe at him. Sometimes he catches me, and holds me too tight. He pets me too hard, or too soft. He kisses my head, making loud smacking sounds in my ears. Everything about him is irritating.

I hiss.

I thank the gods every day it picked you, not me.

I would never have chosen the Other One to live in my house, but I tolerate him because he came with Mine. There are two more upstairs, but they ignore me, and I them. I prefer them to the Other One.

Because she has good taste. Which is also why I would never give her kibble.

Mine scratches under my chin and puts the new bowl down for me. I test it. It is good.

Speaking of good taste, where’s Grace?

Who?

Who?

Uh, that girl from my geography elective? Blond? Giant pants but very tight top?

Mine looks at him blankly.

We helped her do a keg stand? She came home with you?

Oh.

Oh. She didn’t stay.

Mine is still; the Other One is not. His head is shaking; his leg is bouncing; he is tapping on the table with his fingers. I wish he would stop.

Let me guess. A certain furry demon made her feel less than welcome?

I am not a demon, but Mine looks at me, remembering how she made herself comfortable in our bed. I expressed my displeasure in the form of a hairball I forced from my throat, and into her fur. She left soon after.

His voice was apologetic, but his smell was indifferent. He was tired of her. She had pressed herself too close, trapped him with her weight. She was too in his space.

Something like that.

My bowl is clean. I stand at the back door. I stare at Mine until he opens it to let me out.

I circle the house. I do this every morning and twice at night. The raccoon was here last night, and there is a new bird this morning pecking at the rotting fruit still on the tree. The bird is okay; I am not concerned. I go to the end of the yard, to the shed, and jump to the roof. There is a gap where the slanted roof meets the walls. I squeeze inside, and jump down to the floor.

Then I am—

CLEO

It’s freezing, and I’m naked.

This is not an unusual situation for me to find myself in. Partially because it’s almost always freezing in Massachusetts—like now, it’s that weird time in the middle of fall where everything is deceivingly sunny and dappled and picturesque, but the air is glacial.

But mainly it’s because Cat doesn’t exactly require clothing.

I grab the first thing I see—a vintage black Bjork T-shirt from her Japan tour in 1996. I have mixed feelings about it, not because of the run of tiny moth holes in the shoulders—which only add to its well-worn perfection—but because I started getting targeted ads for cheap reproductions about a week after finding it, which took me literal months of scouring the internet and actual brick-and-mortar vintage stores.

Thong, but no bra. It’s not like I need one. I shimmy on some mostly intact black tights and a pair of ripped jeans over them. I don’t own a lot of clothing that isn’t distressed, intentionally or not. Chunky black cardigan, some extra-thick socks, a beanie, and my Doc Martens complete the outfit. The Docs are new, not vintage, because I take issue with shoes that someone else’s feet have… footed in.

I take my cell off the charger where I left it last night and check the time—7:45. I only have fifteen minutes to get to campus for my stats lecture. That’s right, class at eight a.m. Every day. On purpose. It’s not that I’m a masochist—or, not entirely, anyway—but stacking my mornings frees up my afternoons.

Luckily, it only takes thirty seconds to do my makeup. The nice thing about my “look” is it doesn’t rely on precision. It mostly involves a ton of black eyeliner, mascara, and a couple of dabs of concealer. My hair goes up in a messy bun. It’s shoulder-length, and curly—one might even go as far as to say unruly—and orange. None of the poetic auburn or copper designations for me, I am indisputably ginger.

I grab my coat and try not to snag the sleeve on the unfinished wood of the back door as I shove it closed behind me. Despite being only about a hundred square feet, my shed conveniently has a second door that opens to the back alley, so I don’t have to go skulking through the yard every day. Technically, I did create that convenience by hiring a guy to install the second door. I think it would weird out the tenants to know I live here, and I really need their rent money for my pursuit of higher education or whatever.

Which is why when my aunt died the summer before my freshman year of college, I hosted a killer estate sale, got rid of all her junk, and listed the house for rent. It’s a Victorian monstrosity from the nineteenth century, a shambolic Queen Anne disrupting the tidy procession of tasteful neighboring Colonials. Its peeling paint was once a merry shade of Pepto-Bismol but has since mellowed out into a dirty cotton-candy pink. Fortunately, college kids are less worried about the outdated plumbing and electrical than they are about it being only a couple of blocks away from campus and the T and having a front porch big enough for a beer-pong table.

The rusty little greenhouse in the backyard was replaced with a wooden prefab I ordered online. I slapped some newspaper over the windows, a chunky padlock on the original door to discourage any accidental encounters, and moved in. Most of my remaining earthly belongings are contained in the four plastic totes that hang from the ceiling beams. The floor plan is just big enough for a dresser, wardrobe rack, full-length mirror, and army cot. The cot’s only for emergencies—I almost never sleep in the shed. I usually spend my nights cozied up in my old room, with its current inhabitant—unbeknownst to them. As far as they know, their place comes with a hefty discount for feeding the owner’s cat.

Even with all the layers I’m wearing, the brisk air makes me move faster, motivated by the possibility of getting indoors sooner. Most of my classes are in the same area, the little cluster of interconnected buildings on the east side of campus that make up the Science and Technology Complex. People are usually surprised to hear I’m in the sciences; they expect me to be in something more argumentative like poli-sci or philosophy. But let’s be real. I would flunk out of any class that required me to listen to and consider other people’s asinine opinions.

I make it there in a record eight minutes and forty-three seconds. It would have been faster, if it wasn’t all uphill. I don’t have enough time to stop at the gym for a shower, but I do brush my teeth in the bathroom next to the lecture hall. Nothing worse than sitting next to someone with morning breath, especially when it’s tinged with lamb.

My last class of the day finishes up a little before one, and I meander over to the square for work. I could take the bus, but it’s less than a mile away and it’s nice to get a little vitamin D. It’ll be dark by the time my shift ends.

The animal hospital is in a single-story strip of stores, nestled between a mediocre pizza place and a used appliance store that has so few customers it has to be a front for something. I go in through the back, hang up my coat, and make my way through the cluster of rooms until I get to Reception.

I’m aware it’s a little cute, the cat girl, working at a vet. It gets worse—not only am I doing it for the money but also for class credit toward my undergrad degree in… veterinary science. But I can’t help that I’m good with animals.

Gilly is already at the front desk, because she’s compulsively punctual, but also because we have a deal where the last one there has to do the poop scooping. It’s literally always me. She’s on the phone scheduling a round of rabies shots, but mouths, Hi, as I stuff my bag under the counter and head back down the hallway to the kennels.

I start with the cats, because they appreciate it when my hands are clean and we don’t have any rabbits or birds today. The kitties each get a couple of pets; then I move on to the dogs. There’s a new Jack Russell terrier with a cone on who basically does backflips the whole time he’s waiting for me to get to him, yelping and crying. Holy shit is he needy. After about four point seven five seconds of letting my hand get slobbered on, I pull it away and grimace at the slime.

“Okay, okay. Be cool, will you? You’re going to tear your stitches.”

Gilly pounces on me as soon as I come back out.

“Guess what?”

She’s eating baby marshmallows out of a giant bag, the kind you put in hot cocoa, because Gilly has some weird hang-up over food and only eats dessert and dessert-adjacent items. She’s skinny and has good skin, so people usually think it’s a cute quirk, but it for sure stems from some deep-rooted psychological issues that she should probably get help for. But I don’t give her a hard time about it. Cast the first stone, et cetera.

“We’re switching Doctor Snuffles from the cone to the soft collar because the cone is chafing his neck?”

“No, Cleo. We’re not doing that, because the soft collar is more expensive, so his owners have to request it. As you know. And that’s not what.”

Ignoring her rebuke, I take a soft collar down from the cabinet anyway, like she knew I would. I’ll pay for it myself if the Doctor’s people complain, but it’s a pretty shitty pet owner who won’t shell out an extra twenty bucks to not completely traumatize their animal. I would die if anyone tried to cone-of-shame me—but they would die first.

“So?”

She looks at me expectantly, still waiting for me to guess. Which I don’t need to.

“You met a guy.”

“I met a guy.”

Gilly always meets a guy.

“His name is Elliott. Isn’t that a good name? It suits him. He’s superhot, and sweet, and I think you’ll really like this one.”

“Why would you think that?”

I rarely like Gilly’s guys. And by “rarely,” I mean never. Not one time. She has extremely questionable taste in the opposite sex.

“He’s a drummer, and I actually like his band’s music?”

I nibble on my bottom lip and nod, somewhat encouraged. Drummers are generally okay, even when their bands are total garbage, because they’re used to not being the center of attention and at the very least they have good arms. They might not be the most detail oriented, if you know what I mean, but they’re energetic and enthusiastic. Plus, great rhythm.

“How’d you meet him?”

“He came in to look at some of the adoption fliers, and we started talking. He goes to our school, he’s a junior—a music major—and did I mention, he’s really cute…”

I narrow my eyes at her, suspicious.

“Which fliers?”

She pretends not to hear me, concentrating hard on the computer. I scan the bulletin board by the door. There. Black Lab mix, looking for a forever home, missing exactly one tear-off tab.

“Dog person. Ew.”

“What do you have against dog people! They’re nice!”

I hop up on the counter to sit, cross-legged, and give her a hard stare.

“They’re clingy. They want to hang out, like, all the time. And when you try to soft break up with them, they never get the hint. Then they show up here all teary-eyed because you won’t reply to their messages and I have to do it for you.”

As far as I can tell, Gilly’s type is ‘guys who can’t handle getting dumped,’ because that’s been their only shared quality to date. She’ll go out with athletes, nerds, future politicians, townies—as long as they’re dopey. Dog people.

“But they bring us cupcakes!”

Another unifying trait of Gilly’s suitors is all their love languages seem to be a combination of acts of service and gift giving, mostly in the form of delivering baked goods to her place of work.

“I can buy my own cupcakes. I prefer pie, anyway.”

She gives me an exasperated look.

“When Zack brought me that lemon meringue pie you told him he should have brought cupcakes.”

What can I say, my tastes vary like my mood.

“It doesn’t matter anyhow; Elliott’s landlord doesn’t allow dogs.”

“So, this dude came in here and feigned interest in a poor homeless dog he had absolutely no plans to help as an excuse to talk to the hot girl at the front desk? He sounds great.”

She sticks her tongue out at me.

“Well, I took it as a compliment. That dog is adorable. And we’re hanging out tonight, at his place. But before you say anything, I’m not going to sleep with him!”

“I don’t care if you sleep with him.”

She worries her lip, absently twirling a bleached lock of hair around her index finger.

“But I mean, he should at least buy me dinner first, right? Or else he’s not going to respect me.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking to your sister again.”

Gilly’s sister Jeannie is two years older than us and engaged to her high school sweetheart at the ripe old age of twenty-one. They’re from the Midwest, so I guess it’s not that weird there.

“You’ve had one-night stands before; what’s the big deal? Unless you don’t want to have sex with him, in which case, you shouldn’t.”

“I know… but I don’t think Jeannie is totally wrong, even though obviously like fuck the patriarchy, but still, he is a guy, and part of the archaic system that values modesty and… I don’t want this to be a onetime thing. I want it to work out.”

She rolls her eyes at my grimace.

“Oh, what?”

I shrug my shoulders, hands out at my sides, palms open.

“You know me; I’m not a relationship kind of girl. It’s not in my DNA.”

The thing about boyfriends—or girlfriends, or any kind of long-term romantic partner—is by their very nature they want to be ingrained in every aspect of your life. One minute you’re hooking up on their lumpy futon, the next they’re saying if you think their room is so crappy why don’t we spend more time at your place? Where do you even live? They want you to text them when you aren’t together, and to know where you are all the damn time. Which I oppose on principle, and in practicality could never even begin to deal with.

“I love you, but that’s bullshit, and you know it. When you find someone you want to be with, you’ll make it happen.”

CAT

There is music, and voices. I am in bed. He is not, but he is in the house. He is safe. I doze. The intermittent bursts of laughter disturb me. I go to find him.

There was a beetle today that did not smell completely okay. I tracked it for a while. It did not go under the house where the other beetles go. It went to the street. I killed it before it went down into the sewer. A precaution. There has not been a Not-okay smell in a while. It makes me anxious not to be near him.

The Other One has brought a girl home. She is gentle. She holds her hand out but keeps talking and does not focus on me. Her voice is lyrical. I sniff her hand. She smells sweet, and calm. Why is she with the Other One?

Hi, kitty.

I rub my body against hers. This girl is not like the ones Mine brings home. Is the Other One actually the superior of the two?

Holy shit, she’s letting you pet her. No one touches her.

I touch her.

Mine’s voice is laced with mockery, and maybe even the thinnest sliver of jealousy.

Fine, no one except you.

The girl stays still so I can run her palm down my back. At my tail, she lets her fingers close so her hand catches the whole length. She is comfortable.

What’s her name?

She addresses Mine, not the Other One. It must be clear I do not associate with him. She is smart.

Cat.

Just Cat?

She sounds surprised.

Yup.

Aw. That’s kind of sad. Shouldn’t she have a real name?

It is a real name. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Before her interest was with me, and the chatter was an afterthought, but this changes the order. She looks at Mine, considering him in a new light.

You’ve seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s?

His mouth makes a small smile.

Yeah… hot take—I like the movie better than the book. I guess I’m a sucker for a happy ending…

Wow.

Her hands are distracted, the movements unthinking. I do not want to share her interest, even with Mine. I swipe at her hand.

Ow! Hey!

She frowns at me. The Other One cackles, gratified.

Told you. She’s evil.

Her attention is back to me, but her hands are still retracted, hesitant.

No, she’s not evil, are you, sweet Cat? You’re just particular.

As a reward for her loyalty, I step onto her lap, and lie on her thigh. She is warm. The Other One gapes.

Holy fucking shit balls! Is she purring?

The girl does not stay. The Other One walks her to the door. I follow, weaving between her legs. In the hallway, he kisses her. His smell is lustful, but also protective, tender. It is surprising coming from him.

Are you sure you can’t stay?

The car’s already outside…

I’ll pay the cancellation fee—

She laughs at the quickness of his reply, the sexual frustration in his voice.

Maybe next time…

She bends down to scratch my head.

Bye, Cat.

I wait out in the darkness for a while, listening. I do not hear anything Not-okay.

I go to our room. Mine sits at his desk; I lie on his pillow. It is less warm without him. I go to his desk, but it is colder. The computer is warm, and hums with a soft purr. I lie on it.

Hey—I’m working here!

He moves me to his lap. I jump down to the floor. I do not like to be moved when I have found a good spot. The floor is cold, and his lap was not. I go back to the chair, behind his back, and sleep.

When he is finished, he moves me to the bed. I let him, and I let him put his face in my neck. Sometimes I do not, but I am sleepy, and he is sleepy.

We sleep.

We dream of the Raven.

Black wings flap over cities and trees and mountains, over a river that becomes a mirror, the city a map. A voice chants. White candles drip wax.

This dream has a different sheen than the ones that are only for me; this dream belongs to both me and Mine. This dream smells of red clay that crumbles into dust, that sticks to the inside of our nose and throat. We have had this dream before.

This dream is not a dream.

I know this; I know how to fight it. I try to be in other places, far from our place. I try to smell different smells, feel dry air, thick smog, long yellow grass, hot sand, loud traffic, glass walls.

We cannot let the Raven discover us.

CLEO

I open my eyes, blinking away sleep. I’m in my childhood bedroom. When I occupied it—officially—it had beige carpet and pale pink wallpaper I didn’t choose. In high school I covered every visible inch with posters, and then when I was getting ready to rent it out I stripped the walls and pulled up the carpets. A blank slate for someone else.

Currently, the walls are mostly still white except for one ‘feature wall,’ I guess you could say, tiled with vinyl covers. There are classics like Pink Floyd and the Strokes, and then some newer stuff, like Boy Harsher and Rosegarden Funeral Party. The artwork clashes discordantly, an intentional eyesore. I prefer it this way.

I burrow deeper into the thick down comforter. I’m usually jittery after the dreams. It isn’t always the raven. Sometimes it’s people, or places, things I’ve never seen but somehow know. When I was young, I would wake up screaming. My aunt would bring me her special tea in bed, and if it was really bad she’d let me skip school.

This morning though, I feel safe. My skin is blanketed by soothing warmth, like laying on paving stones that have been baking in the sun. I blink slowly, finding myself nose to nose with the source of my comfort.

His is Greek, strong and defined like the rest of his features. He’s not wearing a shirt, and I find that under the sheet one of my hands is pressed against the smooth muscle of his chest. His long hair splays out on the pillow like a dark halo around his head. I want to run my fingers through it, but I also don’t want to move and break this dreamlike spell. His eyes are steel blue and deep set, and—staring.

“Where did you come from?”

His voice is sleepy but amused, and dripping with sex. I could listen to it forever.

Then I jolt, alarmed. I’m in his bed, which is normal—but I’m Cleo, which is not.

I’m also naked.

“Shit!”

I jump up, dragging the sheet with me, and head for the door, tripping over amps and wires. Fortunately, this room is on the ground floor, so I don’t have to deal with the stairs. I hurl myself down the hallway.

“Hey—wait!”

Fuck that. I run through the kitchen and out the back door.

CAT

I am running; then I am climbing. There is a pipe that runs from the ground to the roof. The door swings open. He runs out.

The sheet is on the damp ground outside. He picks it up and looks around, but he cannot find Cleo. The window above the kitchen opens and the Other One looks out.

What the hell, dude? It’s six a.m.

I watch from the safety of the roof as Mine runs his hand through his hair, his eyebrows furrowed together.

You didn’t uh… happen to see a girl run by, did you? She might have been… naked.

His voice is thick with sleep and confusion.

Oh, the naked running girl? Sure, I saw her… in my dreams!

The Other One chuckles. Mine does not, so the Other One stops.

I woke up with someone in my bed.

Who?

I shift closer to listen, keeping my body flat against the shingles. They would not find me out of place if they saw me, but my instincts tell me to hide.

I’m not sure.

This perplexes the Other One.

So like, you blackout booty called someone? I didn’t think you were drunk…

I wasn’t. I don’t think I’ve met her before. But it felt like I knew her. It’s weird…

I’m coming down.

The window slams, and there is thudding as the Other One makes his way to the kitchen. He is loud, as always. I can smell the morning drink brewing. I jump from the roof to the yard.

I do not like it. The Not-Beetle, the Raven, this. Something is happening.

I forgo my patrol and go directly to the shed.

CLEO

I pull on some sweats and pace the short length of the room. My anxiety is so overwhelming it’s hard to think straight. I cross my arms over my chest. The windows are covered, but I still feel exposed.

This is bad, so bad. I haven’t turned unmotivated since I was little—I learned early how to control myself. It’s essential to being able to leave the house, ever. You can’t go to school with the other kids if you might suddenly become a cat, as my aunt said; although I’m not sure if she was trying to galvanize me into learning or justify keeping me at home. Either way, now turning is almost effortless but never unintentional—until today. And of all places, I had to be in his bed.

Who is he? I don’t even know his name. I don’t know any of my tenants—before today, I never wanted to. A property management company handles all the details; I try to be as removed from the process as possible. The house, and the people in it, are strictly Cat’s domain, the shed the only little sliver where our lives blend.

We’ve maintained a separation between Cat and Cleo for as long as I can remember. Some of it happens naturally—when I turn, I have enough context that I’m not shocked to appear where I am, but the exact details are sort of hazy, viewed through the kaleidoscope of how Cat perceives the world.

And then some of it is more intentional, a quiet agreement between my two selves. Right at the beginning, there were things Cat knew and understood that were far too much for a child to be able to process. Before we found my aunt, when we were alone and on the street, Cat kept us alive. Then as I got older, there were more things I preferred to not think too hard about. Like, it’s hard to reconcile finding the taste of dead rat delicious.

But I have all of Cat’s memories, if I care to explore them.

I close my eyes and try to focus, not on what I saw, but what Cat has seen. I count to ten, breathing deeply, forcing calm over my frantic heartbeat.

Mine smells of tobacco and cinnamon, earthy, woodsy, smoky, and sweet.

His voice matches his smell, warm like amber, deep and sonorous. The words are unintelligible, but the tone is soothing.

His long fingers scratch the soft spot behind our ears. His breath brushes through the fur of our neck as we sleep, curled by his shoulder. His heart thuds as one with ours when we lie on his chest.

His blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and they narrow when he frowns.

I push deeper, looking for something more tangible, more specific. The memories start to jumble.

The same blue eyes, but bloodshot and filled with tears. The same smell, but different, sweet, sharp, and so smoky. Not the same, it belonged to someone else. Someone we loved so much it hurt.

Then—I’m thrust unceremoniously from the memories. Like a door closing—slamming even, a lock clicking loudly into place behind me. I teeter, dizzy and disoriented, until the backs of my calves hit the cot and I crumple heavily onto the mattress. Nausea rises in my throat, reminding me why I shouldn’t go poking where I don’t belong.

I throw some clothes in my bag with my toiletries and take off. I’m not risking going back in the house for breakfast, so I might as well head to campus and take a long hot shower.

His bemused smile flashes through my mind. This is the first time I’ve seen what he looks like with any kind of human clarity. Cat’s eyesight is different than mine and so is how we think. Not only how well we see but how we view things. We’ve never noticed his cheekbones, or the lithe muscles of his arms, or how the ivory skin of those arms is littered with bursts of ink from his tattoos. His fingers are long and elegant. Musician’s fingers. Great for playing the guitar. Also great for—

Maybe I’ll make that a cold shower.

I only make it through my first two classes before my agitation gets the better of me. I skip my last lecture and get to work before Gilly for once. I’m so early the vet and vet tech aren’t even back from lunch, and I have to use my practically virginal key to let myself in.

I like the animal hospital. I know all the smells—antiseptic with a tertiary note of puppy pee. I know all the people—the employees and most of the patients. I know where the doors are, and the windows if it comes to that. It’s a place where I feel safe, and those are currently in short supply.

But there’s another reason I work where I do, bigger than money or education or even comfort, and it isn’t because I feel all squishy toward injured animals. It’s access to medical supplies. I’ve never been to a doctor—let alone an actual hospital—even when I was sick. My aunt was already a big believer in homeopathic remedies, but after she found me her distrust of big medicine increased exponentially.

I sneak a pill from an almost-expired bottle of alprazolam that we’ll probably have to toss before it’s empty. I usually avoid stealing controlled substances, but the situation surely warrants a slight loosening of morals. Then I take my temperature, which is normal, and draw some blood. The citrate tube sits inert in my hand—what am I supposed to test it for? I don’t feel sick, unless you count the fact that I’ve been on the verge of simultaneously puking and shitting my pants all day. Which I don’t, because that’s more likely a side effect of the fear of my carefully built existence potentially crumbling into a giant dumpster fire.

I pour the blood out in the sink and rinse it down the drain, then spritz the tube and the needle with bleach for good measure before dumping them both in the fluorescent red biohazard bin. The last thing I need is for someone to mix up my sample with a real patient’s and run a full panel on it.

I made that mistake in the early days of working at the clinic. I did the thing I always swore not to do—I got curious. I had never had my blood taken before, but I figured if I did it myself, slipped it in with the tests at work, what harm would that be?

My blood type came back as AB negative—as in, human A neg and feline B, which are not in fact from the same alphabet. Luckily, the tech on duty was one of the least imaginative people in the world, assumed the sample was contaminated, and trashed it. I had to make up an excuse to stay late so I could shred the results. By then the sharps bin was too full for me to find my tube without poking myself with an assortment of sick animal needles, so I ended up stuffing the whole container in my backpack and dumping it in the river on the way home. I’m not proud of polluting the water like that, but I’m also not in a cage in a science lab, so I live with myself.

I trail back to the front desk brooding over my problem. This time, it’s more than curiosity that has me asking questions. It’s survival.

Is what happened this morning a one-off event, or is this something that might become a regular occurrence? Will it only happen when I’m sleeping, or do I need to be prepared to abandon all my stuff when I turn in the middle of my geology elective? I’ll start sleeping in the shed if I have to, but I don’t have the kind of plan B that facilitates moving to a new state and living under a fake identity.

Stumped, I flip through Blackwell’s: Canine and Feline theoretically to try and identify the problem, but it’s mostly to keep my hands busy—the only symptom I have isn’t exactly textbook.

“Whatcha doing?”

Gilly is wearing a black-and-white-striped minidress with a matching bolero and black tie. Her silver-blond hair is tinged green, her face completely white, her lips black, and she is sporting some heavy eye kohl. It’s a little intense for the workplace, even for me. She looks like some kind of sexy Beetlejuice.

Right—Halloween.

“Studying.”

I close the book and look up, trying to act casual. She totters behind the counter in her platform Mary Janes, eyeing me through spidery strands of fake lashes.

“Yeah, but like… what are you doing here? Now?”

“My phone was dying.”

It’s a weak excuse—but I should have figured Gilly would sense something was up. I’m never early. I try to be mostly prompt for class, but start times are more of a suggestion for me than a rule. Before she can poke holes in my story, I change the subject.

“How’d it go last night, with the guy?”

“It was… good.”

She’s being uncharacteristically withholding, but at least she’s not focused on me.

“Did you end up hooking up?”

“Ew, no.”

I raise a brow at her. ‘Ew’ is not how people usually react to the idea of sleeping with someone they’re romantically interested in. Especially not Gilly.

“I thought about what you said about dog people, and you were right. He’s kind of a dum-dum. A hot one, but still. Bricks for brains, you know?”

That was short-lived. Possibly too short to even warrant a surprise dessert delivery attack, which is unfortunate because I could decimate a pastry right now. I’ve been too queasy to eat all day.

“So, no more Elliott?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

She bites her lip, clearly lacking the conviction behind her words.

“He is really cute. And he invited me to hang out again tonight—but at some house party he was already planning on going to. It’s so lazy. Where is the effort, you know? I want to be courted.”

“Totally.”

The idea of being pursued sends shivers down my spine, but Gilly is a romantic at heart, always looking for her one true love—as if that’s a real thing.

“I mean, I’m still going to go. It sounds like a cool party, and it is Halloween. Plus, his roommates will be there, and one of them has a lot of potential. He’s like, dark and broody. Smart and well-read. You’d approve. He’s a total cat guy.”

“Jumping roommates? Classy.”

She wrings her hands.

“I know… I’m fickle; that’s bad, right? I guess Wes just seems like someone who would like, plan thoughtful dates, and not be totally dense about stuff like normal guys… But is that shitty of me? What would you do?”

I don’t even get to reply before she turns on me.

“I don’t know why I’m even asking you; you’d do whatever fucks with their minds the most.”

I sputter indignantly.

“Hey! I don’t judge your love life.”

“You totally do, you liar. ‘He’s a dog guy; dog guys suck; all your boyfriends suck; I hate them’…”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry; I’ll try to be less of a bitch.”

“Thank you. Anyway, their band is playing at the party—”

I can’t help myself.

“Roommates and bandmates. Wow, Yoko, way to get in there.”

“Okay, A) you love Yoko, and B) what happened to not being a bitch?”

I clamp my mouth shut. I must be really out of it to slander the mother of alternative music.

“I mean… I didn’t do it with Elliott, so it’s totally still open season, if you think about it.”

Classic Gilly logic. I doubt Saint Jeannie would approve.

“Which is sort of a bummer, because I still want to sleep with Elliott… they’re so different. Do you think I could date them both?”

“Like, all three of you together? I didn’t think you were into that, but hey, you do you.”

“No! Oh my God.”

She thinks for a second.

“I mean… well. Never say never. If they were into it…”

I head to the back to do the scooping, since there’s no way Gilly’s going to be able to in her getup, and oh fine, I do have some squishy feelings for injured animals. Doctor Snuffles is way more chill today and only pees a little bit when he sees me. Dogs. You can’t set your standards too high.

“So, you’re coming with me, right?”

She leans against the doorframe, watching me sift the cat litter. I gesture to the trash bag in my hand with the scooper.

“I think I’m already doing my good friend deed of the day.”

“Come on! It’ll be fun! Live music, free drinks?”

“You want to use me as a buffer.”

“Correct. And as a sweetener, I will listen to you talk shit about their music, as long as it is under your breath and out of earshot.”

“Mm. Tempting.”

For a minute I play hard to get, but I already know I’m going to say yes. I need the distraction. I’m not going to solve the mystery of what the hell is going on with me, so why dwell on it? I’ll just spin myself out even more than I already have. The best thing to do is to forget all about this morning. Pretend it never happened and hope it doesn’t happen again.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

“Oh my God, yay! Um, you have to wear a costume…”

She rushes on before I can object, which I normally would, but tonight I’m desperate enough to let the deception slide.

“We can pregame in my room, obviously. Your landlord is seriously the worst. I know your place is like dirt cheap, but banning guests has to be illegal. Maybe you should have a lawyer look at your lease? At least your best friend should be allowed over, damn it! It’s not like you’re having parties, or running a brothel; I’m just one girl!”

Gilly isn’t aware of my living situation, in both the housing and species sense. The first for obvious reasons, entirely relating to the second. The only person who ever knew about the whole cat thing was my aunt. And with her I didn’t exactly tell her so much as she thought she had found a kitten, but then it was suddenly a child. After that, sometimes she had a cat, and other times she had a… “niece.”

She must have spun a seriously convincing tale to the authorities though, because she managed to acquire all kinds of identity essentials, like legal guardianship, a Social Security number, and a passport—through legitimate channels too; we had to do interviews with social workers and everything. Mostly I remember sitting in the waiting room of some government office with her. She told me to hold her hand and hope with all my heart that no one felt inclined to ask difficult questions. So, I did, and they didn’t. They had to guess at my birthday, so now I’m a Leo, although Gilly would probably say I’m a natural Scorpio.

“… and you can crash at my place after, so she doesn’t bitch at you for getting in late or whatever. I doubt I’ll be there, though, so you’ll have the bed to yourself.”

Gilly gives me an exaggerated wink and giggle. Elliott or Wes, she’s determined to go home with someone tonight. I smile weakly back, doing my best to ignore the way my stomach twists with guilt. I don’t love constantly lying to my best and only friend in the world, especially since she is possibly the most loyal and trusting person ever.

But the thing about secrets is they only work if you take them to the grave.

CAT

I patrol at dusk. I did not patrol in the morning, and I will not tonight. I circle the house from under the hedge. I check my castings; they have not been disturbed. I climb to the roof. The sky is busy with the winter migration, but the flocks pass over and do not stop nearby.

I do not go into the house.

CLEO

The stuffy garage of the Crew House is already emanating stale air. I doubt the cobwebs are all decorations either. The crowd is kind of mid, which I hope isn’t an indicator of the band’s music to come.

I’m wearing all black, as usual. A silk minidress trimmed with lace that is technically a vintage Victoria’s Secret nightie. Oversized leather bomber, tights with a floral print where you can make it out between the runs and holes, knee socks, and sky-high platforms because lord knows I need the extra height. I gave in to Gilly at the last minute and threw on a pair of black cat ears too. A little in-joke with myself.

Gilly pretty much has a fit when I insist on finding a drink upon arrival instead of securing a spot in front.

“I’m too sober for this.”

“But they’re about to start!”

She comes with me anyway. We get some guys by the keg to pump us a couple of Solo cups of frothy lukewarm beer and make it back to the garage just as the band picks up their instruments. I give Gilly a look. Perfect timing. She pouts.

“I wanted to talk to them before they went on.”

No doubt she’s hoping Elliott will dedicate a song to her, even if she is considering ditching him. She would die to be someone’s muse.

I identify him right away, because he’s on the drums. I’ll give it to Gilly; he’s hot as hell. His hair is shaved on the sides and long on top and would probably make a sick Mohawk if he bothered, but it’s almost cooler that he doesn’t. His arms are ripped, an especially good feature on a drummer. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, but I’m sure it won’t last more than five minutes before he gets too sweaty and rips it off.

“That’s Wes. Cute, right?”

She nods her chin at the guy to the left of the drums. He’s leaning over his bass guitar, so his hair is covering his face. It’s jet-black and wavy. He flips it back as he looks up and my heart stops.

It’s him.

He catches my eye like he can feel me staring and his pierced eyebrow quirks with recognition. Uh-oh.

It’s fine though, because he recognizes me as the naked girl from his bed, which is not ideal but far preferable to recognizing me as the cat who antagonizes everyone he tries to sleep with. Why do we do that?

I should bail, flee back to my shed and curl up in a ball. But I don’t. Because from my place in the crowd, I have the perfect excuse to stare at him, openly, without it being weird. I can watch Wes, who I now know is my Wes, Mine, as Cleo. That’s something I can’t resist.

He’s long, and lean. He has that eyebrow piercing, and a cuff on the cartilage of his ear. Like me, he wears all black—ripped jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The top buttons are undone, no doubt to better showcase his tattoos… including a familiar black raven, its inky wings spread across the right side of his chest. It’s the same one from my dreams, which has to mean he’s dreamed about it too. It’s disconcerting, out in the open like that for anyone to see. I wish he’d cover it up.

As the band plays, I put together the rest of them live in the house too—Elliott, and then the lead singer and guitarist, Travis, and Ian who switches between keys, synthesizer, and guitar. So when Gilly was hanging out with Elliott last night, she was at my house. Of course. Gilly was the girl Cat liked.

Slow guitar reverberates through the garage as the keyboard plinks out a forlorn melody. My breath catches in my throat as Wes steps forward to take the center stage on a new song.

“The little philosopher

Who lives in my head…”

His voice is rich and velvety, a melancholic croon, deeply yearning, soft like a lullaby. I’m captivated. It feels like the whole world has condensed down to just him and me. I can’t look away, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. I barely want to breathe, I want to drown myself so completely in the music, in him, even my pounding heartbeat is too loud.

“She’s lived in this room

A hundred years

Or more…”

There’s a soft sigh next to me and I cast a scorching glare at the girl staring dreamily at my Wes. My burning gaze sweeps the crowd, catching on every wide eye and softly parted mouth. Don’t they know this song isn’t for them?

To my deep discontent, the song eventually ends. Wes steps back as Travis moves forward to lead, slamming out the opening chords to a cover of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart.’

As soon as the set’s over, Gilly pulls me forward to talk to the guys, using our joined arms as a physical blockade to prevent other would-be admirers from getting to them first.

“Wes! This is my best friend, Cleo. We work together.”

Gilly brushes Wes’s arm with her fingers, using me as an excuse to get his attention. He looks me over. I cringe, begging him with my eyes not to say anything. Elliott calls out to Gilly from over Wes’s shoulder.

“Gillian?”

She pretends not to hear him, because she’s moved on to greener pastures. Gillian isn’t even Gilly’s real name, anyway. It’s Gilligan—hence the hard G on “Gilly.” Her dad was obsessed with old sitcoms, something to do with being a first-generation immigrant. She hates it, so when a professor assumed she was mispronouncing her own name, instead of calling him out for the micro-aggression, she went with it.

“Did you write that one song, Wes? ‘Cricket’? It’s so good… ‘she vanishes like a light blown out and the road became darker than ever’? That’s beautiful.”

I frown, tilting my head, questioning.

“Did you write that? It sounds familiar.”

Gilly shoots me a don’t be a bitch look as he runs his fingers through his sweat-damp hair, smiling sheepishly, the left side of his mouth curving up to reveal one perfect dimple.

His smile makes my heart ache. It’s the kind of smile that feels hard-earned, a prize to be treasured, not something given out freely. But when it appears, it’s fierce and vibrant.

“I took some of the lyrics from the original Pinocchio fairy tale. So, if you’ve read that… yeah, you might recognize some of it.”

I haven’t. But I’m struck by a memory—one of Cat’s. Some fragment that seeped into the subconscious—

I lie next to him in the sun as he reads a book, highlighting words in fluorescent yellow as he repeats them out loud, then changes them, twisting them to his melody.

“ ‘Don’t listen to the advice of bad companions…’ ”

He taps the top of my head between my ears in emphasis. My purrs of approval make his lips twitch.

“What a dreadful illness hunger is…”

I snap my mouth shut as Wes’s eyes light up. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“You have read it?”

“Uh, no. It was a lyric, right?”

“Hey, Gillian!”

Elliott straight up waves his hand in front of Gilly this time. It’s obnoxious, but I’m in a forgiving mood, especially since his interruption comes at a perfect time. And I almost feel bad for him, until I remember that he wants to bring a dog into my house. Or at least pretended to, which is maybe even worse. Gilly gives him a strained smile.

“Oh, hey. You guys were great…”

Her eyes flick between the two guys and damn my silly little heart if I don’t hope she decides she prefers the drummer after all.

“We have a superspecial thing planned for after, in honor of All Hallows Eve. I thought you could be the centerpiece?”

He’s not as dumb as he smells, that Elliott. Attention captured at the prospect of being in the spotlight, Gilly lets him take her out to the van for her ‘costume.’ I’m torn between following them and having to third wheel Elliott’s flirting, and staying behind and giving Wes the chance to interrogate me. Truthfully, I’m torn between wanting to run away from the inevitably awkward situation and wanting to stand very very close to Wes in a way that would be even more awkward.

I linger with decision paralysis until the choice is made for me and Gilly and Elliott disappear from view. Alone, Wes fixes all his attention on me, making me squirm.

“How did you get in my house?”

The garage door is open all the way now, letting the musty air out. I look up at the thin sliver of a moon and consider my answer.

“You let me in.”

“I did.”

“Right. You opened the door, and I came inside. You made me a killer dinner too. Salmon.”

I find the best lies are founded in truth.

“Funny, I usually remember things like that.”

He’s watching me, but I refuse to make eye contact. Instead, I stare at the moon some more. It’s brand-new, to welcome in November. I sigh.

“Don’t tell Gilly, okay? She has a crush on you.”

“Me? She’s here with Elliott.”

He takes out a cigarette and lights it. I almost faint with relief—it’s not a vape. Clocking my yearning look, he offers it to me. The cigarette isn’t what I was lusting after, but I dip my head down slightly to take a drag, my lips almost brushing his fingers where he holds it at the filter. Sure, I could have taken it out of his hand like a normal person, but where’s the fun in that?

“I kind of thought she was trying to set me up with you.”

“Nope.”

“Too bad.”

A delicious shiver goes down my spine, settling into a pool of heat in my belly.

We wander around the other side of the wall where the rest of the smokers are loitering, and I pretend I’m not studying him intently. It’s so weird, seeing him like this, like seeing a teacher out of school—you knew it happened, but you never really thought about it. Except now that you’re seeing it in the flesh you can’t look away, and in this case, school is your body, and the teacher is your heart, leaning casually against a cinder-block wall smoking a cigarette.

“What’s that?”

I push his sleeve up higher, ostensibly so I can see the tattoo on his forearm but really so I can feel the fiery flush that rushes up my fingertips when I touch his skin. My own eyes stare back at me, melded into his flesh in all their photorealistic glory. Well. Cat’s eyes. Cat’s whole face, in fact.

Under the image are the words ‘whatever our souls are made of.’ He sees me reading.

“Brontë. Emily, not Charlotte. Or Anne.”

“Book or movie?”

I throw out the question almost carelessly, mesmerized by the drawing. It’s Cat’s front perspective; we’re lying down, the side of our face pressed into a couple of roughly sketched lines that represent the soft surface of a bed. Our ears are forward, eyes are round, and front paw reaches out playfully. We’re relaxed. We trust him.

“Book, for better or worse. We’re soulmates.”

He’s matter-of-fact, like it’s a completely normal thing to announce. I squint at him.

“You and Emily? Hate to break it to you, but she’s dead.”

“Me and my cat. Sometimes I feel like she’s the only one who gets me.”

I’m so surprised I choke on my beer, sputtering with laughter. But not the ha-ha kind.

“Oh, I see. This is some kind of bit you do to really lean into your whole sad boy vibe. Do you use it on everyone, or do you save it for girls who work with animals?”

He frowns, looking down at his arm. At Cat. He pushes his sleeve back down.

“I’m not like that.”

He’s staring at me again. It’s unnerving, especially given our topic of conversation.

“I feel like I know you.”

I take a sip of my drink, avoiding his probing eyes.

“We did spend the night together.”

He laughs, caught off guard, which is the absolute best sound in the world.

“Wes! C’mon, man, we’re all set up.”

Elliott beckons from the garage and yet again, I’m glad that he’s so obnoxious.

“Another set?”

Wes gives me his killer smile, this time flashing a whole row of gleaming teeth. It goes in my mental catalog of his facial expressions, each one precious and unique.

“Sort of.”

He stubs his butt out on the ground and leads me back inside. In the span of a cigarette, the instruments have been cleared out. A giant pentagram has been chalked on the cement floor, surrounded by a circle of red and black flickering candles. An off-white bull skull sits at the center; bundles of dried herbs scattered around it. I frown.

“What is this?”

Elliott grins at my discomfort.

“We’re summoning a demon.”

I take a step back and bump into Wes. He puts a hand on my hip to steady me, almost out of habit—as if he’s been steadying me my whole life. I look at him over my shoulder.

“Isn’t that a little metal for you guys?”

“It’s Halloween.”

“Hail Satan!”

Elliott throws up devil horns with both hands. I want to punch him, but I resist.

“You shouldn’t mess with this stuff.”

I must sound like such a hall monitor, or at the very least a superstitious freak, and yes, maybe that is accurate. But when you spend half your time as a different species, you don’t rule stuff out, even the occult. I eye the pentagram nervously. I don’t like the symbols chalked in it.

“Where’s the spell from?”

“The internet. Very reliable.”

Wes smirks at me, an irritating half smile that simultaneously mocks my seriousness and dares me to stay.

Fuck. That.

“You guys have a great time.”

I turn to go, but a hand grabs mine. Gilly.

Her makeup has been mostly wiped clean, and she’s changed out of her stripes and into a long white dress, its hem already a mottled gray where it skims the filthy ground.

“You can’t leave! I’m the virgin sacrifice.”

“You’re not a virgin.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Nothing about you is even symbolically virginal.”

Elliott comes up beside me and slings his arm over my shoulders. I shrink away. He’s sweaty, for one thing, and for another, he’s seriously invading my personal space.

“We need a fifth, you can be it, kitten. Center our powers.”

He taps my pointy cat ears for emphasis, earning himself his first but undoubtedly not last glare from me.

The band members each position themselves at one of the five points of the star. Wes holds his hand out, waiting for me to take the last spot. I really don’t want to, but it’s Wes, who smokes real cigarettes and says Cat is his soulmate. So, despite my better judgment, I do.

Elliott helps Gilly lay down in the center of the pentagram and puts the skull on her stomach. Someone closes the garage doors and shuts out the light, leaving us in darkness outside of the trembling candlelight. The guys stay completely silent, and people in the crowd start hushing each other until they are too. The lead singer, Travis, speaks, his voice sonorous and commanding.

“I call upon the power of the Dark Lord and I invite the great demons, you may enter!”

I’m surprised, I thought Elliott would be leading this idiocy, but then I remember he’s only the drummer.

“Lirach Tasa Vefa Wehlc, Belial.”

Wes squeezes my hand, cueing me to repeat the words with him. We say each line three times, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. The candles flicker, or is it a draft? I hear a surprised exhale on my right, from Wes.

“Jedan Tasa hoet naca, Leviathan.”

Elliott holds a knife above his head, its handle wrapped in worn brown leather. He drops to his knees by Gilly and pricks her finger, letting the blood drip on the bull skull. It’s just theatrics, but I shiver anyway.

“Ganic Tasa fubin, Flereous.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands, electric, my spine going rigid as a shudder ripples through me—a telltale sign I’m about to turn. Now would be a very bad time for that.

I clench my eyes shut, trying to focus on something else, anything else. The itch on my thigh where my tights sit funny. The taste of shitty beer mixed with the ashy aftermath of the cigarette. Wes’s palm against mine, both soft and calloused at the same time. I shudder again and wrench my hands back, breaking the circle.

Wes tilts his head at me, his brow furrowed in a silent question. People in the front row start to giggle. I lift my shoulder in a rueful half shrug.

“Sorry. It’s too freaky.”

Some clout chaser dressed as a sexy pirate leaps forward with enthusiasm.

“I’ll do it!”

She takes my place as I back away through the crowd, and after a moment, Wes takes her hand instead. I stare at their entwined fingers. It helps. I feel completely human at this moment.

“Renich Tasa Uberaca Biasa Icar, Lucifer!”

With the last line of the incantation, Gilly starts to shake, arms flailing. Her eyes fly open, so wide her pupils are ringed in white. She lets out a piercing scream.

“Gilly!”

She collapses in the circle, her head slumped to the side. Trapped behind the crowd, I duck down, trying to get a glimpse of her between people’s legs.

“Gilly!”

She opens one eye and winks at me.

That bitch.

CAT

The Girl Gilly is at the house. I let her pet me, but I do not sit on her lap. She sits next to the Other One, and he is loud. He has a true name, but I do not care to know it. I lie on the armrest next to My Wes. His fingers knead the flesh behind my neck absently. I purr.

Where’s Cleo tonight?

My ears perk up when My Wes says our name. The Girl Gilly has been sleeping in the Other One’s room and does not smell jealous.

At home, I guess? Should I text her?

I turn my head to stare at him. He is thinking. He shakes his head.

Nah.

She raises her eyebrow at My Wes. She is interested.

Don’t do it, man.

The Other One is speaking. He is always speaking. Shaking. Moving.

That chick is trouble. Crazy trouble. Like, crazy good sex but crazy fuckin’ ex. Trust me.

Uh, that’s my best friend, asshole!

She smacks his arm.

I hear a rustle in the walls. I am concerned. There have been more Nots. We have been careless; we have attracted their attention.

I stand and stretch.

I track the sound to the attic, and creep quietly in the shadows. I can smell the Not. It smells of rat, and grime, but also of more. It grimaces at me from the darkness.

i know you

i know who you are

I do not like what it says, but I do not engage. I pounce.

It snarls. I bite down, but it gets away. I chase.

We are outside on the roof. The Not-Rat slips into the pipe. I drop to the ground, where the pipe ends. It has made a hole higher up in the pipe and uses it to escape. I chase.

I must not let it return to the den.

It goes under the fence. I go over. Down the alley it finds a rusted hole in the back of a dumpster. I dive in from the top.

There are smells. Some are not bad. Paper, metal. Others are. Putrid. Rotting. Damp. Then, the smell I am looking for. I reach out my paw and swipe.

My chase is rewarded. I catch the Not-Rat. It scratches at my nose. Then it screams as I tear into its throat.

It is dead.

I make the casting Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. with my claw to freeze its form. This Not-Rat will not return. But others may come.

I am concerned.

The Nots also have a true name, that I do not care to know. I will not give them that power, not this time.

The house is dark. There are no open windows. I enter the way I left, through the attic. My face is bleeding, and I am covered in smells. I need to groom, but I am cold, and I am tired.

He is alone in bed. There has not been a girl since the last one I drove away.

I am weary from the chase. I settle into my spot under his chin.

What the fuck?

The light turns on. His face contorts. Disgust.

Cat, what the hell?!

I clean my face. The blood has stopped and dried. It comes off easily. The smells do not.

He catches me before I know I need to move. Normally he could not, but I am weary from the chase. I struggle.

You need a bath.

I do not like the water.

He carries me into the bathroom. The water is running. I scratch.

Fuck!

He does not let go. He stands in the shower. I am tired. But I am struggling. I am weak. He holds me under the water. I do not like it. I am struggling. I am howling. I am scratching. I am turning. I am—

CLEO

Naked in the shower with Wes.

Fuck.

CAT

I slip from his hands. I twist and land, splat! On the floor. He is backed against the wall. He is shocked. I use this moment to try to escape.

He is fast; he catches me. I struggle—

CLEO

He’s still holding me under the arms when I turn. His wrists brush my nipples, and he jolts back like he’s been electrocuted.

“Cleo?”

I dart for the door, but he gets there first and blocks it.

I’m trapped in the bathroom, naked, and he’s seen me turn. It’s a total disaster. I try to turn again, but I’m too tired, and frazzled.

He stares at me, still in shock; then his eyes slip down my body. I straighten my back and jut out my chin defiantly. His face flushes when he realizes what he’s doing. He looks away quickly, grabbing the towel off the rack for me. I wrap it around myself and stare at him silently. The less I say the better. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m going to open the door, okay? And we’re going to go to my room and talk.”

I jerk my head in a sharp nod, but the second he opens that door I’m going to be out of here. He preempts me by placing his hands firmly on my upper arms. If I try to turn, he’ll be holding me again.

He guides me to our—his—room. It smells like trash. Hence the shower, I guess.

“So. I don’t remember taking any hallucinogens tonight, but clearly, I did. One of the guys must have slipped them to me or something. Because what I think just happened can’t have happened.”

He looks at me doubtfully. Drugs would be a pretty good out, if only he’d buy it. I consider him.

“What do you think happened?”

He rubs his arm, his tattoo of Cat.

“I think my cat just turned into you.”

“Sounds like you had a little too much to drink.”

“I’m not drunk. I had maybe two beers, tops.”

“Maybe it’s black mold. This house is ancient.”

I stare at him. He stares at me.

“You have a scratch on your face. And there’s slime in your hair.”

I reach my hand up to my hair and make a face. Gross.

“We were chasing a rat, and it went in a dumpster.”

I don’t think that was the response he was expecting. In retrospect, I probably should have stuck with mold. He paces the room and rubs his hand over his face.

“… are you saying you’re a shape-shifter?”

I roll my eyes, hardcore.

“No.”

“Then, what are you?”

“I’m a girl, okay? Just a normal girl.”

“Except you’re a cat?”

“Exactly. I’m a girl, who is also sometimes a cat.”

I open his closet and take out a fresh towel. Because at this point, fuck it. Why act like a guest in my own home?

“I’m going to take a real shower. We can talk after.”

The water is warm and soothing and washes away the worst of my panic. I shampoo twice, to be safe, and lather myself in soap repeatedly, not stopping until the water runs completely clear and the scent of decay is just a bad memory. He only has boy stuff, of course, so I am engulfed in a cloud of Wes-smelling steam. It’s sort of paradise, if only hell wasn’t waiting for me on the other side of the door.

He’s going to have all these questions, and I’m going to have to answer them. I said we would talk.

But screw that. He can talk. I’ll listen.

CAT

I nudge the door open. He has changed the bedsheets. The new ones smell clean. The bad ones are banished to the hallway.

Cleo?

His tone is tentative where normally it would be confident. I tilt my head, yes. Cleo, Cat, we are here. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them wide again.

I believe this is what they call “pussing out,” puss.

I jump onto the bed and settle in my spot. He sits next to me, staring. I stare back.

You’ve been Cleo this whole time?

His face contorts. He is realizing the implications of this. I was wise to be Cat. Cleo would not react well.

I feed you. You go to the bathroom with me. You sleep with me, every night. You watch me have sex.

He slams his hand on the desk.

Fuck, Cleo. Come out and face me like a man.

I do not turn. I am not Cleo. I am not a man. I am Cat.

He slumps down on the bed and covers his eyes with his arm.

You fucking suck.

I stand and knead his chest. He tries to ignore it. I keep kneading. He laughs and pets my head. I purr. I stretch across his body, my head under his chin.

This is so fucking weird.

He rests a hand on my back. We fall asleep with the light on.

He is awake before me. He is staring. I stretch and go to the kitchen. He follows. I am hungry. I look at the refrigerator. I look at him.

You know, I could make you a real breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. If you were a… person.

This is a new game that we will play. He asks for Cleo.

I am Cat.

CLEO

Wes has been asking about you.”

Gilly stares straight ahead, fake focused on our biology professor at the front of the lecture hall. We sit in the back row, feet up on the empty seats in front of us. The fact that we show up at all makes us better students than a third of the class.

“I think someone is down bad for you.”

My stomach clenches with that all too familiar guilty feeling. Gilly and I haven’t really talked since the party; I’ve been preoccupied with my entire universe being upended. While I’m not the best at girl code or whatever, I do know if your friend tells you she has her eyes on someone, he’s off-limits. Even if she’s already hanging out with his roommate and you suspect you and that someone might be soulmates.

“Sorry. I tried to tell him you were interested in him…”

“It’s totally fine—I swear. I think Elliott is more my type after all.”

I can’t help but wrinkle my nose, even though I think she’s leaning into Elliott so I don’t feel bad. Another reason I don’t deserve a friend like Gilly.

“I thought you said he was lazy and not worthy of you?”

“Oh, I set him straight. I told him if he likes me, he needs to step up his game and work for it.”

“And? Did it work?”

“He took me apple picking yesterday. He planned the whole thing; he looked up the place, borrowed Ian’s car, and paid. We had a little picnic, with a basket and blanket and real silverware and everything. We bought cider at the farm—spiked it, obviously—and tiny apple pies, a la mode. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Saccharine.”

My snark doesn’t deter her; she only paused for dramatic effect anyway.

“And then I stayed over. And again, he proved himself very open to feedback.”

She runs her tongue over her teeth, smug.

“So yeah, it turns out he just needed a little training.”

One of the perks of dog people, I guess. Sit, shake, lie down… do better? That’s some trick.

“And he makes me laugh. Wes is so dry, you know? His jokes go right over my head sometimes…”

Gilly pauses and eyes me.

“Sort of like yours.”

She’s trying to bait me, but I’m not falling for it. I keep my mouth shut.

“You guys are perfect for each other—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I told you, total cat guy…”

“Having a cat doesn’t automatically make him my type.”

“Uh, okay, but the fact that he’s also a hot musician who reads totally does.”

I don’t know why I’m resisting so hard when all I really want to do is gush about him and grill her for details. Ever generous, Gilly continues without any prompting.

“He’s also guarded, like you. From what Elliott told me he hooks up with girls all the time but never really lets anyone in, even the band, who are like, his best friends.”

“I let you in.”

Gilly smiles at me, not unkindly.

“Sort of. You try. Also, interesting that that was your takeaway. I personally would have been more fixated on ‘hooks up with girls all the time.’ ”

It’s not news to me, especially since a lot of the time we were there. Does it fill me with blind rage? Yes. Do I want to kill every girl who ever touched him? Also, yes. Which is why it’s probably better for me not to know more. It wouldn’t be fair to hold it against him, anyway, given my own varied nocturnal activities.

“But… Elliott says he hasn’t brought anyone home since Halloween. And like I said, whenever I’ve seen him, he asks all kinds of stuff about you.”

I sigh, slumping lower in my seat.

“Okay, I give. What has he been asking?”

It can’t have been anything about my double life. Gilly isn’t one to bury the lead. If Wes said anything remotely weird, she would have spilled immediately.

“Tell me you like him, first.”

She’s thrilled to have the upper hand. I roll my eyes.

“I barely know him.”

Technically true. But also, not at all. I think I would know him even if I’d never met him. Gilly arches an eyebrow at me, and I finally relent.

“Fine. I like him, okay? I think he’s hot and I want to hole up in a bedroom with him for an extended period of time.”

She pumps her fists in front of her, victorious.

“I freaking knew it!”

She offers an apologetic wave to the glaring professor for interrupting her.

“Now tell me what he said.”

As if she hasn’t been dying to tell me all day.

“First it was just casual, like ‘Where’s your friend?’ He was being all cool, but it was for sure an act. He wanted to know all about you. How we met, what your major is. What you’re like, where you grew up—he doesn’t have much in the way of family either. And… he asked if you have a boyfriend. When I said no, he asked for your number.”

I look down at my phone, almost automatically. I already know he didn’t text, but there are any number of missed calls I assumed were spam that could have been him. Gilly watches me with interest.

“But I told him it was pointless since you’re basically worthless with your phone.”

I look up at her quickly, caught. Her eyes gleam.

“Yeah, so he said he was going to try to swing by work today to see you.”

A strangled cry escapes from my throat.

“Gilly!”

She grins gleefully, like a mischievous little sprite.

“We could date roommates! That would be so fun! It wouldn’t be a walk of shame if we were doing it together, right?”

I obviously don’t mention that my commute home from Wes’s room is a simple little scamper across the backyard. So, even if her hope came to fruition, she’d still be walking back to the dorms alone.

When the lecture ends, I beeline for the bathrooms to check that I’m moderately presentable, swiping my thumbs under my eyes to clean up my smudged makeup. My stomach roils the entire walk to work, although I’m grateful for the little scrap of a heads-up I was given to emotionally prepare to see him again.

As it is, my heart practically leaps out of my chest when his lanky figure appears on the other side of the glass. I meet him at the door—luckily, Gilly is in the kennel settling a new patient. Before he can speak, I beat him to the punch.

“Look, no one knows except you. Not even Gilly. And in case this doesn’t go without saying, which it should, no one else can find out. Because FBI, and experiments, and crazy people stalking me, kidnapping, all that good stuff. Got it?”

He looks at me, wide-eyed, then reaches up to trace the scratch on my face. It drags from under my right eye all the way across my nose, and continues on my left cheek above my lip. The last time he saw me it was angry and red, mottled with blood and ginger fur. Now it’s a faint white line, barely noticeable, especially stretched out in this skin. I don’t think it’ll leave a permanent scar. My skin is so freckled, what’s another little imperfection, anyway?

I try to ignore the tingling his fingers leave in their wake, fixing him with a glare.

“No one would believe you anyway. They’ll think you’re on drugs.”

“Or black mold, right?”

His voice is thin, but it’s good to know I haven’t entirely shocked the sarcasm out of him.

“Oh, hey, Wes.”

Gilly looks coyly between us as the door to the back swings closed behind her.

“How’s Cat? You should bring her by sometime.”

Wes clears his throat and looks at me.

“She’s being difficult, but what else is new?”

The actual joke is just for me, but Gilly laughs anyway.

“She’s a cat. What do you expect?”

He makes himself comfortable in the reception area—it seems now he’s caught up with me, he isn’t letting me out of his sight, at least not before he gets some answers. Fortunately, with Gilly around and a light but steady stream of incoming patients, the more galling topics are off-limits. We are reduced to small talk, except any and every tiny detail I can glean from him feels like it is of the greatest magnitude.

He’s an English major; music is strictly a hobby for him. Not only can he play the bass and guitar, he’s also quite proficient at the piano and the violin. He doesn’t have a job, or student loans. All of which points to a clearly bougie upbringing.

Gilly gives me a sly smile as she grabs her coat, no doubt thrilled at the prospect of something noxious like a double date.

“I’m going to Dunks, you guys want anything?”

“A coffee would be great, thanks.”

He takes out his wallet and hands her a twenty-dollar bill, which she pockets without question. I, on the other hand, have a million questions, starting with: Who the hell carries cash anymore? But I resist.

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Black.”

My off-the-cuff answer earns me two singular raised eyebrows, one from each of them. I shrug.

“No respectable musician-slash-poet would deign to taint their coffee with something that made it taste good.”

His probing look says he knows it wasn’t just a lucky guess. But Gilly doesn’t question my answer, at least not in the way that matters.

“Elliott likes sugar in his.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you like?”

Wes leans toward me from where he’s slouched on the other side of the counter, close enough that I can see the navy flecks in his eyes. It seems I’m not the only one carefully cataloging minutiae. Gilly scoffs.

“She’s weird as hell. A large latte but with only one shot of espresso, and half and half instead of milk.”

“Would you like some coffee with your cream?”

He smiles, probably thinking about all the shallow bowls of half-and-half he leaves out for Cat. Another reminder that I’m not a complete stranger; I am also his constant companion.

“Oh ha, ha, never heard that from every barista ever. And you aren’t one to judge, Miss Fluorescent Frappuccino.”

Gilly loves any sugary concoction, caffeine be damned.

“It’s a Pink Velvet Macchiato and it’s delicious, thank you very much.”

She turns on her heel and saunters out the door. I immediately go on the offensive, taking control of the conversation before he can.

“So, Wes, where are you from?”

He takes it in stride. I think he knows if he pushes me too hard, I’ll disappear on him. Literally.

“I technically grew up in Connecticut, but I bounced around a lot. Andover, Concord, Middletown in Rhode Island… Where are you… from?”

I think he’s expecting me to say Mars, or ‘escaped from the lab at MIT,’ but instead he gets—

“Here. Your parents move a lot?”

“Boarding school.”

Knew it. Rich kid. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he can sense my judgment.

“My parents are dead.”

Touché. I breeze past the personal tragedy. I suspect if I asked, he’d tell me, but then he’d want something in return.

“Why do you live in my shitty house?”

I see him make a mental note of “my”—a slipup for sure, but something he would have figured out on his own eventually. Why else would feeding me be written into the lease?

“I like it; it has a story.”

I snort. He is the exact sort of crackpot who would pick a dilapidated historical house over some refurbished loft chock-full of amenities.

“Then why all the roommates?”

“Why would I want to live in that big house all alone? Where’s all your stuff?”

He turns the questioning back on me, and I deign to answer while he’s lobbing softballs.

“The shed.”

“Where do you sleep when you’re not…”

With him, is his question. I give him my sweetest closed-lip smile.

“With our second family.”

His look is skeptical with the faintest shadow of hurt and jealousy. I guess we’re both battling demons. I relent.

“Lots of places. There’s a spot in the basement by the water heater Cat likes. If we have patients here overnight, I usually volunteer to stay—it’s good money. Or if Gilly and I are going out I crash at hers.”

I don’t mention the obvious. Sometimes I go home with someone.

“What—”

“No way, you already asked two in a row.”

“Please. This one is important.”

Usually, people don’t pry if I don’t want them to. They just… lose interest. It’s uncanny. But I must want him to know.

“Fine, but I retain the right to refuse to answer.”

“What do you like to eat?”

That’s his big important question? He huffs an understanding laugh.

“I always thought if my cat could talk that’s what I would ask. And now you can. So, pick your poison—tuna? Lamb? Should I switch to kibble?”

“Definitely not kibble. I like what you give me.”

He contemplates me with a pensive stare, like he’s holding back, he isn’t sure I can handle what he wants to say next.

“What now?”

For better or worse, we’re on the knife’s edge of something life altering.

“There’s something I wanted to do, at the party. I’ve been kicking myself all week for not doing it before you dipped.”

I can’t resist asking.

“What’s that?”

He reaches across the counter, taking hold of the lapel of my plaid shirt and using it to gently pull my upper body to him, moving slow so I can stop him if I want to. I don’t.

Cupping my cheek with his other hand, he brushes his thumb over that silly scar. Then, his lips graze mine, softly. Our first kiss is gentle and tender. It’s brand-new, but a million years in the making. Surprising but inevitable, and so sweet it makes my heart ache.

At first, I bask in it, let myself feel every detail. This is a kiss I’ll remember for lifetimes to come, a kiss that will stay with me until the end of time.

Then I growl, suddenly impatient. I wrap my arms behind his neck, crashing my lips against his. My tongue slides into his mouth, the laminate countertop cutting into my middle as I stretch closer to him, standing on the tips of my toes. I’m giddy with pleasure. This. This is what I’ve been missing.

The bell on the door jingles and he freezes. I whip my face to look over his shoulder, practically snarling at the interruption. Gilly gives me an apologetic grimace.

“Sorry, I walked up and down the block like four times, but my hand was tired, and the drinks are getting cold.”

She raises the cardboard tray of coffee cups in emphasis.

Lowering my heels, I try not to look too sullen as I release my hold on Wes, taking a step back. That was reckless. I’m at work; my boss could have caught us, or a patient could have come in. But I can’t bring myself to care. The fact that they hired a couple of misfits like Gilly and me in the first place demonstrates a certain level of laxness when it comes to professional appearances anyway.

Wes spends the rest of the afternoon sitting in the waiting room, sipping his not-hot coffee and reading an English translation of some Japanese novel. Something he could do anywhere, but he chooses here.

I find excuses to be on his side of the desk, like watering the plants and restocking the shelves, and veer too close when I walk by him so my legs brush against his knees. The second time I do it, his hand is resting casually on the chair arm, and his fingers stretch out infinitesimally to stroke the back of my thigh as I pass. That tiny point of contact is so addictive I do it at least three more times.

I turn back to find Gilly watching us with quiet amusement. I know what she’s thinking—this isn’t like me at all. I’m not coy; I don’t get giddy about boys. I’m not entirely sure I like it. It feels like a weakness, a chink in my hard-formed armor.

He waits to walk me home after work, but I slip out the back.

CAT

In the house, I am always Cat. He stares, and takes even more care with my meals. He ignores the mockery from the Other One.

He writes from the floor, with his back against the wall so he can watch me.

He stares out of the window, at our shed. He never goes up to it, but he thinks about it. He is curious, but he leaves us our privacy. He will wait until he has an invitation.

I sleep on the bed. Sometimes I open my eyes and he is staring at me. Sometimes I stare at him. Sometimes I look away.

He rubs the top of my head, stroking down my nose so my eyes close.

He does not bring girls home. Perhaps he goes to them instead.

I hunt more. I have found six spiders that are okay. It is too cold for flies, but there is a fly. I am concerned, so I kill it. There is one that is a Not-Spider. I kill it. There is a new skunk in the neighborhood; I do not know if it is okay. I am careful with it. I do not let it see me watching. The skunk goes into the yard next door, but not ours. If it comes closer, I will find out if it is okay. Perhaps I will kill it.

I pay more attention to the birds. Most are okay. Most of the black birds are crows. They caw. None of the ravens are Not-Ravens. There is a pigeon I do not like. I try to catch it, but it flies away. If it comes closer, I will kill it.

It is dark; we are on the bed. I am at his feet, but he moves me. I am sleepy, so I let him. He nuzzles his nose in my neck and whispers in my ear.

Will you be Cleo?

I tilt my head. Will I be Cleo?

My shirts are in the second drawer. I’ll turn my back, and you can change. If you want.

I stand and leave the bed. Will I be Cleo?

I nudge the door and step out into the hallway. I begin my patrol of the house. The spiders are okay, and there is no one else. I come back to his room. He is still facing the wall, and he is awake.

CLEO

He doesn’t move, but I sense his body tensing when he hears the door shut, and the dresser drawers open and close. As far as he knew, we weren’t coming back tonight.

I’ve been avoiding him since he came by work. He knows where to find me, but he hasn’t come looking. He’s letting me take the lead.

It’s easier for us as Cat. Cat can be near him, and touch him, and not feel anything except warmth and satisfaction and safety. Cat doesn’t have to think about what everything means. For Cat, Wes is home, simple as that. As Cleo, nothing’s ever simple.

It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the dark. I grope through his clothes until I find a shirt and a pair of his boxers. Then I slip into the bed, facing outwards.

This is a good middle ground, being in the dark, back-to-back. We stay like this for a few minutes, not talking, before he turns over.

He still doesn’t say anything, but his breath is hot in my hair. His hand slips around my waist and slides up my ribs, then down to my hips. For a while, he just holds me. Like he’s checking to make sure I’m real, at first. Then, waiting to see if I’ll push him away.

His bare chest burns through the thin cotton of the T-shirt I’m wearing, searing against my back. He’s skinny, but so am I, and he’s much taller, so he still engulfs me. He brushes my hair back and kisses my neck, tugs my sleeve down so it exposes my shoulder.

“Is this okay?”

His voice is soft, filled with the not-unwarranted worry I’ll freak out and disappear again. His hips are pressed into the backs of my thighs, his hard-on wedged in the crease between them, so I have a pretty good idea of where all this is going. He strokes my skin and I don’t stop him, because oh my God, who would want to stop this?

Not any of the other girls who have been in my place before me.

I roll onto my back, and he props himself up on one elbow so he can look at my face. The shitty blinds let just enough of the fluorescent streetlights sneak through that I can make out his features. It helps that even as Cleo, I can see well in the dark.

“You better not try any of your signature moves on me. Cat’s seen them all, remember? So, I’ll know.”

My tone is light, teasing, like I’m just giving him shit, but we’ve heard the lines he murmurs in the dark, making them melt all over. We’ve also seen him walk them to the door at three in the morning when he’s done. That’s not for me. Not with him.

He moves on top of me, supporting his weight on his forearms, then ducks his head down to whisper in my ear.

“Baby, I’m going to use all my moves on you. What the hell else have I been practicing for?”

His voice is low and gravelly, giving me goose bumps. He slides his tongue down the shell of my ear, nipping the lobe before he feathers butterfly kisses across my cheekbones, as he makes his way to my mouth.

When our lips finally meet, I’m already in shambles. I press into him with my whole body, desperate to be closer. I want to feel him on every inch of me. If I could, I would push through his skin so I was inside him, part of his flesh.

His hands snake under my thighs, pulling my hips to his, my legs falling open so he can fit between them. I rub shamelessly against him, using my heels on the backs of his thighs to grip him firmly to me as I attempt to relieve the mounting pressure deep in me. He groans against my lips.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.”

I delight in his words, that I have the power to turn him on like this. He catches my mouth with his again, only to leave it almost immediately, working his way down my jaw. One of his arms is under my neck, supporting me, and the other is under my—his—T-shirt, roaming up my body. I hiss as his thumb brushes over my nipple, my fingers twisting in his hair. He pushes the shirt up and I raise my arms so he can tug it over my head. He pulls back and looks at me, serious for a moment.

“You can tell me to stop at any time. If it’s too much. Too fast.”

I shake my head.

“Never.”

He settles back between my legs, but this time his lips replace his thumb. His tongue swirls around my nipple as it puckers, before moving to the other side. He slides even further down the bed, right down to my legs. I squirm, reaching for him, missing his skin under my hands. But he just winks at me.

He teases me, kissing a trail from the back of my knee right to the top of my inner thigh, before retreating to my other knee to repeat the process. A tremor of anticipation runs through me as his mouth finally reaches the junction of my thighs, and I gasp as his tongue presses into my entrance, through the cloth of his boxers that I’m wearing. He guides my leg up over his shoulder as he slides them down, freeing me from the fabric. He pauses as he looks at my bare flesh in front of him. He runs a single finger down my slit, grinning.

“Pretty pussy.”

I fight the urge to close my legs against his scrutiny and instead widen them as I prop myself up on my elbows so I can watch him back.

“Is it?”

“Very. Pretty, magical, inspiring pussy. I’m going to write songs about you.”

I giggle and feel more than hear the rumble of appreciation in his chest as he goes back to teasing, running his tongue along the crease where my thigh meets my body, before dipping straight inside me. I let out a little cry and feel him smile against me. He looks up.

“Don’t forget, I’ll stop if you want.”

“If you stop now, I will never speak to you again.”

This time using two fingers to part my flesh, he swipes his tongue back over me, again and again. I tilt my hips and press into his mouth, clenching every muscle in my body, so ready. I’m quivering from anticipation; I’m mumbling, rambling a mewling string of incoherent pleas. I don’t know what I need him to do, but I know I need him to do something before I die from the tension. Then he swirls his tongue, and he’s doing something with his lips too, who knows what; all I know is it’s exactly what I want—

“Oh, fuck…”

A flood of wet heat cascades through me as I tumble over the precipice I was clinging to.

I’m still shaking as he fumbles for a condom. Then it’s his turn to groan as he pushes inside me. He buries his head in my shoulder as he starts to fuck me. His first few thrusts are slow as we get used to each other, but I’m still riding that high. My hips rise to meet his, urging him to go faster, and my nails leave red streaks down his back as I grasp at him. I pull his face to mine. Our tongues entwine, the same tongue I can practically still feel licking me.

“You like tasting yourself on me, dirty girl?”

I draw his tongue into my mouth and suck on it, showing him exactly how much I like it, and I feel his approval in the quick jerking pulse of his dick. He grunts as I squeeze him with my inner walls in response.

I roll us so I’m on top, one hand clutching the headboard and one pressed firmly into his chest, holding him down, my knees on either side of him. His hands clutch my thighs, helping me move. There’ll be small purple marks on each of my legs tomorrow, like a little bunch of grapes. I’ll cherish them.

Is he actually good, or are we just good together? I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care, because it is so, so good. I arch my back. His hands hold me firm, stilling me.

“Wait. Wait—”

“What?”

He hisses as he closes his eyes and tries to suppress a shiver.

“I need a second. Or I’ll…”

I can’t help my victorious smile. Then I roll my hips, pushing him over the edge, panting as he throbs inside me. I watch him as he finishes, teeth clenched, neck elongated like he’s reaching for some distant prize. I add it to my collection.

I collapse on top of him as we both come down, his body still giving its final spasms. I drop a final kiss on his nose before moving to push myself off him, but he grabs me and holds me to him.

“Stay?”

I do.

“Well, well, well, fancy seeing you here…”

I look up from inside the fridge to find Gilly leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, grinning from ear to ear. I was so busy foraging for food I didn’t notice her come in. I hold up the loaf of bread.

“Sandwich?”

“Oh my God, yes please.”

I make myself the most basic sandwich known to man, white bread with mayo, yellow mustard, deli ham, and a slice of American cheese. I get a clean knife and start on a PB&J for Gilly. She does a little happy dance as she takes her first bite.

“This is like, really good.”

We eat sitting cross-legged next to each other on the least stained of the couches in the living room, like some kind of morning after yin and yang, Gilly wearing one of Elliott’s white tanks, me in one of Wes’s black T-shirts.

Gilly eyes me sideways, pursing her lips to keep from giggling. My nostrils flare as I widen my eyes at her. We don’t talk about the guys. Not yet. The walls have ears.

We stay in bed for days. He makes me eggs, as promised, and coffee that is mostly half-and-half. He orders pizza, and Chinese food, and only leaves the room to answer the door when they arrive. We skip class, and I call in sick from work. We shower, together, and I use his toothbrush.

His roommates don’t have to guess too hard at what we’re doing, because I’m loud. At first they whistle and jeer from outside the door, egging Wes on, but the novelty wears off fast and soon they’re banging on the door at four in the morning, telling us to shut the fuck up. We ignore them, and eventually they get used to it.

We smoke in bed, but we make a rule that the window has to be open when we’re doing it. It’s freezing out, so it takes real dedication to stick to it.

In between, we talk. Sort of.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

We’re discussing preferences. Fetishes, even. He vehemently denies having any kind of inclination toward bestiality, which is good because I would find that seriously disturbing. I snort.

“I defy you to find a college-aged girl who hasn’t.”

“Voyeurism?”

“Not really my thing.”

“Yeah, right. Then why were you watching me with all those girls, you perv?”

I roll my eyes.

“It’s not like that.”

He leans forward, waiting for me to elaborate.

“Cat’s not interested in that stuff. We wanted to get rid of those girls, not encourage them. It’s bad enough when they’re there at all, but when they’re turned on, they make everything smell funny, including you, and it’s confusing and unpleasant.”

“You’re possessive.”

“We’re a cat. We’re territorial.”

He thinks for a minute.

“You usually say ‘Cat,’ or ‘we.’ Is it like… are there two of you in there?”

He taps my temple gently. I shake my head, struggling to explain. This is the first time I’ve tried to articulate what it’s like for Cat. My aunt would ask, but I would only give her just enough detail to make her go away. This is different. With Wes I want to bring him closer—I can’t get him close enough. I’m desperate for him to understand all of me—understand and accept me.

“Cat and me… we’re… just me. One person in two bodies, that function in different ways. We have two legs; we have four legs; we have hands; we have paws. One mind with two brains, that store memories in different ways.”

We take time to learn each other’s bodies. He counts my freckles; I count his tattoos. I don’t have any, because who knows how they would translate on Cat’s skin? Plus, someone would probably think we were some kind of abused animal and try to “save” us, which would be a total disaster.

He has his mother’s family crest on his shoulder, because of course he comes from the kind of family that has a crest. It’s different from the others, which are mostly fine lines and micro-realism. The crest was done in a more traditional style, bold, less delicate. He cringes defensively at my scrutiny.

“It was my first—I thought it would make me feel closer to my mom. Some kind of misguided way of trying to process my grief or something. I didn’t get how cringe it was yet…”

Cringey, but part of him, so still important.

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen—I had to forge my grandfather’s signature to get it. He lost his shit when he found out, threatened to sue the tattoo parlor. He’s pretty traditional.”

Waspy, he means. Hence sticking Wes in boarding school as soon as he was old enough, which was kindergarten, apparently.

He has his parents’ names over his heart, with “V.I” in between them.

“Vi?”

“Five-one. May first. The day they died. I was two…”

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself against some onslaught of pain. I put my hand on his chest, covering the date, like hiding it will make its significance go away.

“You don’t have to tell me—”

“No, I want to.”

But maybe I don’t want to know, I don’t tell him.

“You know the Martin Fires? That was my family.”

He looks surprised at my blank expression.

“Wait, really? You never heard about them? The second one was pretty close to here. It was kind of a big deal, at the time.”

I don’t mock him for ‘kind of a big deal,’ but I’m tempted.

“Second? Like, multiple fires?”

He grabs his phone and searches ‘Martin Fires,’ then hands it to me. It really was a big deal; even now article after article pops up about the duo tragedy that took the lives of two generations of one of Boston’s elite families. There are endless profiles of his young, glamorous parents. Kennedyesque, the press calls them.

I don’t click on any—even reading the headlines makes me feel sick. I shove the phone back at him.

“You tell me.”

“Uh. I guess there’s not that much to tell. My parents were on a business trip in Europe, and the place they were staying at burned down. Killed seven people, total. Then I was living with my mom’s parents, but a year later, their house burned down too. Good thing I had two sets of grandparents, I guess.”

A chill runs down my spine. I don’t think it’s the turning kind, but at least if it was, it wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

“A year to the day?”

“Weird, right? Lotta conspiracy theories came out of it. Mob hit, murder-suicide, cult ascension gone awry, and seemingly the most popular: family curse.”

My heart clenches.

“You don’t believe that.”

“If it’s true, I must be immune. I was out with the nanny when the second one happened.”

Then he touches my cheek.

“You’re crying.”

“It’s sad.”

I swipe at my face with my wrists, embarrassed. Why am I crying over a bunch of dead rich people? I mean, I know why. It really was a fucking tragedy.

I focus back on his skin, the here and now. There’s a white symbol above his ankle, two short lines like the tip of an arrow pointing left.

“What’s this one?”

“Oh. That’s a scar. I’ve had it since I was a baby.”

I furrow my brow as I trace the outline. It looks so intentional.

“It sort of looks like…”

“Like what?”

The scratches formed—

I shake my head, losing my train of thought.

“I don’t know.”

He has fragments of text scattered all over, on his arms, his back, his calf. Song lyrics, and poetry. The Smiths under his left arm, close to his parents. There’s some Jane’s Addiction, and the creepy humanoid creature from the cover of Insecticide. Fitzgerald, Hemingway. T. S. Eliot on the other side of Cat on his arm. There’s a quote from the diaries of Sylvia Plath. She killed herself by sticking her head in the oven.

‘It was better to burn than to disappear’ makes me pause.

“Do you believe that?”

“Don’t you?”

I’m still thinking about it later, my head resting on his chest, his arm around my back, his fingers making circles on my arm while mine trace the outline of the raven.

“Aren’t you ever worried you’ll wake up one day and hate them?”

“I don’t believe in regrets.”

“You’ve never done anything you wanted to take back?”

“No, of course I have. But it’s all a learning experience, right? If I took back every embarrassing or shitty thing I did, I wouldn’t be me.”

Spoken like someone who never did anything truly abhorrent.

“Why the raven?”

“I see it in my dreams sometimes. But they’re different from normal dreams. It’s weird… they’re surreal and disjointed, but also stark, and visceral. They feel real. Important. I don’t know how to explain it…”

I know exactly what he means. I don’t tell him we have those dreams too, but I wonder if he knows.

“How do you know the raven is good?”

Which has been my number one question since the first time we saw it.

“I don’t, I guess. But I know it’s significant.”

On the third day, I finally admit to myself that I love him. He’s standing in the middle of the room in his boxers, flossing his teeth.

“I can’t believe you do that every day.”

“You’re supposed to!”

“I know. I just didn’t take you for such a rule follower.”

“You don’t?”

“Only if something is stuck in my teeth.”

“That’s why my gums are so much healthier than yours.”

He shoots me a toothy grin, the kind of smile kindergarteners make in photos. For a second, I get a flash of what he must have looked like as a kid. I feel so much affection and giddiness it’s unnerving.

I stand abruptly and start picking my way through a pile of clothes on the floor.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

He watches me put on one of his shirts, and a pair of his jeans. All my clothes are still in the shed, and I don’t want to turn in front of him again. Some things are private.

“When will you be back?”

I shrug. I don’t know where I’m going, so I don’t know how long I’ll be. All I know is feelings this strong are dangerous.

CAT

I sit on the roof and watch the birds and the sun.

He comes outside and looks around. He waves when he sees me. I do not move. He puts his hands in his pockets and walks away.

I sleep in the shed, in a pile of old towels and blankets.

I hear the skunk again and go to the roof to watch it. It goes around the property, through the neighbors’ yards, but never onto it. I am concerned, but I will not go closer unless it does.

I do not want to sleep in the shed, but I do not want to be in the house, so I walk the fences. It is cold. He does not come looking for me. He understands that this place is not for him.

When I come back into the house, it is empty. There is a bowl on the floor. It is full, and fresh. Venison and veal, and some crumbled duck liver. On the counter, there is a white Styrofoam box. It smells like grease and meat. For Cleo, if she comes instead of Cat.

CLEO

I find him at a party Gilly told me about. She’s there with Elliott. Despite her initial call to action, they still have the kind of classic college relationship where she refuses to say they’re officially dating, and neither of them has ever breathed the words boyfriend or girlfriend, but they have agreed they’re not sleeping with anyone else. Which is maybe a little convoluted, but far more clean-cut than whatever Wes and I are doing. Or what I’m doing to Wes, I guess.

I see him before he sees me, talking to a conventionally pretty blonde with high heels and a higher pitch, whose giggles I can hear even over the thumping music. I force myself to look away before he can catch me staring, keeping him in my periphery as I sidle up to Gilly. She slips her arm through mine and lowers her voice so Elliott and Ian can’t hear what she’s saying.

“Boy, you really did a number on Wes. Elliott says he’s been on edge for days. Like, even more aloof than usual.”

“He seems pretty fucking relaxed right now.”

Gilly’s eyes narrow as she stares at him over my shoulder. He and the blonde haven’t moved from my eight o’clock. It annoys me to know if they had, I would have felt it with my whole body.

“Does he?”

I pretend to use my shoulder to nudge a lock of hair off my cheek so I can check. The girl is still talking, letting her gesticulating hands land on his arms at any opportunity her story affords her. He nods into his empty Solo cup, gripping the bottom rim with his teeth as he rocks between his heels and the balls of his feet. A thrill of victory shocks through me—he’s bored out of his mind.

As she yaps, his eyes drift casually around the party, maybe looking for a better offer—until they land on mine. His lips curl up in a sickeningly sexy smile… which he redirects at her. His gaze snaps into laser focus, suddenly engaged. He tugs on the lapel of her jacket, so she takes a step closer to him, her breath becoming shallow. He’s done the same move on me. His eyes make the tiniest flicker over to me, making sure I’m watching.

He’s toying with me. Punishing me even. How far will he take it? Will he kiss her, right here, where I can see? Will he bring her home, so her smell clings to the sheets, just to make a point? It makes me queasy to think about.

I reel away from Gilly, into the crowd. I can’t be here, but I can’t leave either—despite how much I tell myself I should. But if I leave it’s over, I’ll never know how it plays out. It’s perverse how badly I need to see what he’ll do. I settle for numbing myself, making my way to the folding table of a bar on the back patio to get a drink.

The cooler still has a lone bottle of Sam Adams, a treasure floating amongst bobbing cans of Bud Light. I snag it, realizing too late it’s not a twist-off. I attempt the trick of popping the top on the lip of the table, but all I do is carve some notches in the plastic and make my palm ache.

“Here, I got it.”

A large hand takes the beer and opens it with a worn bottle opener on a jingling set of keys. The guy is from my freshman archaeology elective, Justin, or maybe it was Jason. I think he’s on the baseball team. He’s clean-cut and fratty, the antithesis of the broody boy I’m trying not to think about right now. He hands me back my beer and I smile at him as I take a swig.

“Thanks. I guess I should split it with you, as payment.”

He looks surprised but accepts the bottle happily.

“Fifty-fifty?”

I scoff as I grab it back, my fingers brushing against his.

“No way! Even twenty percent would be daylight robbery.”

He gives me a sideways grin, flashing the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.

“Best-case scenario, you’d still be standing here with a sealed beer. More likely, you would have given up, put it back in the cooler, and settled for a can. The way I see it, I should be entitled to the whole thing.”

He doesn’t even consider the scenario where I smash the bottle on the brick pavers so no one can have it.

“Fine. Sixty-forty, and that’s only because I like you.”

I hand him his prize and reach into my pocket for my cigarettes, grabbing one with my teeth. I hold the pack out to him.

“Nah, thanks. I only really smoke weed.”

Accounts for the pearly whites. I arch a brow as I light up.

“A cigarette’s the perfect type of perfect pleasure…”

“Exquisite, and leaves you unsatisfied.”

That voice does not belong to Jordan-Jared-Joshua. It burns a trail through my body, settling deep in my stomach, warming me. Wes leans down over my shoulder to take a drag of the cigarette that lingers inches from my face.

His lips stop by my ear.

“You win, okay?”

I lean into him, nodding, as if that had been my plan all along, to win the ultimate game of chicken. In reality I didn’t know I was playing.

I give Johnny a small wave and let him keep the beer as Wes tucks me into his side, nestling me in the crook of his arm and guiding me back to our group. As we take our place amongst his bandmates, Elliott scrunches his face and opens his mouth to say something, but Gilly talks over him, saving me from an inquisition.

“I applied to Sorbonne, because it’s in Paris. And I mean, obviously, it’s Paris, but is that a little played out? There’s also a program in Rome that looks amazing.”

Ian tilts his chin, interested.

“Music school there is unrivaled…”

Gilly smiles at Elliott, who doesn’t take the hint.

“I dunno—I was looking at Thailand or Bali.”

“Huh. I thought we wanted to stick with Europe, so we’d still be sort of close to home?”

“Asia’s not that much further from California.”

Gilly’s nostrils flare in annoyance.

“But I’m not from California.”

“I am.”

As Gilly and Elliott bicker about their study abroad plans, or maybe their whole futures, Wes pulls me in and kisses the side of my head. He lingers there, nose in my hair.

“Don’t you agree, Wes?”

Gilly pins him with her stare. I completely missed the question, too consumed by his touch, but Wes answers without skipping a beat.

“I always pictured you in Prague, or Berlin, man.”

Elliott’s eyes light up.

“Berlin would be awesome!”

I spend the rest of the night by Wes’s side, and he is never not touching me. My hand, my waist, my shoulders, my legs, like he’s constantly checking I’m still there.

Finally, he drops his cigarette butt in his mostly empty beer and tosses the can in the trash.

“Let’s go home.”

We don’t make it that far before we stop in an alley. The brick wall chafes my back, leaving an angry red patch on my skin that I revere. All the little marks he gives me are gifts, tangible evidence of how much he needs me.

By the time we’re back at the house it’s like I never left.

CAT

I do not see the skunk, but I smell that it has been near. It does not smell wrong, but it does not smell right.

I next see it one afternoon crawling out from under a house. Skunks do not usually move about in the daytime. I follow it from a distance. It travels far for a skunk, past a normal range.

It reaches a property that I once knew well. It is overgrown now, long abandoned. The old house is angry, and sad.

I will not go closer to this place.

I find a spot in a tree, a good vantage point, at a safe distance.

The skunk crosses through the land, to where the grass meets the woods. The skunk rambles into a thicket.

I do not go closer.

I lose sight of the skunk.

I cannot go closer.

CLEO

Thanksgiving comes and the house empties of roommates except for me and Wes. We have nowhere else to go. For this week, and maybe forever now, we are each other’s family.

We sleep and fuck through Thursday, and then at midnight we take a walk to the nearest big-box store and make fun of the people waiting in line. We are disappointed not to witness any fights break out over the last dirt-cheap PlayStation. On Friday afternoon we buy a whole turkey on sale for seven dollars. We somehow manage to burn the outside and leave the middle frozen, aka completely inedible.

Wes grimaces as he prods at the translucent pink flesh with the biggest knife in the kitchen. Then he shrugs, pushing the whole tray away.

“Never liked turkey much anyway.”

We eat mac ’n’ cheese and mashed potatoes and candied yams straight out of the foil containers we bought them in and go back to bed for the rest of the day.

It’s unseasonably nice on Saturday, so he sits out on the porch with his guitar and notebook and a quickly cooling cup of coffee, working on a new song. It would be pretentious if only he wasn’t so good. Sometimes I catch him staring at me, but he doesn’t look away. He owns it, smiling and chewing on the end of his pen.

I don’t bug him when he’s like this; I take out a textbook and study. Most people don’t peg me for the studious type, but I have chosen a field of study that is basically as hard as pre-med but without any of the glory. It’s also not one I’m naturally gifted in; I have to work for my grades, especially anything that involves math. It’s part of what I like about my major—why would I pay this much to learn something easy?

I’m tempted to skip my shifts at work, but they’re understaffed with the holiday. Instead, Wes comes with me. He sits on the floor of the kennel and gives each animal a few minutes of undivided attention while I clean out their cages. There’s a slutty little black cat who rubs herself all over him. She’s a pro bono case from the local rescue. When I go to put her away, she hides behind his back, eyeing me with wide, fearful eyes.

“Quit the act. He’s taken.”

Wes looks between me and the black cat.

“Can you speak to them?”

“No.”

“What about Cat?”

He understands that Cat and I identify as unique individuals, even though we aren’t. He knows my body isn’t inhabited by different beings—it’s more like my soul inhabits different bodies. Cat is still me, but a different and wholly separate interpretation.

“Not like full-on conversations or anything. But Cat can pick up on their vibes. If they’re scared, in pain, or hungry or whatever.”

“What about if they’re turned on?”

He smiles wickedly at me. I wasn’t, but the mere hint of sex makes my skin prickle in anticipation. We have to wait until the vet tech on duty goes to lunch, but the second she leaves I lock all the doors and lead Wes down to the basement.

I push him against one of the flimsy storage racks and kneel in front of him. He looks down at me, eyes aflame.

“Yeah?”

I unzip his pants and pull them down to his ankles, licking my lips to wet them as I grasp his dick in my hand. He’s already hard; we’ve both been waiting for this all morning. He fists the curls at the back of my head, but he doesn’t apply any pressure, leaving me to set the tempo. I take him in my mouth greedily, not in a teasing mood. There’s an urgency between us I’m eager to satiate. He murmurs a litany of praises, “oh fucks” and “just like thats” that make my blood thrum, spur me to take him deeper. There’s a kind of power in going down on him, one that I enjoy. Knowing he’s at my mercy, that I’m the source of his pleasure.

It doesn’t take long before he’s yanking me back up to standing. He unbuckles the belt that holds my literal boyfriend jeans at my hips. I’m still kicking them and my underwear off my feet as he lifts me so my ass is balanced on the edge of one of the shelves. He slides two fingers into me, testing, groaning as he finds me more than ready. Removing his fingers, he thrusts into me quickly. Boxes of latex gloves fall around us as he pounds me.

“Are you close? Tell me you’re close.”

His voice is labored, his body taut with strain. He growls when I don’t reply.

“Fuck, you’re not…”

“It’s okay; I don’t mind.”

It’s a little surprising that I’m not lying. Normally I’m a get off or get out kind of girl. But this is hot too. I love making him lose control. He grimaces and pulls out of me, dropping to his knees.

“I do.”

He hikes one of my legs over his shoulders, diving straight into my core with his mouth and fingers, sucking, stroking, pushing… devouring me. There’s nothing languid in his movements; he’s as feral as I am.

I guess I was closer than I thought, because my legs start to quiver and I cry out. He pulls me down with him as he falls back, nudging himself back inside me so he can feel me on him as I cum. Within seconds, he follows.

I settle on his lap, resting my head in the crook of his neck, arms draped over his shoulders. He leans back on one elbow, the other arm snaked loosely around my waist, both of us still panting.

We sit there long enough that he starts to stir again, and if I wasn’t at work we would have stayed there all day. Instead, we straighten ourselves and the off-kilter medical supplies, and head back upstairs.

On the way out, he stops, peering into the laundry room as we pass. It has a little camping bed pressed up against the wall, not unlike the one in the shed, for whoever is on overnight duty to sleep on.

“There’s a bed here?”

I shrug.

When we’re together, we’re really together, like every minute of every day. When he leaves, even to do something quick like grab us coffee, I feel untethered. I meander around the room listlessly, unmoored. It almost physically hurts me to be away from him. Then he returns, and I spark back to life.

Sometimes, we fight.

There’s a cool show at a dingy venue in Cambridge. The floors are filthy and the soda is flat, but whoever books the acts has great taste. It’s a Tuesday night and the band isn’t very popular, so it’s not too crowded, which is ideal. When the opener starts their last song, Wes goes to use the restroom, and I head to the bar to get us another round.

“Cleo!”

As I approach, the bartender—Brian—calls out to me. I forgot about Brian. I would have sent Wes for the drinks if I had remembered. He reaches over the bar for a hug. I have to hop onto the rung of a barstool to reach him, doing my best not to lean on the sticky counter.

“You shaved your head.”

The last time I saw him, he wore a beanie all night. It was ninety degrees out and the place was packed, so his hat was soaked in sweat when I pulled it off his head at closing. Tonight, he proudly sports a closely shorn scalp and a full beard.

“I figured it was time to stop fighting nature.”

“Right. It looks good.”

I mean, it looks fine. But that’s not really something you say to someone. His hair never bothered me, but he was self-conscious about it thinning, and his hairline was receding. He made up for it in other ways, mostly by exercising what I assume to be all the time. The man doesn’t have an ounce of body fat.

“I called. And texted. A bunch.”

I’m sure he did, because he’s a decent guy. He always drove me home in the morning and would even make a little Dunks pit stop on the way. I would have him drop me off outside Gilly’s dorm, because it was easier than explaining why I wanted to be left in a back alleyway. I don’t remember specifically ignoring anything from him, but I’m not great at that stuff. Texting, but also communicating in general, I guess.

“Sorry… I’ve been busy. With school and… things.”

“Are you on your own?”

“No, I’m uh—”

I glance over my shoulder to see Wes watching us, his expression unreadable.

“So anyway, could I get two PBRs, please?”

Brian stares at me for a minute, and I’m suddenly nervous. He knows full well I’m not twenty-one. It’s never been an issue before, but if he wanted to be an asshole, tonight would be a good night for it. He could get Wes too, if he wanted. Instead, he cracks two cans of beer and sets them in front of me, then waves off my debit card.

“It’s on me.”

“Thanks. I better get back over there.”

“Sure. See ya, Cleo.”

I take my time getting back over to Wes. I sidle up next to him at the high top he snagged, and nudge one of the beers toward him.

“Who was that?”

There’s a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

“The bartender?”

“It looked like he knew you.”

I shrug, nonchalant.

“Yeah. I’ve been here a couple of times.”

Wes looks back at Brian, calculating.

“Did you fuck him?”

“I don’t know.”

I do know, but believe it or not, I don’t want to parade my past conquests around. And Brian is very much in the past.

“So, you did?”

My temper flares as I think back to the rotation of girls Cat witnessed in our room.

“Oh what, you get to have a history, but I don’t? You are such a hypocrite.”

I never grill him about them, even though I’m sure they’re littered all over campus. As far as I’m concerned, the past is in the past, and I’m happy to leave it there.

“Not at all. That’s why it’s weird you lied about it. It’s totally fine… although I can see why you’d be embarrassed. I didn’t know male pattern baldness was your thing.”

“Well, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time looking at the top of his head when we were hanging out, did I?”

It’s not the cleverest comeback, but I deliver it with the acerbic bite to imply… well, something. Unfortunately, Wes uses that to his advantage.

“No wonder it didn’t work out. I know that’s a view you’re particularly fond of.”

He smirks, pleased with his entendre. I swipe my nails across his skin, leaving three angry red welts on his hand as he blocks me. I snarl—I was aiming for his face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you!”

His lips press into his hand as he glares at me.

“He’s a good guy, and he was nice to me; he doesn’t deserve you ragging on him like that.”

“Maybe you should go home with him if he’s so great.”

“Maybe I will.”

I turn and stalk away, but instead of going back to the bar I head straight out the door. I’m not in the mood for music anymore. He catches up with me two buildings down.

“Look, I’m sorry. It caught me by surprise—if there’s nothing going on with him then I’m over it.”

I whirl around to face him.

“Of course there’s nothing going on with him; what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought he might be someone that you’re like, still seeing. I get it. We never said that was off-limits. Just give me a heads-up if we’re about to run into someone whose dick is still in you on a regular basis.”

This time, he catches my wrist before my hand can connect. He doesn’t grab me hard enough to hurt, just to deflect. I still screech.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

“Shhh—you’re making a scene.”

He uses my wrist to pull me to him. I twist downwards with my whole body, trying to escape. He holds firm. If we weren’t in public, I’d turn.

“We don’t want your boyfriend coming out to try to protect you.”

“I will not shh, I hope he does, and I hope he calls the police and they arrest you for domestic violence.”

He lets go of me immediately, horrified.

And then, we hear a siren whoop. A police cruiser drives slowly up the street toward us. I open my mouth as if to scream. He clamps a hand over my mouth.

“Don’t you dare.”

Despite myself, I start to laugh.

“Don’t laugh.”

I laugh harder.

“It’s not funny—fuck!”

But his mouth is quirking too. He tugs on the lapel of my jacket, pulling me to him, and drapes his arms over my shoulders. He kisses me, both of us still giggling.

My hands slide around his waist, under the back of his shirt, and I press my body against his. He’s kissing me hard, staking his claim, reminding me that I’m his. I bite his lip, hard enough to draw blood.

He pushes me away with a growl.

“You’re such a psycho.”

But he pulls me in again.

In bed that night, we lay nose to nose, our limbs tangled together, quiet and tender after the sharpness of before. It feels like we’re closer than we’ve ever been. He strokes my cheek, his eyes remorseful.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It wasn’t cool… did it freak you out?”

I shake my head. He never came close to hurting me, and I know him well enough to know he never would.

“No… Honestly? I kind of liked it.”

I like that he was jealous and hurt. It makes me feel powerful. Or at least, it makes me feel like the balance isn’t completely tipped in his favor. I have a hold over him too. He frowns.

“I don’t know if that’s healthy.”

There are so many things I want more than healthy—passion, excitement, fire.

“Maybe not. But it’s us.”

CAT

We dream of a girl with a curtain of black hair, silky and smooth, that we batted with our paws. A rosebud mouth that whispered secrets in our flickering ears. Dancer’s ankles we wove between as she glided past the flowers that died in their beds.

We dream of a golden boy with a silver tongue who liked to give but not as well as he took.

This dream is not the same as the Raven, but we fight it just as hard, even though it hurts us to put her away.

This dream is a question not to answer, a puzzle not to solve. This dream is a game we cannot play.

CLEO

I am on day two of the most killer UTI in the universe. That’s what you get when you have a whole bunch of sex and don’t pee right after. I don’t get sick much, but when I do I usually turn and sleep it off as Cat. There’s no sleeping off this problem. It is the most miserable experience.

I try the over-the-counter stuff and every other home remedy the internet has to offer. It’s so bad I even go to the student health center for help, but they want a urine sample, despite me swearing up and down it’s 100 percent definitely what I say it is. They insist they’d have to do a culture. So that’s a nonstarter.

Luckily, humans aren’t the only species that get UTIs.

I’m flying solo at work—Gilly was scheduled to be on with me, but Elliott said he would skip class if she ditched her shift so they could hang out. Since we barely have any appointments on the books, I told her I’d be fine alone. It’s the perfect scenario for me to steal some antibiotics.

I’m in the back counting out the pills when the main door jingles. The hair on the back of my neck stands.

I shrug it off—my body is all out of whack today—pocket the Macrobid, and head out to the front—where I’m immediately knocked to the floor and covered in slobber. Two oversized furry paws push against my chest as a dripping wet tongue swooshes all over my face.

“Ollie! No!”

Long, elegant fingers reach down and grab the dog’s collar, yanking him back. A girl stands over me, peering down with a worried expression.

“I’m so sorry!”

She reaches for my hand and pulls me up easily. I step back from her, wiping my damp palm against my jeans.

“He has issues regulating his excitement. Dogs, right?”

She raises her eyes heavenwards and shakes her head affectionately. She’s British—although her accent is less clipped than how English actors usually sound, softer, and more lilting. I decide I like it. She looks like she’s around my age, so I assume she’s either here for school, or lost. This isn’t exactly a hot tourist area.

I thought British people were supposed to have cooler street style than Americans, but this girl is dressed like your average vanilla girl in a tan puffer vest over a white sweater and beige corduroy pants. A stretchy white headband completes the look, holding the flyaways from her topknot in place. On her it’s cute, if uninspired, in the way some people can make anything look good.

She falls into that annoying ‘pretty but doesn’t know it’ category, except she probably does know; how could she not? Her skin is a warm brown makeup companies would probably label something like ‘sienna’ or ‘ochre.’ She’s tallish, although most people seem tall next to my barely five-foot ass, and athletic. The kind of person that does outdoor activities for fun. I can tell just from the way she smells—under the overpowering stench of wet dog, she’s fresh and crisp, like falling rain and spring clover.

The dog is one of those Scottish deer- or Irish wolfhounds; I have a hard time telling the difference. He has shaggy dark hair, and he’s giant—he must weigh more than I do. He’s high-energy and seems to have full use of all his limbs. His paws are a little muddy, which have left two brown prints on my shirt, but other than that, he’s clean. I look back up at her.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him. Why would you think that?”

Clocking my furrowed forehead, she laughs at herself.

“Right, vet. Obviously.”

She glances down at the dog as if he might have the answer. He doesn’t. Because he’s a dog.

“We were taking a walk and thought we would stop in and check out the place. In case.”

“Sure. Well, we don’t really take walk-ins, but you can fill in the new patient paperwork, so we have you on file, if you want.”

I point to the QR code pasted to the desk, but she just stares at it.

“I don’t think we need that. We’re only visiting. I’m Bailey, and this is Ollie.”

Ollie holds up his paw to shake, and a normal well-adjusted person would take it, but I don’t. I do hand him a cookie, because I’m not a complete monster, but I retract my hand before he can lick me again. Bailey tilts her head at me curiously.

“Sorry, I’m not a dog person.”

“No, of course you’re not, naturally.”

I raise my brows at her response. Most dog owners could not fathom anyone not liking dogs, especially someone in my line of work. They usually react as if I said I’m a cold-blooded murderer and their beloved fur baby is my next victim. Seeing my expression, she falters.

“I mean… they’re so needy, right?”

The dog gives an indignant huff, as if he understands her. Or maybe he’s bored, ready to continue with their walk. She continues to stand awkwardly in the reception area, making no move to leave. She must be desperate for human attention if I’m her best option. I guess Ollie’s company isn’t that stimulating.

If I was someone else—Gilly, maybe—I would offer her tips on where to get the best coffee or invite her to a party or something. Instead, I give her a thin smile.

“I better get back to work.”

Her shoulders fall. She looks disappointed but recovers quickly.

“Oh. Okay, well, it was lovely to meet you. Maybe we’ll see you around! Say bye, Ollie!”

She gives me a chipper wave as he lets out one final woof, and then they’re gone.

Dog people are so fucking weird.

I wipe my face off with an antibacterial wipe, which probably sucks my skin dry but is better than spending the day with a thin film of canine saliva covering it.

I look up as the bell jingles and the door opens again—what is with today and unscheduled drop-ins? This time it’s Wes who enters. My breath catches in my throat when I see him. I wonder if he ever won’t elicit that kind of reaction from me, if I’ll ever get numb to his presence. I hope not. He walks up to the desk and ducks under the hatch to join me behind the counter. I try to temper the delight in my voice.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugs a canvas tote off his shoulder, glass clinking against glass from its depths.

“I got you some stuff.”

The first item I pull out is a tall glass bottle of natural spring water.

“Hydration is critical.”

Next, actual cranberry juice, not just cranberry juice cocktail. And cranberry pills. Some individual yogurts, in their own little glass pots, of course. Fresh berries. All stuff that’s supposed to help with my ailment. Never mind that I’ve already tried everything, with nothing to show for it, I still melt.

“You went to the store for me, without me asking? Most dudes wouldn’t go near this situation with a ten-foot pole.”

I gesture around my midsection with emphasis.

“It’s not a big deal. You need higher expectations of men.”

He’s not wrong. He should be supportive, since this is at least half his fault. My fingers graze a plastic tube at the bottom of the bag. I hold it up to examine its contents—a pre-roll. I raise my brow at him. He shrugs.

“I figured it couldn’t hurt…”

Next comes an assortment of tea bags. Several bars of dark chocolate. A heating pad. I picture him wandering around the store, picking things out for me, and my heart is filled with an overwhelming tenderness.

“I love you.”

Realizing what I’ve said, I clamp my mouth shut, eyes wide in alarm.

“Shit. Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

My face burns. I’m such an idiot. He’s going to run for the hills.

“Do you?”

He’s staring at me, his expression impenetrable. I refuse to meet his gaze, in case I don’t like what I see.

“Do I what?”

I feign ignorance, but I can feel the heat on my cheeks, and I know that my skin must be a deep red.

“Love me.”

“No.”

I scoff, turning away.

“That would be crazy. We’ve only known each other for like… a month.”

“It’s been a lot longer than that. Technically, if you think about it, we’ve been living together for over a year.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t love you.”

He pulls on my hand, dragging me back toward him as I try to resist. He puts one hand on each side of my face, holding me so I can’t avoid his gaze.

“Well, I do.”

I stare at him, wide-eyed. He bites back a smile as he repeats himself.

“I love you.”

“You do?”

“I do. I love you.”

My body floods with unexpected relief at the truth in his voice. Had I somewhere, in the deep recesses of my mind, been worried this was one-sided? That the intensity of the feelings was only felt by me? That I was anchored to him now, but he could leave me at any time? He shakes his head.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve nearly said it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you’d freak out.”

“I would have.”

“Too bad. You broke the seal. I love you. I love you.”

He kisses my face each time he says it—my still-flushed cheeks, the tip of my nose, my eyebrows—

“Stop, you dork.”

But I can’t stop grinning. He kisses me on the lips, finally.

“I’ve always loved you. Even before I knew you. I wasn’t kidding when I said Cat is my soulmate.”

My heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s stopped. I put my hand on his chest, pushing back to look up at him, my face grave.

“I still can’t have sex with you. For like, at least a week.”

He laughs.

“You love me.”

I finally give in.

“I love you.”

He beams, a smile so bright I instantly regret how long it took me to say it. I should have told him right away, when he was flossing his teeth, or even sooner, at the party, the first time we officially met. When I woke up in bed next to him, when he didn’t even know it was me, or even before, the very first time we ever saw him, walking into that shitty apartment building Cat knew he was too good for.

I’m so giddy it physically hurts.

It’s terrifying.

OLLIEDOG

the smell of the orange girl is all over the house. and the garden and the shed. and especially the cat

it is orange and small. even for a cat it is very small

my mission is to track the small orange girl. and she is the small orange cat

i stay far enough away so it does not see or smell or hear me. it does not like strangers and bailey says we must not bother it until we are sure

it is on the roof watching a skunk. there is something not skunk about it

a pigeon coos near it. i do not speak pigeon but the pigeon is not pigeon and the cat knows it

the cat waits for the skunk to go away then pounces. the cat is so quiet the pigeon doesnt even notice until the cat is shaking it. feathers fly the pigeon is screaming but the cats teeth are in its neck

the cat does not play with it even though cats sometimes do but not this cat. the pigeon is dead but the cat is not done it uses its claws—

that is a rune! that is a rune! that is a rune! the cat is making a rune!

the pigeons form is frozen because

the cat has runes!

time to find bailey

OLLIE

It’s her alright.” I crouch in the open boot of our hire Jeep while Bailey sits in the driver’s seat, looking politely ahead as I pull on my trackies.

“You’re absolutely sure?”

I’ve been sure since we met the tiny ginger at the vet’s reception desk. For one thing, her scent was distinctly feline. For another, what kind of person hates dogs? And who works at an animal clinic on top of that? She had to be either a complete lunatic, or a cat… the latter not precluding the former, by any means.

Once we’d found her at work, I had no problem tracking her scent home. But since what we’re planning leaves us with no room for error, we’d then taken three days of somewhat questionable sleuthing to confirm that she was without a doubt who we were looking for.

“You saw her shift?”

“No,” I say, “but I saw a ginger cat that smells exactly like her gut an imp and use isa to freeze its form, so I’m sure.”

“An imp?” Her brow wrinkles. Bailey’s never seen an imp before, that she knows of. They tend to hide in plain sight, inhabiting forms that no one would look twice at. I’ve only found them in my familiar form, when I can hear their whispers for what they are, smell their acute foulness.

“A small one,” I assure her. “The cat had no problem taking care of it.”

“Okay. Okay.” Bailey takes a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles are white.

Fully clothed, I clamber over the back seat to the passenger seat next to her. “What do you want to do?”

She straightens her back, then starts to open her door to get out. “We’d better talk to her witch, I suppose.”

“Wait…” I reach over her to pull it shut again. “The sun’s barely up. And it’s a Sunday.”

She starts absentmindedly tapping her nails on the handbrake. To distract her, I take my bag of runestones out of the glove compartment and give it a shake to shuffle them. They aren’t strictly stones; in this case they are small oblong pieces of wood, like stubby dominoes. So, I like to keep mine handy.

There’s two ways I’ve been able to cast runes, either by drawing out the symbol, like the cat did, or by channelling them through runestones, which is much quicker. I carved them from a branch of the yew by our pond, my favourite climbing tree when I was younger. There’s twenty-five altogether, one for each symbol in the Elder Futhark alphabet.

“Ask a question.”

She smiles faintly. “What should we do now?”

I pull Raido Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling an R with a triangular upper section and diagonal leg, representing a wheel. raido, the wheel, movement, travel. “See? We should leave.”

“It could be for meeting.”

We’ve killed a lot of time playing this game, one of us asking a question and the other pulling a rune to answer, although how accurate our answers are is up for debate. There’s a lot of room for interpretation with runes. At any rate, it’s the closest we’ve gotten to Bailey being able to use them.

“Fine, second one’s a tiebreaker.” I hold the bag up for her, and she draws Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. kenaz, the torch.

“New direction,” I say triumphantly.

“Or, moving forward!”

I groan, stuffing the bag in my pocket. “Useless.”

“You’re right, though.” She sinks back into her seat. “We should probably give it a couple of hours…”

“At least.” These are university students we’re talking about. I doubt any of them have voluntarily seen this side of noon since they moved out of their family homes.

Bailey’s brow creases as she stares back towards the cat’s house. “You don’t think the runes are telling us to leave completely, do you? That we should go home?”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “Maybe a run, though?”

There’s a massive nature reserve only about a mile away, with trails that wind through the woods and around a reservoir. The perfect place to burn off some excess energy. My head is basically hanging out of the window in excitement by the time we enter the car park. I consider shifting again. There’s nothing like running full speed through an open field on four legs. But I resist the temptation. I suspect talking will be good for Bailey.

“How do we do it?” she asks almost as soon as we start. “We can’t just go ring the doorbell and ask to talk to the witch of the house. What if he doesn’t answer? Who am I supposed to ask for? We don’t even know his name.”

I grimace. I don’t have a good answer. Maybe I should have shifted after all. Then I could make her focus on throwing me a ball instead.

Bailey runs with her body at an angle so she can look at me while she talks. “And once I do get to him, why would he talk to me? He’s going to think I’m selling something, or that I’m trying to convert him to a religion. He’s going to slam the door in my face.”

“I can guarantee you won’t have a problem getting him to talk to you.” That’s one thing I can say with confidence. Almost no one would turn Bailey away, especially not anyone romantically interested in women, which I’m fairly certain he is. Even if she was selling double glazing, or God.

She blushes a little, and the corner of her mouth quirks up in the hint of a smile. “Well, what if he’s not home?”

Five miles later we still don’t have a plan, but we are sweaty enough to warrant a pit stop so we can each have a shower, which has the added benefit of using up more time. Finally, we drive back to the cat’s neighbourhood.

We park around the corner and begin our approach to the decrepit house. Its paint is faded and peeling, the wood siding is warped, and it’s missing more than a few shingles. It must be at least a hundred years old. Dormers and gables jut haphazardly from every side, promising to cast a menacing silhouette during a thunderstorm. There’s even a turret. A perfect fit, if your brand of witch is of the old hag variety.

Ours is not.

The witch in question is sitting on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette, looking very tortured and rock ’n’ roll in ripped black jeans and leather boots. Bailey and I exchange a relieved look. The fact that he’s sitting out here for us to find solves a lot of our problems.

The cat is draped over the railing of the porch, close enough to watch over him but far enough to pretend she isn’t. She’s a short-haired ginger tabby, small and scrawny, only slightly bigger than a kitten and with the narrow build of adolescence, even though I’m sure she’s full-grown.

”Excuse me,” Bailey calls over the half-dead hedge. “Do you think I could bum one of your cigarettes?”

Yeah, nice. I give her a thumbs-up, keeping my hand low at my waist so only she can see it. The witch looks Bailey over, not uninterested, which is not at all surprising but still something I’m not totally keen on.

“Sure.” He takes the pack out of his pocket, using it to motion inwards, inviting her over. The cat watches Bailey come up the path, her pale green eyes wide and alert, but makes no move towards or away from her. Bailey stops a few steps from the witch, and he holds out the open pack. “There’s a lighter in there too.”

Instead of taking it and playing it cool, Bailey looks perplexed.

“I don’t smoke,” she says. I groan inwardly. “I think it’s kind of horrible, actually. Sorry. I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”

He smirks, completely unperturbed. “ ‘Hi’ is a pretty traditional one, around here.”

“Hi. I’m Bailey.” She offers him her hand to shake, and he half rises to take it.

“Wes.”

As I had predicted, he doesn’t even question why Bailey wants to talk to him. In fact, he’s so at ease you’d think pretty strangers wandering into his garden for a chat is a daily occurrence.

I’m still off the premises on the pavement, having not warranted his attention up to this point. He now has the decency to shoot me a quick glance, to see how I’m reacting. Making sure I’m not the boyfriend.

I pretend to be very engaged by something on my phone. It’s better for Bailey to take the lead in situations like these. She’s the obviously friendly and approachable one, where I have been told I can sometimes come off as intimidating. Something to do with my looming over most people, I think.

“Oh, that’s Ollie. My, uh, friend. Don’t mind him.”

He nods to the spot next to him and she steps forward to sit but first pauses by where the cat is perched to pay her respects.

“Hello to you as well, puss…” Bailey reaches out to stroke her, but the cat starts making that sound that cats make when they’re angry, a low gravelly groan that is threatening to absolutely nobody. Claws drawn, she swipes at Bailey, full on hissing. Bailey pulls her hand back quickly but takes the cat’s reaction in stride. “Sorry, you’re right. I’m still a stranger. We’re not on stroking terms yet.”

Without turning her back on the cat, Bailey lowers herself next to Wes. The cat jumps down from her spot and, without breaking eye contact with Bailey, walks over to him and settles on his lap.

Cats.

Not that I hate cats, as a rule. There’s a barn cat at home that I get along with quite well, but she’s known me since she was a kitten and doesn’t half act like a dog herself.

Wes looks between the cat and Bailey but doesn’t move the cat off his lap or apologise for her rudeness.

“Is your familiar always this friendly?” I ask. Bailey gives me a small frown, as if offending the cat will get us off to a bad start.

Instead of insulted, Wes looks confused. “My what, now?”

“Your familiar?” Bailey repeats. A concerned look crosses her face. “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

I told her that of the four guys that live in the house, the one with the long black hair is the only one the cat bothers with. Plus, the cat’s smell is all over him; I can tell even from here. But Bailey’s still worried I got the wrong one.

“I don’t think Cat thinks she belongs to anyone.” Wes gives the cat a dark look. “But I feed her, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, good. Phew. I thought we’d really put our foot in it, there.” Bailey laughs and runs her hand through her hair. She bends so she’s at the cat’s eye level but stays far away enough that the cat can’t scratch her eyes out. “You can show yourself, little one. We’re friends. We mean you no harm.”

Bailey puts on her best Good and Wise Witch voice, but I’m sure the cat does not appreciate her efforts. She just blinks and looks away. Bailey frowns, disappointed, as does Wes, but his frown is directed at Bailey. “What are you doing?”

“I was hoping she’d shift so we can all talk.”

His shoulders stiffen. He reaches out, seemingly to stroke the cat’s back, but guides her around him at the same time, putting himself between her and Bailey.

“You can talk all you want, but you’ll be talking to yourself. She’s not very verbal, being a cat and all. You know? An animal…”

“No, it’s okay,” Bailey says, smiling reassuringly. “We know about you guys.”

“You ‘know about us’?” He leans forward, moving his weight onto his feet. He’s still at Bailey’s level, but he’s not sitting anymore. He’s maneuvered himself into a defensive crouch. I quietly move closer to them, walking slowly so as not to alarm him, but wanting to be close enough to intervene if needed.

“Yes. And we came all the way here to find you…”

“From… England?” He leans back on his heels, shifting from hip to hip.

Bailey would let them dick her around like this all day, but honestly, I haven’t the patience. I stride towards them and address the cat in a stern voice. “Shift.”

The cat blinks as if she doesn’t understand me, because cats can be right wankers when they want to be. I take the Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz runestone out of my pocket. I mostly use it for imps and other ghoulies, but I think it’ll work about the same on her. Swooping my hand into her side before she can get away, I press the stone into her fur.

“Shift.”

CAT

The stone blazes heat against my fur as the magic from the rune of destruction activates—

CLEO

One moment I’m Cat; the next I’m not. Instead, I’m standing on the porch, in front of two complete strangers, naked.

This is happening way too frequently these days.

“Shit.”

Wes reacts quicker than I do, scooping me up in his arms and whisking me into the house, kicking the door shut with his heel behind us. He grabs a coat from the pile draped over the stair rail and wraps it around me. It’s one of his, a tan utility jacket with a sherpa lining that usually hits him just below the hips but almost reaches my knees. It smells like Wes, and fresh tobacco. He must have left a pack in one of the pockets. The smell envelops me like a protective shroud.

I take a second to breathe him in. We haven’t seen each other in a few days—not with me as Cleo, anyway. I’ve been in another one of my funks. The love thing, there in the open, out loud—it was too much. Suddenly there was so much to lose.

“Baby, baby… are you okay?”

He searches my face, worried, looking for any sign of injury, physical or emotional.

I begin my own internal assessment. Physically, I appear to be fine. My organs seem to all be functioning as they should be, as far as I can tell. I’m all the way Cleo; no part of Cat got left behind. No tail at the end of my spine, no fur on my ears. My skin isn’t even burnt where the tile touched me, although it feels like it should be.

Next, I take stock of my emotional state. I’m shaken. He forced me to turn, against my will. I didn’t even know that was possible. I feel more than a little violated. Worse, I feel powerless.

Which pisses me off. This is good. Anger is a good thing—better than hurt, or sadness, or vulnerability. I know how to deal with anger. Wes senses my fury almost immediately.

“I swear, I didn’t tell anyone. You have to believe me.”

I look up at him, confused. Then I realize—he thinks my anger is directed at him.

“I didn’t think you did.”

Outside, the girl’s voice is shrill.

“Ollie! No! That’s very rude. I’m so sorry!”

Wes barely notices them; his focus never leaves me. His muscles are tense as a coiled spring, ready for another attack.

“No one else knows, right? How did they find out?”

I look through the window at the couple and narrow my eyes. It’s the girl who came into the clinic the other day. She’s scolding the guy, who runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair, frustrated but chastened, his shoulders slumped. The girl—Bailey—called him Ollie…

I hiss as it hits me. The boy is the dog. No wonder they smell so weird. I spin on my heels and head back out the door.

“Cleo, wait; don’t—”

Wes reaches out to grab my arm, but I brush him off. I know what he’s thinking—we don’t know them; they could be dangerous. They are dangerous; Ollie proved that already—at least put some clothes on—and he’s right on all counts, but I’m ignoring him anyway. I do button up a couple of the coat’s more essential buttons, though.

I stand on the top step of the porch and fix my best glare on the guy.

“What. The. Fuck.”

I don’t go closer—I need the height advantage. Ollie is large, both tall and wide, in the way that is currently athletic but could easily turn to fat after one lazy summer. Despite his size, he doesn’t really seem threatening, although I know better.

He has a simple, starchy quality about him that I imagine is what they mean by ‘salt of the earth.’ His pleasant expression ripples through his entire person. Wes always has so much happening behind his eyes, he’s always a few steps ahead. This guy looks like he’s not thinking at all, even though he’s listening really hard.

He meets my stare but lets Bailey do the talking.

“Hello again! We met at your work?”

“I remember.”

It doesn’t explain why they’re here, how they got from randomly meeting me at work to practically assaulting me at home.

“Were you… following me?”

The thought alarms me—how long were they watching me? How could I have not noticed? And… why? I think back to our first interaction, when they came into a vet’s office with seemingly no reason, how Bailey said it was natural I didn’t like dogs and the way she lingered. It wasn’t random at all. They already knew what I am.

She doesn’t deny it, her eyes widening as she sees the conclusion I’m heading toward.

“We’re friends, I promise!”

Wes comes to stand behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth against my back, comforting me with his proximity. His voice is soft, almost taunting, and full of quiet rage.

“That didn’t seem very friendly, did it, Cleo?”

He’s terrified for me, and that’s made him unpredictable, a cornered animal. The knowledge he wants to protect me makes this ordeal almost worthwhile. I tilt my head.

“I don’t know… it could have been friendly.”

Wes starts to circle Bailey slowly. I follow suit, but in the opposite direction, falling into sync with him. We’re two parts of a whole, and I revel in it.

“Too friendly.”

Bailey’s head whips around as she looks between us, uneasy. Our prowling has not unintentionally cut her off from Ollie, her safety blanket, and she has no idea what we’re going to do to her. Good, let her worry.

Ollie steps forward to intervene, but stops abruptly when Bailey raises her hand slightly, her palm open and facing forward. Dog for ‘stay.’

I could never.

“Um, as I was saying earlier, we’ve come quite a long way to find you, and I suppose Ollie was too excited and a little bit impatient. He’s very sorry. I told you he has some problems regulating—”

She smiles, a cute callback to when we first met. When she clocks my ire, she rushes on.

“Anyway, it’s just that we’ve never met anyone like us before.”

Full of bravado, Wes stops in front of her and crosses his arms.

“Prove it.”

He doesn’t even really know what he’s asking—but I do, and he can tell that I approve.

“Sorry?”

Her voice is a high-pitched squeak. I lean into her from behind, so close my mouth is almost touching her ear.

“You’re like us? Prove it.”

Bailey almost looks relieved.

“Great, yes, that’s a great idea, we should all go inside, and Ollie can shift—”

Over her head, Wes makes eye contact with me. His brow twitches, the tiniest hint of a question. He doesn’t have the benefit of a keen sense of smell, nor did he have the pleasure of meeting Ollie as a dog, but he gets her meaning right away. Ollie shifts like I turn—it’s the same thing. I tip my chin. It’s enough. Wes pretends to ponder as he shakes his head.

“Inside?”

I tut at her.

“I don’t think so.”

As if we would let them into our house, so they can invade our sanctuary. Bailey looks around furtively.

“It isn’t really something he should do… you know… in public…”

Wes and I both arch our eyebrows, unified in the irony. They didn’t seem to care about that, say, five minutes ago.

“Right, yes, point taken…”

She looks at Ollie desperately. He shrugs, and suddenly he’s gone, and his clothes are falling to the ground on top of the dog, who woofs happily.

I keep my face straight, but to be honest I’m rattled. I’ve turned a million times before, but I’ve never even dreamed of seeing someone else do it. Until this moment, as far as I knew, I was an anomaly. The only person who could turn into an animal at will in the whole world.

“Okay. So, he’s like me…”

As I trail off, Wes finishes for me.

“But how are you like us?”

The million-dollar question: What exactly does she mean by ‘us’? Her dog is her secret landlord and occasional lover, and she unwittingly torments his soul?

“Ollie is my familiar… like you’re Wes’s? His animal spirit companion? He’s your witch?”

Wes’s brows fly sky-high as he looks at me.

Witch.

Bailey starts a speech she’s clearly been rehearsing since before she crossed the Atlantic. Some uninspired shit like do you find things happening around you that you can’t explain? And have you always felt like you were different?

Even though Wes is skeptical, he’s listening, because yes, his pet cat is also his human girlfriend sometimes. So something either mystical or heavily sci-fi is up, but whenever he’s asked me, I’ve dodged the topic. Even if I hadn’t, what would I tell him? It’s not like I came with a user manual.

“Better start growing out that beard, Merlin.”

I inject the words with all the mockery I can muster—which is a lot. As intended, it interrupts Bailey’s soliloquy.

“Merlin was a wizard, which are sort of a different thing altogether… ‘witch’ actually applies to all sexes…”

The dog nudges her hand and gives her a look.

“Oh, right. You were being ironic.”

Wes considers her.

“What do you want from us?”

Bailey and the dog exchange a careful look. I roll my eyes, because they aren’t that complex—what Bailey wants is written all over her face.

“Isn’t it obvious? They want to be best friends and have witchy sleepovers where we play light as a feather and dance naked by the light of the full moon.”

That earns me one of Wes’s signature smirks, which makes my heart clench in an annoying way. This is part of the reason I wasn’t done avoiding him yet, until I was rudely forced to be. I don’t trust how strongly I respond to even his smallest of expressions, how badly I crave not only his love but his admiration, and worse, his approval.

“Naked… really?”

He gives Bailey a slow up-down, devouring her with his eyes. I’m torn between the understanding that it’s only to unsettle her, and an involuntary jealous rage that makes me want to claw both their faces off.

I glance over at Ollie the dog by Bailey’s side. He’s so big his head reaches her waist—on his hind legs he’d easily be as tall as her. I’m surprised that he hasn’t torn Wes’s throat out yet.

Instead of squirming, Bailey fixes Wes with a steely gaze.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

His tone is flippant, which seems to spur her indignation.

“This thing you’re doing, trying to disarm me or whatever. Stop. Unless you’re actually a creep.”

I snort, from both amusement and irritation. I’m weirdly pleased she checked him, showed some semblance of a backbone. But Wes looks chagrined. Because he’s not really like that, he was playing a part, and now that he’s being forced to think about it, the idea that he made her feel uncomfortable makes him feel shitty.

“Sorry.”

At his mumbled apology, her shoulders loosen, her stance becoming relaxed.

“You have a right to be defensive. Can we… start again?”

He nods, even though I’m pretty sure this should be at least partially my decision, given that it was me who suffered the invasion of the body snatchers.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

It is so unbelievably cheesy, but she and the dog walk out of the yard. Then they turn right around and come back in.

“Hi. I’m Bailey, and this is my familiar, Ollie. I’m a witch, and I think you might be too.”

She grins, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, and… we come in peace.”

She reaches out her hand to shake his, and to my abject horror he takes it.

“I’m Wes. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m willing to listen.”

Ollie reaches his paw out to me and opens his mouth to let out a sharp but friendly bark. I take two steps back, holding my hands up in surrender.

“Whatever.”

OLLIEDOG

She said come in. and bailey said come olliedog

here i come inside. come on good boy. OH—

OLLIE

I double up, falling to my knees in the entryway. It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. Bailey crouches over me, her hand on my shoulder, her face scrunched up like she’s going to cry… because she’s worried about me, not because she’s hurt, so that’s okay.

“I’m fine,” I rasp out between coughs, holding up my hand to wave her off.

Cleo’s eyes are wide, but she recovers quickly, schooling her mouth into a mocking pout. “Not that fun, is it?”

She tosses me a mildewy towel, which I wrap around my waist as I take my clothes from Bailey. I scan the wooden doorframe. Spotting something at ankle level, I squat down to admire the roughly hewn symbols.

Looks like someone has some rune action of her own.

I consider myself adept at rune magic, but I mostly cast simple runes, individual letters. These are bind runes, multiple simple runes combined into more complex structures, like six-pronged snowflakes that fall around the threshold of the home. I see Algiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical symbol with two upward diagonal branches resembling raised antlers, representing a stag. algiz, Eihwaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular zigzag symbol with opposing hooked ends connected diagonally, representing yew. eihwaz, and Nauthiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke crossed near the center by a shorter diagonal line, representing need. nauthiz, combined and repeated. Runes of protection and defence. The house thinks I’m a threat, then.

I suppose that’s fair. Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. Hagalaz is usually my attack rune, though I didn’t entirely mean it in that way this time. Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. Hagalaz doesn’t only bring hail and destruction, it’s also a force for change. Still, it’s only right that the house threw everything it had back at me.

“There are some strong wards on this entrance.”

Cleo and Wes exchange a look, and she shrugs at him. He didn’t know about them, and she seems a little surprised herself.

“They’re Cat’s,” she says, as if she has nothing to do with it. As if she is not, in fact, the cat in question.

She slinks through the gloomy entryway, leading us into an equally gloomy living room. All of the finishes, from the banisters to window frames and skirting boards, are made of the same dark oak. The expansive space is sparsely decorated, with only an extravagantly large TV, a coffee table, and an unusually high number of mismatched sofas. Five, to be exact. But there’s no carpet, no art on the walls, no little cushions for any of the seats. And everything is covered in a thin layer of grime, some combination of dust, dirty laundry, and cat dander all bound together with old kitchen grease to make a sticky film. Proper uni digs, I guess.

“So, was I right?” Cleo asks. “You want to be a witchy girl group? But like, with boys?”

Her voice drips with sarcasm; I suspect it always does. If she thinks that’s going to faze us, she’s not versed in British humour. Bailey certainly doesn’t let it dampen her spirits.

“We think you might be part of our coven,” she breathes.

“Right, coven,” Cleo says. “Obviously. Silly me. Remind me, why would we want to join that?”

“You’re the only other witch-familiar pairing we’ve found. I think we must belong together; don’t you?”

Cleo gives a sidelong glance at Wes, who is considering Bailey’s words. She scowls. “No.”

Spotting the downstairs toilet, I pop in to put my clothes back on. I leave the door ajar so that I can listen, and so I can get back over to Bailey fast if something goes sour. They could be playing dumb, or maybe Wes truly doesn’t know anything. Except he knows that Cleo can shift, and how is that nothing? And Cleo knows more than she’s letting on.

“How did you find us?” Wes asks. “Did you scry for us, or whatever they do in movies?”

He’s joking, but he doesn’t realise how close to the truth he’s hit.

“It’s funny you should say that…,” Bailey says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. We were, in fact, scrying when we found them. “We’d never had much success with scrying before.”

“Why?” Wes asks.

“Because it’s bullshit,” Cleo says.

“Because we get distracted,” Bailey admits, sheepishly.

“You can only stare into the abyss thinking about one thing for so long,” I add, returning fully clothed. Scrying is like trying to see the hidden image in one of those old-school Magic Eye pictures. The kind that looks like a page covered in colourful TV static, where you sort of make your eyes focus on nothing, and then suddenly a 3D dinosaur or a top hat pops out of the mess. Only with scrying you have to let your mind go blank but also simultaneously focus assiduously on your intention, the thing you’re looking for.

“It’s useful, though. Even if we don’t get the answer we want, we tend to find missing keys, or once I found twenty quid in the pocket of some jeans that had gone through the wash.”

Still, we keep trying.

“We like using the pond between our two farms,” Bailey says. The greenery of the surrounding fields is soothing, and that’s where I was found as a pup, so our theory is that there must be some kind of source of magic like a faerie portal or something nearby that will surely help us along. We’ve messed about with mirrors too, but we’re even more rubbish with them than water because Bailey ends up staring at her pores and coming up with spells for skincare. “If we’re bored and it’s not raining too much, we’ll wander down and ask the water a question.”

“You guys need a hobby,” Cleo scoffs.

“What do you think this is?” I challenge.

“A less dumb one, then.”

“Let her finish her story.” Wes nudges her with his shoulder, still watching us with suspicion.

“When it finally happened, we weren’t even trying. We saw you in the fire.”

“Fire?” Cleo asks, her tone guarded. Since I’m blocking the doorway, she perches herself on the windowsill as if ready to make a quick escape. I wonder if she’d really leave Wes if push came to shove. I would jump in front of a bullet for Bailey, but for all I know Wes’s familiar would climb over him to save herself.

“The Guy Fawkes bonfire,” Bailey clarifies. “It’s kind of a big thing in our area.”

We were down in the village at our local, the Hen and the Hound, about three ciders into the evening, when the pub emptied out. Against my better judgement, we followed the crowd over to the tilled field where the bonfire was starting, put on by the parish council.

It’s a tradition I could go without, if I’m honest. I can’t quite find the joy in pretending to burn a man alive, even if he was committing treason. I know, intellectually, that the figure trussed to the stake is just an effigy, a dressed-up sack of dried twigs and leaves. But watching as his pink papier mâché skin started to curl from the heat, I couldn’t suppress my shudder. I couldn’t look away either. I stared deep into his bright blue painted eyes as the flames consumed him, and I could feel that next to me, Bailey was doing the same.

“And then we saw you,” Bailey says softly.

“Me?” Cleo looks affronted. “Me or Cat?”

It’s interesting how tenacious she is about differentiating herself from her familiar form. I’m different as a dog, from my senses down to how my mind works, but ultimately, person or dog, it’s the same thing. It’s still me.

“Both.”

“Did you see me?” Wes asks. He’s affecting a blasé attitude, but he’s not as cool as he puts on.

“Not… exactly. Your hands, I think.” Bailey looks down, finding the tattoo on the webbing of his left hand, between his thumb and index finger. A miniature drawing of a forefinger and thumb forming an L. That “L” is burnt onto both of our minds. We watched those hands, grasped under Cleo’s arms as she flickered between girl and cat. “Definitely your hands.”

Scrying for Cleo became a lot easier once we had seen her and had a face to visualise. Two, in fact. Although the details of how we finally succeeded are a little embarrassing.

“This doesn’t sound very magical or anything… but you know how when you’re on your phone, not really paying attention? How you can look at tonnes of things and barely see them? It turns out, it’s very similar to scrying. I didn’t even know I was doing it… but then I found you.”

“That’s impossible,” Cleo says, crossing her arms. “I don’t do social media.”

Bailey takes out her mobile and opens her photos to the screenshots she’s been collecting.

“I was looking at pictures of rescue dogs and fosters and somehow got to a girl at your work. Her page has all these pictures of you, in both forms.”

Wes glances down at the screen. “Gilly.”

“I told her to stop posting stuff of me.” Cleo looks incensed. Without the culprit present to hold accountable, she turns on Bailey. “How do you know you didn’t get it all wrong? How do you know Gilly’s not my witch and Wes isn’t just some guy I’m fucking?”

Even though she’s speaking in negatives, Cleo is positively marking her territory and definitely shagging her witch. And I am totally not jealous even though all Bailey and I have ever done is kiss and the couple of times that has happened she got all you’re my best friend, this could ruin everything” on me.

“No…,” Bailey says, seemingly oblivious as she gazes at Wes. “You’re definitely the right witch.”

“Guy Fawkes… when is that again?” Cleo pivots.

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November…,” Wes murmurs the rhyme, chewing on his lip.

“So right after Halloween.” Cleo’s eyes bore into Wes, full of meaning. He releases his bottom lip with a pop.

“What do you really want from us?” he asks.

His tone is slippery, edging towards ominous. “Look, mate, we don’t want anything…”

“We want to do magic with you!” Bailey bursts, completely contradicting me. Cleo and Wes relax immediately.

“Told you…,” Cleo says in an annoying singsong voice, gloating.

“What magic?”

He looks intrigued. Seems we might be winning him over after all. Cleo glares at him, having reached the same conclusion. “No. No fucking way.”

“Something simple?” Bailey offers, taking advantage of the opening. “Just to see… maybe a friendship chant?”

“Even if we were going to agree to partake in this, which we’re not, that is a dumb suggestion,” Cleo says. “How would we even know it was working?”

“You’ll stop being such a bitch,” I pipe up before I can stop myself. It’s not entirely fair of me; I would be prickly too, if I were in her shoes. The corners of her mouth twitch upwards in the hint of an amused smile before she smothers it. But it’s too late; I’ve caught her. Cheered, I wink at her.

“We could scry for something?” Bailey tries.

Cleo crosses her arms. “The thing you’re notoriously bad at?”

“There’s a levitation charm—”

“You mean classic sleepover game light as a feather?”

“Cleo. Can I talk to you in private?” Wes is already leading her by the elbow into a bedroom. He gives us a tight smile. “We’ll be right back.”

The door slams shut, but it’s nowhere near thick enough to muffle Cleo’s shrill “Are you fucking kidding me, after what he fucking did to me?”

“Sorry,” Bailey says, wincing. “I didn’t play it very cool at all.”

I shrug. “No harm done. Might as well get straight to the point.”

She stares at the closed door. Their voices are quieter now, so it’s hard to make out exactly what’s being said, but the vibe remains combative.

“What do you want to do?” Bailey asks.

She thinks I’m going to say that I want to have a lobster roll, maybe check out a Patriots game, and get on a flight straight back to England. Is it really worth dealing with all this? Part of me does want that. But the other, larger part wants to stick it out. We have questions. And it seems like Wes and Cleo are the key to getting answers. “We came all the way here. We should at least try.”

“Right. That’s what I think.”

“Halloween?” Wes’s raised voice filters through the closed door. “Are you serious? That was a joke.”

“Well, it sure put us on the goddamn map, didn’t it?” Cleo yells back.

I smile at Bailey. “And if it doesn’t work, we can always scry again for a witch with a familiar who is less of a cow.”

Because one thing we know for certain now: we’re not alone.

“And he’s an arsehole. They’re perfect for each other.” She crinkles her nose. “Of all the witches in the world, why did the magic have to bring us to them?”

CLEO

I know I’ve lost the fight when Wes says he’ll do it with or without me.

There’s no debating if it’s all bullshit or not, because obviously it’s not. I am sometimes a cat, and evidently, Ollie is sometimes a dog. There’s a limited number of explanations for that. It’s magic, evil scientists, or aliens, right?

The question is, do we want to dig deeper? And if we do—do we want to do it with them? I am a hard no on both, but Wes is a firm yes. Which brings us to our current situation: instead of us against them, it’s them—including Wes—and then me. Not against, just separate.

There are two scenarios that can come out of this: he does the stupid spell without me; nothing happens; they say it’s because I wasn’t participating; he has a bonding experience with Bailey nonetheless and secretly holds a grudge against me.

That’s the more benign of my two options. The other: he does the stupid spell without me; by some crazy miracle something does happen; he and Bailey embark on a wonderful journey of love and magic; I am left alone. But worse than being alone, because only half of me is left.

Or the actual absolute worst, I am left with the fucking dog.

“Fucking fine, okay?”

I’m still only wearing the coat, so I put on some tights and a skirt from the floor and root around for a shirt. Wes hands me one of his.

“C’mon, it’s not like you seriously think Teen Witch out there is dangerous. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He’s not wrong. Five minutes with Bailey and Ollie and it’s obvious they’re full of stardust and good intentions.

“I don’t know… we don’t know what we’re messing with. It might sound like a stupid simple thing, but there might be… side effects.”

My imagination is vivid, and even then, I am sure I am not even close to coming up with the grisliest outcome. He nods.

“Like Halloween.”

Exactly like Halloween. Wes’s dumbass friends decide to mess around with some spell they don’t understand for shits and giggles. There’s a 99.9 percent chance that if we hadn’t been there, the results would have been absolutely fuck all. I thought by breaking the circle and not turning in front of the whole damn room, I had averted disaster. But it seems we lit up like a beacon, out there in the open for any old magical being to find.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the runes on the front door?”

He overenunciates ‘runes,’ testing out the new term. I shrug hopelessly, all the fight that was in me suddenly abandoning ship, leaving me exhausted.

“They’re just markings; they’ve been there forever. I sort of… forgot about them.”

We trace over the wards, claws digging into the wood. Algiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical symbol with two upward diagonal branches resembling raised antlers, representing a stag. Algiz, sanctuary, becomes Eihwaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular zigzag symbol with opposing hooked ends connected diagonally, representing yew. eihwaz, safety, becomes Nauthiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke crossed near the center by a shorter diagonal line, representing need. nauthiz, survival. Our magic imbues them, renewing their strength.

“Did you know what we are? What I am?”

His question interrupts my reverie, and I shake my head, both in response and to clear my head.

“But it’s true? I’m a witch? You’re my familiar?”

He finds my answer in my silence. It pains me to admit, but it feels right. He always says Cat is his soulmate. Is it better or worse that now we know why? Worse, I think, because our connection isn’t some special magical thing after all. Well, it is magic, but not in the same way—it’s not unique to us. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. When it comes down to it, I’m his whatever he wants to call me, wants me to be.

“Did Cat know?”

“She must have.”

He studies me in this new light. There’s been a fundamental shift between us, one we’ll never be able to take back.

“Do you ever wonder what else Cat is hiding?”

“No. I trust there’s a good reason for it.”

He accepts my answer, doesn’t push me anymore. But I haven’t changed his mind; nothing I said worked. If anything, he’s even more determined to do magic with them.

I get why he wants to. It’s a classic orphan fantasy, right? The reason you’re all alone is because you’re secretly superspecial and destined for greatness? One day someone extraordinary will come along and you’ll realize you are part of something bigger. You belong to someone.

The thing is, I thought that already happened for him. I thought he belonged to me, because I sure as shit belong to him.

As if he can read my mind, he looks at me.

“I’m serious that you don’t have to try the spell if it makes you uncomfortable. I wasn’t being passive-aggressive. If you feel anything weird, we’ll stop.”

I don’t want to, but I’ll do it for him. And he knows it. I give him a dark smile.

“The whole thing is weird.”

We go out to the living room to find Ollie and Bailey standing exactly where we left them. Wes looks at me, letting me take the lead. I set my jaw.

“The levitation spell.”

I like this option—relative to the others offered, because I don’t like any of it—for a number of reasons, first and foremost being that it will be obvious immediately if the spell works or if they’re full of crap. Secondly, it is in our immediate physical plane, so it feels less likely that we could inadvertently summon a demon or whatever.

Bailey looks a little surprised that we didn’t conclude that she should fuck off back to Cornwall.

“Right. Okay. We’ll need a few things. Could I have a poke about in your kitchen?”

I give a maybe exaggerated sigh as I lead her down the hall. From our paltry offerings, she assembles what is essentially a spice mix for chili, because that is the only thing anyone in the house knows how to make, so it’s all we have. Seeing the skepticism on my face, she starts to explain, unprompted.

“Bay leaves are good for psychic development, and cayenne should speed things up a bit…”

“Don’t care.”

She pretends not to hear me, a tactic frequently employed by annoyingly positive people when they are forced to reckon with my bad side.

“And they apparently used to use basil for flying, so it can’t hurt.”

She says ‘bah-sil’ like the name of an old man.

“Extra don’t care.”

She pauses, puts her little bowl of seasonings down on the counter, and turns to me.

“I’m sorry if you feel like I tricked you. I was dishonest. But we didn’t want to say anything until we knew for sure what you were. I understand that I have to earn back your trust.”

“Back?”

As if she ever had my trust to begin with. She doesn’t respond, just picks up her bowl and goes back to the living room where Ollie is “preparing.” All he’s done is sprinkle a circle of table salt on the floor.

“The salt is to focus the magic within the circle. And for protection.”

She addresses Wes instead of me this time. Ollie looks around the room.

“What should we try to levitate?”

Bailey’s brow furrows in thought as she sets her spice rub down in the middle of his salt circle.

“Something light. Like a feather?”

I can’t believe they are seriously suggesting literally light as a feather, except worse because a feather is already light as a feather.

“Right. So you can hope a draft hits it, and say it worked?”

“Something else, then.”

Bailey looks around the room, as if hoping for some kind of divine inspiration or intervention, neither of which appears. Wes snorts as he pulls a quarter out of his pocket and hands it to her.

“Here, use this.”

I glower at him. What’s the point of testing someone if you’re going to give them the answers?

“A coin, that’s perfect. Ollie, hand me my bag—”

Ollie passes Bailey her brown leather tote and she takes three thick white pillar candles out. Someone was very optimistic they’d win us over. Before she can strike a match, a warning shudder runs through me.

“No candles.”

I shake my head firmly as I shrug my shoulders back, trying to drive the chills off me.

“Since we saw you in a fire, I was thinking we might have the best luck with candle magic.”

Bailey has the kind and patient tone of a kindergarten teacher. Conversely, I have the stubbornness of a six-year-old.

“No fire, or I’m out.”

“We don’t normally like the fire either, but—”

I give Wes a warning look. If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be on my terms. His chin dips in agreement.

“My parents died in a fire.”

Bailey’s glance flicks over to Ollie, filled with some private meaning shared just between the two of them. Which is fine with me—that’s how it should be.

“I’m so sorry…”

He shrugs off her empathy.

“It’s fine. I was so young, I barely knew them.”

I don’t like the way she’s looking at him. It’s not pity—I could handle pity, because it’s the last thing he wants. He would never use his parents’ deaths to gain sympathy, or to excuse away bad behavior, even though he totally could. When Wes told me his story while we were huddled under the covers, it was with the whispered admission that he never talks about them with anyone—until now, apparently.

Her face says this revelation has unlocked something important, like it’s the key to understanding everything about him. Maybe it is.

Wes clears his throat.

“Didn’t you say you normally scry in water?”

Ollie holds up a metal tub that is only ever used for chilling beers during parties.

“We could use this.”

Bailey nods, back to the ridiculous business at hand.

“Okay! Great. Now all we need is a chant.”

Ollie groans. I cross my arms, staring at them in disbelief.

“A chant… tell me you don’t mean the words to the spell? Shouldn’t that be like, something you had before you suggested it?”

Bailey takes my snark as an opportunity for witch school.

“Since magic is about intention, the words themselves aren’t as important. They’re there to focus us. It’s best to come up with a chant that works for you—us—together. Ollie and I find a rhyming couplet helps to get into a rhythm.”

Ollie groans again.

“But we’re shit at poetry… Maybe ‘fly money fly, high into the sky’?”

Wes and I exchange a look, his expression the finest example of you have to be fucking kidding me, and mine a solid told you so. Bailey twirls one of her tight curls around her finger, deep in thought.

“Can you think of anything that rhymes with ‘weightless’?”

Ollie starts running through increasingly terrible options, alphabetically.

“ ‘Bait-less.’ ‘Date-less.’ ‘Fate-less.’ ‘Mate-less.’ ”

“ ‘Hate this’?”

They both ignore me. Then Bailey’s face lights up.

“What about ‘mass become light, let this coin take flight’?”

Ollie looks impressed at Bailey’s underwhelming literary attempt, not to mention scientific ineptitude. I sigh. I can’t believe what I’m about to suggest.

“Wes. It should be you. You should come up with the… chant.”

It’s the logical choice, because Wes not only studies poetry but also writes it—usually in lyrics. Plus, literally anything would be better than the shit they’re coming up with. No wonder they need us.

Bailey doesn’t look offended; if anything she seems relieved.

“That would be great. The chants are our Achilles’ heel.”

Wes stares out the window, pensive, one of his legs shaking.

“The exact words don’t matter?”

“They shouldn’t. As long as we’re all aligned on the meaning.”

She doesn’t sound totally confident, but it’s enough for Wes. He picks up an acoustic guitar from where it’s leaned against a cabinet—in this house, there’s always an instrument within reach. He starts to strum, a steady, hypnotic pattern. ‘Space Oddity.’ Quietly, he starts to sing with the music, and I see the recognition on Bailey’s and Ollie’s faces.

Wes’s eyes are closed, but his voice is unwavering. He’s only playing the melody, but I can hear the rest of the elements in my head, the slow, loose rhythm of the cymbals and bass like a cork bobbing in water. His voice trails off as he opens his eyes and looks to Bailey and Ollie questioningly.

“Wow…”

Bailey sighs wistfully. Ollie stares at her, but she doesn’t notice, she’s so focused on Wes. I know the feeling—like he stole the breath right out of her lungs and she’d let him keep it.

“I know it’s not an original. But I figure a classic might be something we all know.”

“It’s perfect.”

They all look at me, expecting me to say something misanthropic. It’s like they’ve already forgotten that I suggested Wes in the first place.

“I can one hundred percent guarantee that it is going to work better than ‘fly money fly.’ ”

“Only one way to find out.”

Ollie fills the tub in the sink, then places it in the middle of his salt circle, and, after looking at the coin for a confused second, unclear what to do with it, he settles for balancing it precariously on the rim. Bailey sprinkles the spices into the water and swirls her fingers through it to try and mix them in. It looks like dirty dishwater, the bay leaf and dried herbs bobbing on the surface.

Ollie’s clothes pool at his feet as he turns. He barks at me. Bailey pets his head absently as she turns to me.

“He finds physical spells like this work better when he’s…”

“A dog?”

“We think it might be because he’s closer to nature, so he can get more in tune with the magic. That’s our theory, anyway. None of our books really cover… this. Although for more complex or emotional things he prefers to be a person.”

I look between Wes and Bailey, and back at Ollie-the-dog.

“It’s a pass for me. Wouldn’t want someone to accidentally freeze me as a cat.”

If she thinks I’m going along with anything they suggest without question, she has another thing coming. I agreed to try the spell, nothing more. Wes frowns at her.

“She’s gonna do whatever is the most comfortable for her.”

I smirk while Bailey moves to sit across from Wes. Ollie-the-dog goes in between them on one side, with me opposite him, so the four of us surround the tub within the salt circle.

“So… everyone focus on the coin, and the water, and just picture the coin hovering above the water…”

She nods at Wes, who starts to sing again. It’s easy to get lost in the music, while staring at the coin’s reflection in the still surface. For all my posturing, I do focus on the intention, willing the coin to float. Wes wants this, and I want what he wants. It’s his spell, so I want it to work.

The music flows through me, but it isn’t just music—it’s magic. It’s like the best high, a headiness that fogs the brain. It’s a tingling under my skin, deep in my veins—in my blood, circulating through my whole body with each pump of my heart.

I can tell this is the right spell. Even though the lyrics do include ‘floating,’ that’s not what the magic responds to. It goes beyond the words; it’s the feeling the music evokes. The song feels like space, a vacuum, blocking out the world and building a void to contain us. The coin is our ‘Major Tom.’

The coin starts to tip and Wes’s voice falters. I start to sing with him, supporting him, my voice blending into his so it’s almost impossible to tell where he ends and I begin. The coin teeters toward the water, but instead of falling, it floats softly downwards.

Holy fuck, we’re actually doing it. Sort of.

Bailey’s voice joins ours, harmonizing, and I’m surprised to find I don’t hate it. She doesn’t drown me out; she makes us stronger. Even though the coin gets close, it never touches the surface.

Wes’s fingers find mine, clenching them, but his gaze never leaves the coin, his focus resolute. I’m not looking at the tub; I only have eyes for Wes. His jaw is set, every muscle in his body rigid. His skin is faintly tainted pink, a light sheen making it glow. My heart aches at the intensity, my breath as shallow as his is deep. His grip tightens, and I give a gentle squeeze back.

The depth of my power, if I reach for it, is staggering, like the molten core of a planet. Then there’s Wes, not as robust as me, but determined and assertive. His magic is entwined with mine so close they’re almost indistinguishable, drawing mine out, commanding, burning through both of us as one.

Our tempest meets the cool gust that is Ollie and Bailey. We let them shape us, soothe us, and together we swell under and around the coin, keeping it afloat without hurling it across the room.

Even with Bailey and Ollie there, at the core of the spell is still Wes and me. A connection so strong it is, no joke, better than sex. Better than a first kiss, better than the freedom of being three drinks in but not yet sloppy, and definitely better than chocolate.

The water starts to bubble, the coin floating higher as the tub starts to steam. I’m giddy with excitement, but I have to push through light-headedness to maintain the intention, to keep the spell going—

A low growl fills the room, and then a loud bark—

OLLIEDOG

the magic flows. the magic is easier than it is sometimes

the coin is floating. good. the coin is floating good

but the water is bubbling

the bubbles are popping. the bubbles are not good. the bubbles are not bad

or good? or not good not bad?

the bubbles are too much. now there is steam

cleocat is pale. cleocats smell is changing

there are bubbles and steam and cleocat is quivering

it is too much STOP

OLLIE

I shift back as the coin hits the metal bottom with a light plonk, breaking the spell. Across from me, Cleo looks drawn, and she smells like fermenting fruit and camphor. I think she’s about to faint. Magic can take a lot of energy, especially when it works. But if she and Wes have never done a spell before, she might not have known. I should have warned her.

Her face is already cradled in his hands, but it’s excitement, not concern, that gleams in his eyes.

“Holy… shit,” Wes says. “Did you see that? Did you feel that?”

He kisses her and she laughs at his energy, her laughter real and not filled with derision. For a second, her guard is lowered and we get a glimpse at what’s underneath all that armour.

I crouch behind the sofa while I pull my trousers back on. Wes turns his attention to Bailey. “Is it always like that?”

“No. Never.” She leans back on outstretched arms, supporting her weight with her hands, and smiles at him. His excitement is infectious. “Not that we’ve tried that particular spell before, but I think the most we would have gotten alone would be the coin quivering on the edge of the basin, not quite falling in but not floating either.”

We’re stronger with them.

“You okay?” I ask Cleo, offering her my hand to help her up. She was pale before, but now she’s basically grey. She looks up at me with a dazed expression, but not in the ‘wow, that was cool’ way, more like ‘I was in a minor car accident and might now have a concussion.’ She shakes her head, snapping back to herself.

“Peachy keen, bone-breath.” She stands on her own, leaving my hand hovering at knee-height.

“What other spells do you have?” Wes asks. “What should we do next?”

I wait for Cleo to shut him down, but instead she nibbles on her lower lip. “Or we could do this again, but with something bigger. Like a person? I know I gave you guys a lot of shit about light as a feather before, but I feel like we could do it.”

“I think we should try dinner next,” I say, giving Bailey a meaningful look. It’s becoming clear that I’m going to have to be the enforcer here since Wes and Cleo seem to pick up bad habits like a black shirt picks up white fur.

“We can try another one tomorrow,” says Bailey, apologetically. “The song worked really well. It was a clever idea to use something we all knew. Maybe we could all have a think tonight, and see what we come up with?”

“What’s wrong with now?” Cleo asks, her shoulder twitching.

“It’s not a good idea,” I say firmly.

Wes follows my gaze and frowns as we watch Cleo squeeze her fingers over her thumbs to stop them shaking. No wonder the spell worked so well; she gave so much.

“You’re cold,” he says, rubbing her arms. He pulls her into him and tucks her head under his chin.

“I’ll put on a sweater,” she insists. It’s hard to tell if she wants to keep going for herself or because she doesn’t want to disappoint him. Maybe that’s one and the same. What wouldn’t I do for Bailey if she asked? The difference being, Bailey would never ask for more than I could give. I’m not so sure about Wes.

“Tomorrow,” Wes says, finally. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Cleo pouts for a second but concedes when he stands firm. She tilts her head, indicating upstairs. “Here?”

His eyes flick upwards and his lips crinkle as he considers. “Morning’s okay.”

“Latin?”

“I can cut. Physics?”

“Same.”

Their conversation is quick and clipped, almost indecipherable to outsiders like us, like they’re speaking in their own secret language. Wes finally turns back to us.

“Can you guys come back at around ten? My roommates won’t be home, so we’ll have the house to ourselves again.”

“It’s cool that we got to experience that with them. Their first spell together,” Bailey says as we drift back to the car. “It’s a far cry from scrying for a lost library book.” She laughs at the memory of our first spell together. We were ten.

I cock my head. “Not really, is it? It was just a floating coin.”

Why should finding a book seem so much more childish than making a tiny piece of metal levitate? And yet—

“It felt different.”

I know what she means. Feeling their magic working with ours was incomparable. When Bailey and I are in a spell, our magic blends into one, a feeling I almost take for granted. Wes and Cleo’s magic stayed separate from ours but intertwined like we were different strands of one piece of string.

The air was still crackling with the remnants of the spell as Wes walked us to the door. Somehow, I get the sense that the variable factor has something to do with them.

They have an intensity, charged as lightning. I wonder how different we would be if we had found out about the magic later, instead of growing up with it, together. Would our energy be that kinetic too?

Don’t get me wrong; my relationship with Bailey is perfect. It’s pure, constant, and deep, like soaking in a warm bath after a long day. But I wouldn’t mind if we had a little bit of their spark.

CLEO

The second Wes closes the door behind Bailey and Ollie, he’s back by my side, pulled to me like a magnet. His lips crash against mine and I stretch up, clinging to him so our lips stay connected as he walks me deeper into the house. He pauses at the living room, the salt circle still drawn on the floor. He drags his mouth away from mine for a second, his eyes wide.

“That was crazy. Is that what it feels like when you turn?”

I shake my head, as heady from the magic as he is. If I had known it would be like this, maybe I would have been a little less resistant.

“No way. Not at all. Turning is like, I don’t know… a really satisfying stretch. Cracking all your knuckles in one go. This was…”

“Something else.”

I press myself against him, slip my hands under the hem of his shirt. I can’t get close enough. He’s still holding me, but he might as well be two rooms over. Compared to the intimacy of the spell, his physical embrace sends waves of loneliness through my body.

“We should do it again. Now. Just us. The guys won’t be back for a while. We have time.”

We’re both thinking it, and I can see how badly he wants it too. But Wes looks at the door doubtfully, as if the specters of Ollie and Bailey still linger, waiting to kill our buzz.

“No. Ollie was right. You need to rest.”

I almost agree. My body is drained, running on pure adrenaline. But I could last days on adrenaline.

“Don’t listen to that loser; I’m fine.”

I slip away from him, picking up the box of salt to fix where the edges of the circle are smudged. We’ll need to get more if we’re going to keep doing this. He watches, not helping, but also not moving to stop me.

“It might not work without them.”

“Then the coin falls in the water. Who cares?”

His eyes follow my every move, calculating. Evaluating me.

“Your hands are shaking.”

“From excitement, I swear.”

He doesn’t look convinced. I loop my arms around his waist. He starts to stroke my hips, but I pull his phone out of his back pocket and put it in his hands.

“Order food. By the time it gets here we’ll be done with the spell anyway.”

“You sure?”

It’s so dumb. Not only because of how weak I am—there’s still the issue I was worried about before: the negative attention we might be attracting. But at this point, we’ve already done it; will one more time really make a difference? And even if it does, do I care? What wouldn’t I do to feel that way again? I guess this is what addicts feel like. I totally get it now.

“I’m sure.”

He puts in our order while I try to re-create Bailey’s spice mixture. I remember there’s a knob of ginger in the back of the freezer and I use a paring knife to peel a few slices of it over the bowl, letting the woody flesh slip from my fingers into the water. I try not to think too hard about how I know ginger will make the spell stronger.

At first we sit across from each other, on opposite sides of the tub, before I change my mind. I tug at his hands, using his weight for balance as I pull myself onto my knees so I can crawl to him, settling on his lap. I loved being able to see his face before, seeing the spark in his eyes as he felt our magic flow, but right now I’d rather feel his chest on my back and his breath on my ear.

I sink into the space between his legs, and he rests the guitar in front of me, as if I’m an extension of him. It’s like second nature to him; it barely even affects how he plays. How many times have we sat like this while he tinkered with his own music?

He covers my right hand with his and raises it to the neck, positioning my fingers on the strings to make the chords while he strums with his left hand. F major, E minor, C… Between chord changes his fingers stroke the backs of my hands, running over my knuckles and dipping into the crevices between them. As he sings to me, he lets his lips graze the arch between my ear and my hairline. The spell curls from his mouth, wrapping around me, calling to my magic. It answers, of course. My magic will always answer when he calls.

I try desperately not to let my desire interfere with the spell. I have to focus on the intention, on the coin, not on Wes. I stare at the silver disc, and at the specks of spices that drift on the surface of the water.

The coin starts to float. It’s more confident this time; it rises and doesn’t quiver. It helps that we already know it can be done. But it’s heavier without Bailey and Ollie’s magic. We let it sink, but slowly, lowering it to the bottom of the metal tub.

Wes releases his breath, pleased.

I twist around in his lap before he can even put the guitar down, because I can’t wait—and he can’t either. The miasma of the spell still fills the room—spicy and warm like cloves and cinnamon and static energy. My arms curl over his shoulders as he catches my lips with his—our movements are frenzied; all the concentration and control we gave the coin, all that energy with nowhere to go, is suddenly released.

His back smears the salt circle as I push him to the floor—it served its purpose. We’re flying at each other—rough, messy.

He finds a run in the upper thigh of my tights. I gasp as his fingers skim my hot flesh and we’re both reminded that I’m still not wearing any underwear. He looks deep into my eyes as his fingers curl into the netting, igniting flames all over my body. He jerks his hand, ripping through the crotch, and grins. Then his fingers start moving again—sliding inside me.

Our magic is still running through us, seeping from our pores. Before it was glowing and flickering like a candle, but now it radiates and undulates like a heat wave. I can’t believe we could have been doing this all along. How much time did we waste? What was I being so paranoid about, anyway?

He guides my body over his, pulling my hips down as he pushes up—there’s a whoosh—we both look back to see Bailey’s discarded candles alight. He smirks as he moves inside me, one hand on my hip, the other reaching between us. His thumb finding its way to my clit, circling. I press my fingers into his, guiding them, and our magic rushes to meet me, a fiery breath that brushes my skin, leaving sparks in its wake.

And then I learn that while magic is better than a regular orgasm, a magic orgasm is the most intense and complete form of release.

He follows quickly after me. Pulsing inside me, he stretches out my own waves of pleasure.

After, I lie on top of him, totally and perfectly spent. My body is weak, melty and thick like warm chocolate. I’m awake, but unfocused, engulfed in a haze. His fingertips draw soft circles on my bare shoulder.

“Baby. Look.”

The coin floats serenely over the water.

CAT

I lie on his chest until his breathing steadies to a peaceful sleep. The smell of magic still lingers. It has been so long since it has been free.

I stand and stretch. I will check the house.

I listen to the walls to see if the spell has summoned any Nots. It is quiet. When I am satisfied, I return to him. I stretch out along the length of his body where we can be closest.

I am tired, but we are strong. We will not let them in.

OLLIEDOG

he needs me but i cant reach him

my legs are stuck and the flames are getting closer

my fur is singeing

im crying trying to get to him

i kick my legs. i try to

run run run

shake shake shake

i should shift but i cant shift.

run

ollie wake up

wake up ollie bailey is calling me. youre dreaming wake up ollie

OLLIE

The dreams are more visceral than ever. Every time I close my eyes, I see flames. I feel the heat, sharp pinpricks running up and down my nerves.

Using my duffel bag as a pillow, I stretch out on the thin sliver of floor between the TV stand and the futon where Bailey lies. My thrashing had woken her up, but once she shook me out of the nightmare, she had fallen easily back into a deep sleep. I should be similarly knackered. We were up until three researching, and then strategising the best way to handle what we found. But I know without trying that I won’t be so lucky.

I prop my laptop on my stomach and use a VPN to torrent the full rerun of a Premiership rugby game from the weekend I haven’t seen. I don’t particularly care about either team, but it’s an effective way to kill an hour and a half. When the pale grey light of morning starts to creep in through the windows, I finally feel justified in getting up.

I send Bailey a message saying I’m going for a run, for her to see later. She’ll say I should have woken her, but there’s no reason for us both to suffer.

The air is nippy, but the sky is clear, and once I get to the nature reserve the stench of car exhaust and restaurant vents gives way to the crisp smell of fresh dew on grass and the scent of pine. After living in the countryside all my life, even the flat’s supposedly quiet suburb is too loud. There’s an almost constant hum of traffic, and it feels like a siren goes by every hour, at least, no matter the time of day.

I pick a trail we haven’t tried yet. It’s not hard, there are dozens of options, and each one seems to split into even more routes as they get deeper into the woods. The fog of fatigue starts to lift from my brain as I run.

All things considered, yesterday went about as well as it could have. Wes and Cleo weren’t exactly warm, but at least they asked us back. More importantly, we did a spell together and it worked.

They don’t trust us, but that’s okay; why would they? We essentially lied to Cleo the very first time we met. We invaded her privacy, watching her for days without her knowing. Then I used the rune on her. Forcing her to shift like that was a callous thing to do. I should have been more patient.

I hope we can move past it. There are so many things I want to talk about with her, things that until now I thought no one else could understand, not even Bailey. Especially after what we learned last night.

After I finish the loop, I take my time getting back, stopping for coffee on the way. I’m not sure what it is, but the Americans have really mastered the iced coffee. I get Bailey a London Fog, which as far as I can tell is just a posh way of making a regular cup of tea.

When I finally open the front door, a cloud of steam hits me. Bailey emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered. I frown at her.

“What?” she asks.

She’s got makeup on. It’s subtle, but I can smell the powder on her cheeks, and the sticky sweetness of whatever is on her lips. She normally saves putting on a face for a night out, and then it’s obvious. Today she’s gone to a lot of effort to look like she’s gone to no effort at all.

“You look nice,” is all I say.

The door runes don’t get me this time, presumably because everyone in the house feels safe and secure that I am who I say I am. Instead, when we step inside, we’re assaulted by a noxious stench, the air so thick with chlorine and sulphur that I almost choke.

“What’s that smell?”

My question is echoed back to me as Cleo comes into the hallway, sniffing the air. She wears rubber gloves, a face mask, and carries a bucket full of spray bottles. She holds up an aerosol can and squeezes the trigger, covering us in a cloud of eau-de-hospital. Which explains the fetor of disinfectants and air fresheners.

“Stop!” I cough, grabbing the aerosol from her.

Cleo reveals a bottle labelled Pet Odor Eliminator in her other hand and starts spritzing my jumper. “You smell like wet dog.”

I look to Bailey, giving myself a subtle sniff. I showered after my run, but we’ve been living out of suitcases, and doing the washing has been a low priority. Bailey shakes her head and Cleo smirks. “Relax. I’m just giving you shit.”

Cleo’s idea of friendly banter leaves a lot to be desired. But the fact that she’s playing at all gives me a modicum of hope. And two can play at that game, especially when one of us is a dog who loves to play.

“Hello, Trouble,” I say as I swing my arm around her shoulder and give her a big wet kiss on the cheek.

“Gross!” she yowls, ducking away. “Have you never heard of personal space?”

But she stops abruptly when she sees the bunch of red carnations clutched in Bailey’s hand. “We don’t have a vase.”

“That’s alright,” Bailey says, looking down at the flowers. “They’re for a spell I thought we could try.” She holds her breath, waiting for Cleo’s inevitably churlish response.

“Cool,” Cleo replies simply to both of our surprises. “Wes is in the back setting up. None of the guys will be back before lunch, so we have a couple of hours.”

She tilts her head, indicating that we should follow. Bailey and I exchange a look; this is a side of Cleo we weren’t expecting. She’s almost friendly. Maybe the thing we want to talk about won’t be so difficult after all.

As if she can tell what we’re thinking, Cleo looks back at us.

“You know, things would have been a lot easier for all of us yesterday if you had led with the whole multiple spellgasm factoid.”

Bailey coughs. “The what?”

“You know… how after doing a spell… or during, for that matter… it’s so much more intense.” She arches her back and circles her neck, stretching sensuously, very clearly illustrating what she means by ‘it.’

Bailey’s eyes widen. “Oh, no. We don’t… do… that.”

Cleo gives a small shrug as if to say, Your loss, and seriously I have never felt anything deeper. I quash my envy and instead focus my energy on the other implication of her words.

“You did more magic after we left? After I warned you not to?” I seethe. They need to work up to doing more in increments, not dive right into the deep.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we did, and we were fine.” Cleo stops in the kitchen to fill a glass from the sink for the flowers. She picks up a rolled-up tea towel from the counter and tosses it to Bailey. “Here, I clipped you some stuff.”

Bailey unfurls the cloth, revealing sprigs of herbs. At first glance, it seems like bog-standard stuff, rosemary, thyme, sage. Silvery-green stems of lavender, dormant for the winter. “You have a garden?”

“My aunt’s. Most of it’s dead from the frost, but the chamomile looks okay. The foxglove won’t be back until spring.”

Bailey’s hand stills as she finds mugwort, yarrow, and vervain. Not just any garden, then. A witch’s garden. I make a mental note to ask more about this aunt later.

In the living room, Wes has already filled the metal basin with water and drawn the salt circle around it. He’s even gone a step above and found some cushions for us to sit on.

“Bailey has a spell already,” Cleo tells him as she steps into her place without so much as a whisper of protest.

“Great,” he replies. “What is it?”

Other than the quick smile he gives Bailey, they’re all business, right away, not stopping to say hello or good morning or did you learn anything potentially life-changing overnight?

“It should be pretty simple, I think,” Bailey says as she sets the carnations down, rolling with it. It can’t hurt our cause if we have a few more spells together under our belt. “I know you prefer spells with tangible results, and I think that’s a smart thing to focus on for right now. It’ll help us really track our progress.”

Cleo straightens, drawn in by Bailey’s praise. Encouraged, Bailey continues. “So, what I was thinking is that today we could change the petals’ colour. Do you know the song ‘Golden’?”

At their furrowed brows, Bailey starts to sing. They look truly mystified.

“No idea,” says Wes. “Who sings that?”

“Harry Styles.”

Cleo snorts at Bailey’s reply. Wes glances sideways at her, smothering his own smirk. “Sorry. We don’t listen to a lot of pop.”

“I suppose you guys are too cool for top forty?” Bailey teases. We went all the way to London to see Harry on tour for Bailey’s eighteenth birthday. I even let her festoon me with sequins and feathers and the like. It was amazing. The only way I see Wes doing the same is ironically, as some kind of statement about the commercialization of the art of music or something.

“It’s not about cool,” Wes starts, although I will admit they’re undeniably cooler than us, in a way that goes beyond wearing charity shop clothes and making fun of pop music. Bailey and I have a tendency towards the literal, whereas Wes and Cleo are inherently poetic. Even if we weren’t using existing music, there’s no way Wes and Cleo wouldn’t run circles around us at coming up with chants. They exude a casual careless confidence that is what I assume is meant by ‘je ne sais quoi.’ Whatever quoi is, they have it. It’s hard not to feel inferior around them.

“ ‘Gold Rush’ by Taylor Swift is probably a no as well then?” Bailey asks. “Or she has another song with lots of colours, ‘Red’?”

“Yeah, no,” Wes says definitively.

“Okay… that’s fine. Um, what about ‘Yellow’?”

Cleo rolls her eyes. “I fucking hate Coldplay.”

Bailey winces while I fix Cleo with my sternest look. “That wasn’t the question, now, was it?”

She sighs. “Of course we know the song. Everyone in the entire universe knows that song.”

I tut at her. “That’s exactly the point.”

Bailey starts to worry her lip self-consciously. “Is it too on the nose?”

“I think it’s good,” Wes says, putting an end to the argument that Cleo was probably about to have. “Clear intention, no confusion about, say, which colour we’re trying for. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Bailey says, giving him a small smile.

“I didn’t say it was a bad spell,” Cleo says sulkily. “Just a bad song.”

“Terrible song,” Wes concedes.

Bailey shrinks back into herself a little. Coldplay is literally one of her favourite bands, especially their older stuff. Her parents had the first three albums downloaded on their old family computer.

Her chagrin doesn’t go unnoticed by Wes. “If it works, I’m sure it’ll grow on me.”

Cleo looks between them, eyes bright. “I’m going to try as Cat this time.” She’s thinking; always thinking, planning, plotting. “You were right. We tried it both ways last night, and it took way less energy for Cat.”

“Both ways? How many spells did you do last night?” I sputter. I don’t know how they managed even one, given how Cleo looked when we left.

She smiles, and I can’t help feeling like I walked myself into a trap. “I was fine. In fact, I found it energizing.”

The innuendo is crystal clear, like she intends it to be. More territory marking. Cleo slips out of her shirt, tossing it behind her, completely exposed and entirely at ease. Bailey turns her head, averting her eyes.

I feel Wes looking at me, but when I meet his gaze it’s calm and steady. He’s hard to read. He doesn’t seem to care that Cleo is getting naked in front of me. Then again, he doesn’t seem to not care.

But that’s between them. I pull my own shirt off as I shift.

CAT

The petals turn easily, red to yellow, blood draining from flesh. There is triumph in My Wes’s breath. This spell was simple for us. But one voice keeps singing.

The Witch Girl switches tune, and with it the spell. We follow easily, the words telling us our new intention. The petals pale. Her eyes meet his. They are excited. They have not felt magic like this before. As witches, they are only kittens. This coven is still young.

On this turn, the song does not change, but the spell does, choosing a different lyric to obey. We follow the spell. The petals stretch outwards, looking for the sun. The younger buds open, unfurling.

His fingers are threaded through the fur on my back, his nails denting my skin as he realizes what the magic can do.

OLLIE

Wow,” Cleo breathes. “That was crazy.”

She hasn’t moved since she shifted back, still sitting cross-legged in the salt circle. She had the decency to throw on some clothes, sort of: an oversized concert T-shirt which pools around her body, draping over her bare thighs. Her hair is disheveled, the long bits still tucked in the neck of the shirt, and her eyes are dazed and wide.

“You changed the spell midway.” Unlike his familiar, Wes is on full alert. His brow is furrowed as he looks at the now-blooming white flowers. “That was Sound of Music, right?”

“Yes, ‘Edelweiss.’ ” Bailey smiles, pleased. “Since we changed the colour so easily, it seemed like we could kick it up a notch. It was a bit of a risk switching songs, but I thought it was something everyone would know… and the intention would be so obvious, especially since we’re so in sync.”

“Do you guys do that a lot?” Wes asks.

“Never,” Bailey says, almost wistfully.

“We wouldn’t have been able to,” I explain. “If one of us had changed a chant midway, the other would have been too confused to follow. We would have lost the intention.”

“That’s the beauty of using music instead of random rhymes,” Bailey says. “We can tap into our collective memory.”

We wouldn’t have even thought to try it, before. Being around them has already opened possibilities that we didn’t even think to dream of.

Wes juts his jaw in a nod of acknowledgement. “Also, the benefit of more literal lyrics. It’s like a shortcut.”

“That spell was so wild.” Cleo shakes her head, still tipsy from the magic. “We like, stole life.”

Bailey falters. “What do you mean?”

“We aged the flower,” Cleo says. “It wouldn’t have bloomed for a couple more days, probably, right? So, it’s like, now two days closer to death.”

Bailey deflates as the truth of what Cleo is saying sinks in. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“I mean whatever, it was going to die anyway; it’s a cut flower,” Cleo says dismissively. “But still. That’s crazy we can do that.”

Wes makes eye contact with Cleo and tilts his head ever so slightly towards the back of the house. She gives a sly smile. “We’ll be right back.”

She follows him out of the room, sidling past us. I don’t even want to know. Bailey is still too occupied mulling over what Cleo said before that to really register their departure.

I nudge her. “Hey, don’t let her bother you. And look on the bright side: I don’t think she even meant to upset you.”

“She’s right, though,” she says, crushed. “We shortened its life.”

“She was also right that it was going to die anyway.”

“We all are,” Bailey says. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

She isn’t necessarily upset about this flower, specifically, but the principle of taking life from anything, big or small.

“Well, now we know that’s a line we won’t cross again.”

She doesn’t look comforted. If anything, she looks increasingly disturbed. “We shouldn’t be able to do that at all.”

A moan echoes from behind the closed door, making it very clear what is going on in there. Bailey looks at me, eyes wide with horror. It’s not even noon.

A little nervous giggle escapes her lips, and she claps her hand over her mouth. “We should go,” she whispers.

I nod, taking the basin to the kitchen for emptying while Bailey sweeps up the salt. If Wes’s housemates come home before he and Cleo are done, they’d probably have some questions if they saw our setup.

But as we pick up our bags, the bedroom door swings open.

“That was quick,” I whisper. Bailey gives a little snort of laughter.

Wes appears only slightly more rumpled than he was a few minutes ago. “You guys wanna get food? We’re starving.”

Cleo ducks under his arm. “All that magic really worked up an appetite.”

“Clearly,” I say.

She looks at us expectantly, waiting for us to answer Wes’s question. Which feels tantamount to a formal invitation into their inner circle.

I shrug as I turn to Bailey. “I could eat.”

“Wait!” Cleo stops in her tracks, throwing her hands out to block us from taking a step further. She sniffs the air. “This way.”

She leads us away from the square, the main drag where students hang out off campus, and down a smaller road. Her nose takes us to a little kebab house, complete with vertical rotisseries. Cones of seasoned meat spin slowly on spits, their juices trickling down and basting the layers below. My stomach churns, but not in a good way.

Cleo orders first, and I watch, mesmerized, as the man behind the counter shaves the crisp outer layer of flesh onto a fresh pitta. He throws on some vegetables, and pickled turnips from a glass jar full of brine that is the deep red hue of a blood clot. He finishes it with a squirt of thick white sauce, the colour and consistency of pus. He turns to me.

“Uh… the falafel plate for me, please,” I tell him with a weak smile.

“Are you crazy?” Cleo says, thrusting her wrap in my face. “Look at that! It’s perfect—crispy, smoky, a little spicy, but like so juicy and tender…” She’s practically salivating just talking about it.

“Ollie’s vegetarian,” Bailey chimes in.

Cleo looks at me in disbelief. “How is that even possible?”

I shrug. “I don’t like meat. Never have.”

“But you’re…” She raises her brows suggestively. “You know. A carnivore. By design.”

It would be rude to go into how truly revolting I find the idea of consuming chunks of warmed carcass, so I just shrug again. “I don’t mind milk and cheese.”

Cleo loses interest quickly, to my relief, instead scanning the restaurant for an empty table.

“Outside?” I suggest. I can already feel the odour sticking to my clothes and hair.

“It’s freezing,” Cleo retorts, instead plunging deeper into the restaurant. I try to breathe through my mouth. Normally this would be difficult to do while eating. Fortunately, I’ve lost my appetite.

Bailey gives me a sideways look to make sure I’m okay. I give her a small nod. We’ve put this off for long enough.

Once we’ve all taken our seats at Cleo’s chosen table, Bailey clears her throat.

“I looked up your parents last night,” she says in a low voice. “I know how they died. The fire, in England.”

Wes and Cleo go completely still. If they had hackles, they would be raised. Cleo slides closer to Wes in her seat. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “It’s public record.”

Bailey starts to pick at the corner of her napkin unconsciously, teasing the edge apart into its individual plies. “It’s sort of a weird coincidence… my parents have been missing for almost eighteen years. The last time anyone heard from them was when they called my gran to check on me… on the first of May.”

When she says the date, his hand goes almost involuntarily to his heart. Cleo’s head turns slightly, her gaze boring into his shirt where his fingers sit.

“It was the first time they were spending the night away since I was born. Gran always says my mum was so anxious about leaving me. I’m an only child, I mean, as far as I know. They were going to stay at a friend’s place; Gran didn’t know where. They were only supposed to be gone four days, but they never came back…” She clears her throat. “The thing is, the articles said your parents were in Devon. That’s right next to where we’re from.”

Wes frowns. “You don’t think they were together. That would be random, right?”

“Do you know what the first of May is?” I ask for her.

“Sure,” Wes says. “May Day. Dancing around the maypole and stuff.”

Bailey smiles faintly, the ribbons of her napkin now twisted into almost a full plait. “That’s right. It’s a modernised version of an old Celtic fertility festival called Beltane, which is a high holiday, for pagans… and witches. To celebrate the beginning of summer. It’s still a big thing in our area. There are feasts, dances… there’s a procession in some places led by the May Queen, who’s sort of a Mother Goddess type, the Maiden of Spring. Her um, consort starts off as the Horned God, who’s a spirit of winter. She leads him through the fire, transforming him into the Green Man, who represents summer growth.”

Wes homes in on one detail immediately: “The fire?”

“For cleansing and vitality,” I say. “It would have been a big one. Big enough to lose control of…”

“So, what, it was a witch orgy gone wrong?” Cleo’s eyebrow quirks in amusement. I frown at her, even though she’s probably right. Orgies are the exact kinds of things that witches get up to on Beltane.

“You think our parents died in a Beltane fire?” Wes bursts, his voice heavy with disbelief. “And they were witches too?”

“I know mine were,” Bailey says plainly. “There’s a trunk of their old books in the loft at home. It’s how we learnt about magic in the first place.” She eyes me, before finally confessing. “We haven’t been entirely honest with you. When we saw you in the bonfire… we weren’t looking for you. We were looking for my parents. The fire showed us Cat. And then we find you, and you’re like us… I’m sorry. We should have told you from the start.”

Wes studies her face intently. “Any other secrets you’re keeping?”

“No,” Bailey says, shaking her head. “That was it. I’m an open book, now.”

His eyes drop to her lower lip, which trembles. “Sorry this is what you found. If it was me, if I didn’t know for sure my parents were dead… I think I would be holding out hope that they were alive somewhere. That they had a good reason for not coming back. I still do, sometimes.” It’s as if he’s read her biggest secret in her eyes and recited it back to her. “We don’t know they were together. We don’t know how many people were there, only how many died. Your parents could have gotten out.”

Bailey sighs, a sad, resigned breath. “I think we all know that’s not what happened.”

Cleo’s eyes ping-pong between the two of them. “Better to burn than disappear, right?”

“That’s fucked up,” I say, scowling.

Her nostrils flare as she gestures at him. “It’s not my tattoo.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Wes replies, frowning. He turns his attention back to Bailey. “It was a metaphor,” he repeats. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” she says weakly. “Really.”

He places his arms on the table, his shoulders squared, boxing Cleo out, and leans closer to Bailey. “If our parents were together… which again, I’m not saying that they were… at least that means they were probably a coven, like us.”

“Maybe,” Bailey whispers, with a small smile. Like us. Two little words and he has her.

He reaches across the table and gives her hand the smallest of squeezes before pulling his back. “I think they were. I think you were right, yesterday, when you said we belong together.” He glances over to Cleo next to him. “The four of us.”

Cleo pushes her chair back abruptly, the metal legs screeching against the floor tile, and stands. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

His eyes are unreadable as he watches her storm out of the restaurant.

“I should go after her.”

Is there the slightest hint of reluctance in his voice, or am I imagining it?

Bailey and I sit in silence, our mostly untouched food congealing in front of us. Her chin is a little wobbly, but she doesn’t cry. Bailey almost never cries.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“There isn’t really anything to talk about, is there? Why else would the magic have shown us them?”

Bailey’s parents died in the same fire that killed Wes’s parents. Once said out loud it was impossible to take back, as if saying it made it true.

Another reason I’m sure: the nightmares.

They’re always the same. I’m trapped in a circle of flames. Sometimes I’m me, sometimes I’m a dog, but one thing never changes: I’m surrounded by fire, and I can’t save them.

CLEO

I walk briskly from the restaurant, hands jammed deep in the pockets of my leather jacket that isn’t thick enough for the icy wind. I shiver so deeply I feel it in my bones. Hearing the clip of Wes’s steel-toe boots on the sidewalk behind me, I glance at him over my shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be with your coven, where you belong?”

My tears are salty and humiliating, but I don’t bother trying to hide them.

“C’mon. She just found out her parents are dead. Do you know how shitty that has to feel?”

“No. And you don’t either.”

His eye twitches.

“I don’t, but I can imagine. I was being compassionate. You should try it.”

“You’re so fucking self-righteous sometimes.”

I grimace as I dodge a rat that scurries across the sidewalk in front of me, so close it practically brushes my boot. He uses the distraction to catch my elbow, stopping me.

“What’s this really about?”

I slowly turn to face him, taking a big gulp of air—one that threatens to choke me.

“Why does it have to be four of us? Why aren’t I enough?”

His expression softens and he lifts my chin with his index finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“It’s not you who’s not enough.”

He wipes my damp cheeks. Brushes his knuckle against his lips, tasting the salt.

“You’re magic. You were always magic. But before yesterday, I was just some guy.”

I shake my head, fresh tears spilling from my waterline.

“Not to me. Not to Cat.”

He has to know he’s always been special. Someone naming the magic for what it is doesn’t mean they created it. We saw him first.

“I know.”

He kisses me, and for a moment he settles the storm inside me.

“I was perfectly happy being the guy lucky enough to be chosen by you. I still am.”

“But?”

“No ‘but.’ This is good—this binds us together for real. I am beyond words you chose me as your witch.”

My nostrils flare. Witch. He gives me a pleading look.

“Come on. If my parents were into this too? It’s like being given a chance to know them better. This changes everything for me.”

she changes everything

It’s the kind of intrusive thought that grows roots and takes over, an idea I can’t shake now that it’s there. I tug on his hand, begging.

“Don’t let them change us.”

We were perfect before, or about as perfect as two people like us could be. I put his palm to my cheek, lean into it. He strokes my jaw with his thumb.

“Why wouldn’t we want to change if we could be better?”

better for who?

“Better for who?”

My real voice echoes the one in my head. It’s not unusual for me to let my emotions rule, but this time I know I’m being unreasonable—I just don’t know how to stop. I feel myself spiraling, in a tailspin full speed toward the ground.

I tear myself away, force myself to take deep breaths. Two little creases appear between his brows, not a new expression, but one that’s becoming more frequent.

“I don’t understand. I thought you liked doing the spells?”

“I did.”

“You said it felt good?”

“It did.”

His face blanches.

“Are you lying? Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m probably just tired. Maybe this is like, some kinda magical comedown, like molly times a million.”

I try and give him a wry little smirk, but it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Maybe…”

He looks doubtful. I wrap my arms around myself.

“I’m gonna head back… go to bed.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No… I need some time to clear my head.”

“You sure?”

There’s a plea in his voice that gives me pause. I wish he wouldn’t ask. I wish he’d sweep me up and take me away, curl up around me and kiss away all the negative little ideas burrowing themselves deeper into my brain. But he did ask, so I have to answer.

“I just want to be alone.”

OLLIE

By the time I catch up with Cleo, she’s almost home. She passes the road where the house is, instead turning into the alley behind it and slowing as we reach the door to a garden shed. She looks irritated to find me following her. “What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to make sure you were okay.” Wes said Cleo was worn out from the magic. I don’t doubt it, but from the drawn look on his face and now hers, it feels like something more.

She hunches her shoulders as she enters a code into the padlock on the door, as if to hide it from me. It’s cute, considering the door is flimsy enough for me to kick in if I wanted to. “I’m fucking fantastic.”

“I don’t think so. Your eyes are red. You’ve been crying.”

“So? I cry all the time.”

She doesn’t fully open the door, using her body to block the entrance. I lift her arm and squeeze past her, letting myself into the tiny room, nearly knocking my head on the plastic bins hanging from the ceiling.

“You live here?”

She stares daggers at me. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Good thing we’re familiars, not vampires, isn’t it? You don’t have to be self-conscious. It’s nice.” I sniff the air, noting the woody scent with the tiniest hint of citrus. “Are the walls cedar?”

“I’m not self-conscious, you Neanderthal,” she snaps, ignoring my question. “This is my shed. Mine. No one comes here.”

“Okay, it’s yours, so what? Wes is judgy about it?” My eyes widen in surprise at her pursed lips. “Wes has never been here?”

“No. He understands the value of privacy in a relationship, something you clearly do not.”

“Aw,” I say, grinning. “Are you saying we have a relationship?”

“Get out.”

Instead, I sprawl on the floor, leaning my back against her chest of drawers. “How long have you and Wes been together?”

“Why? You looking for tips to get out of the friend zone?”

That’s not why I’m asking, but I hope my feelings for Bailey aren’t that transparent. “Just curious how he’s never been in your bedroom when your relationship seems to involve a lot of bedroom activities.”

“We’ve been dating since we met. Around Halloween.” Her eyes gleam. “And technically, his room is mine too.”

“You’ve only known each other since October? No wonder you hadn’t figured out the magic.”

“Cat’s been with him since he started renting the house from us in his sophomore year.”

She finally seems to accept that I’m not going anywhere and reluctantly shuts the door, flicking on an electric heater in the corner and kicking off her wet boots.

“But that’s not even two years.” I try to picture my life without Bailey, but I can’t. I think I would have been looking for her this whole time, even if I didn’t know she existed. “Where were you before?”

“Here. I’ve always been here. Like I said, it’s my house.”

The top drawer brushes the top of my head as she opens it, rifling through it until she finds a thick pair of wool socks.

“How so? Squatter’s rights?”

“Are you kidding?” Her voice is muffled inside the oversized hoodie she’s pulling on. Her face emerges from the neck hole. “I own it—I inherited it.”

“From your aunt.” The mysterious aunt, again. “What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“Yeah. I figured that out. I meant, how?”

“She was old as shit.” She wrinkles her nose, then relents. “It was a stroke. But she was really old. Like in her eighties.”

“Was she your real aunt?” I’m fairly sure I already know the answer. She’s never mentioned parents.

“No. She was some crazy cat lady who was between cats.” She’s sarcastic but truthful.

“She knew about Cat too?”

“What’s with the twenty questions?” She crosses her arms as she sits back on the bed, as far away as she can get from me, her legs curled underneath her.

“They’re going somewhere; I promise.” At least, I hope they are. “She was a witch, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“The varieties she chose for her garden certainly imply she was. Unless you helped her with that.”

“Please. Do these hands look like they were made for hard labour?” She raises a brow and holds her hands up, palms out towards me. They’re so tiny I could easily fit both her fists in one of mine. Her nails are long, ending in sharp peaks that aren’t quite pointed enough to be considered claws, but close. They aren’t painted, but they’re strong and smooth. Ready for battle.

“What about the runes? Did she teach you those? Or did you already know them?”

Cleo pauses but doesn’t answer directly. “Did you?”

“Bailey’s parents had a whole bunch of different types of books in their collection, but when I saw the ones about the Elder Futhark runes… it was like reading a language I had forgotten I understood,” I answer openly. Can’t expect her to give me something I’m not willing to reciprocate, can I?

“Elder… Futh…,” she tests the words in her mouth.

“Elder Futhark. It’s an old Norse alphabet,” I supply, taking a handful of the runestones out of my pocket and showing them to her. She doesn’t spare them more than a quick glance, but I see the recognition in her eyes as they flit over the symbols. Cleo’s knowledge seems mostly self-taught like mine, but entirely utilitarian, so it’s hard to tell what terms she’s versed in. She’s made it very clear she isn’t spending her time researching theory. “I use runes when I’m channelling magic alone. There’s something in their simplicity that makes them clear to use even when I’m a dog.”

“How do you carry them around? Don’t tell me you have a tiny doggie backpack.”

“I don’t have to have them in hand to tap into them as a dog. But it helps.”

I offer Cleo one of the carved tiles. Not accidentally, it’s Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. wunjo, the flag. Like with all runes, it has layers of meanings, but in this case, I think my intent is clear. Friendship and harmony. Kin.

She has to wriggle closer on the bed to reach it. She stares at the carving. “I want to see the other one. The one you used to make me turn.”

I find Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz quickly; its edges are smoother than the others from being drawn the most. I drop it in her palm, swapping it for the Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. wunjo, which I return to the set.

Cleo scowls down at the tile in her hand. “Hail?”

Now I know she can read at least the surface meanings of the runes. “It can mean positive change or evolution.”

She shakes her head decisively. “No. That’s not how you use it. It’s your fighting rune.”

She’s right. Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. Hagalaz’s happy endings are born from ashes.

“On you, I used it as change,” I admit. “But it can also be shock, pain, and destruction. It represents duality, so it’s useful for… things.”

She doesn’t ask me to elaborate. If there’s anyone who understands duality, it’s her.

“Truthfully, I can usually only use rune magic really well when I’m in my dog form,” I confess. Using Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz to make Cleo shift was the first time in human form that I’ve made a rune work in full force. “I’ve been practicing using them as a human, but they don’t work half the time, and when Bailey and I do it together they don’t at all.”

“Well sure,” she says offhandedly. “Runes are familiar magic, right? Witches have to use spells.”

I stare at her. She stares back but refuses to elaborate.

“My aunt didn’t teach Cat the runes,” she finally concedes. “She mostly did things with herbs and plants and stuff.”

“She was a green witch,” I offer.

“Whatever.”

A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Did she have a grimoire? A spell book?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Why?”

“We think Bailey’s parents did.” She stays silent, waiting for me to continue. “The books we found are all pretty generic mass-market stuff. But a lot of them have pages cut out. We think they were clipping spells they liked. We’ve been trying to piece them together.”

She shrugs. “I threw most of my aunt’s stuff out. She had a lot of junk.”

“What about Wes’s parents? They didn’t leave him anything?”

Cleo shakes her head. “He doesn’t have anything of theirs—except like, a tonne of money, and some land. But all the stuff was lost in the fire.”

I furrow my brow. “They died in England… I thought they lived in—”

“Different fire.” She doesn’t volunteer any details, but my stomach turns.

“Do you dream of fire?” I ask abruptly. She gives me a look, and my cheeks redden with embarrassment. I’m not sure why that popped out. “Sorry.”

I should take this as my cue to leave, but I won’t. I need answers. Learning more about Cleo is learning more about myself. I try a different tack. “What’s your first memory?”

But she’s withdrawn now; even physically she seems to have shrunk back into her hoodie. “None of your business.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I say, winking, trying to lighten the mood.

“I don’t care about yours.”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you? I was in a field, by the pond, in my dog form. And then I shifted. A farmer found me. Well, actually it was Millie his sheepdog. The doctor guessed that I was about five or six. When no one came forward to claim me, the farmer and his wife adopted me. I’ve never shifted in front of them. They have no idea what I am.”

“Cool story, bro.”

“I’d go back out to the pond all the time, by myself. Until I met Bailey. The pond is technically on her family’s property. It was like I was waiting for her. Like I knew she’d come, eventually.”

I look at Cleo expectantly. She ignores me, as she often does. I frown. “Oh, come on. That’s not the deal.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t agree to any deal.”

“At least tell me how old you were.”

“No.”

“Why not?” I pester.

“Because I don’t know, okay!” She bursts. “I was a kitten. I didn’t have a very good sense of time.”

“What’s your best guess?” I ask. She flares her nostrils, agitated. My voice softens as I explain. “I have a theory I’ve been working on. About us.”

Until now, I’ve only been able to guess at its accuracy based on my own experiences. But my sample size has suddenly doubled, and so far, my assumptions haven’t been disproven. The revelation gets her interest, although she pretends it doesn’t. She remains silent.

“Aren’t you curious?” I ask.

“I try not to be.” It sounds like she means it not only in this one-off instance but as an ethos for her entire life. Then she sighs. “Fine. What theory?”

“Nope,” I say. “Can’t trick me this time. You first.”

She gives an exasperated huff. “The first time I turned I was like… six. Cat had been with my aunt for maybe a year?”

“So, five. Your first memory is from when you were five, human years.” I stop, thinking about what she said. “How did you end up with your ‘aunt’?”

“No.” She shakes her head firmly. She’s done with questions.

“Last one and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Forever?” she asks hopefully.

“For at least tonight,” I promise.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “I woke up and I didn’t know where I was. It was wet and cold and loud. I wandered around for a while, and then I was here.”

“How did you know to come here?”

“My aunt put food out for strays, and I was starving.”

“But before you were in smelling distance,” I press. “Was it instinct?”

“No.”

“Huh…” That really interferes with my theory. “Really?”

Cleo’s eyes glaze over as she thinks. “I was going somewhere else… And then I heard her calling for me, and it was like I had to come to her.” She looks surprised. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

A piece clicks into place. She’s describing a summoning spell, in this case a hopeful witch beckoning a familiar to strengthen her magic. Cleo’s aunt must have been shocked when it really worked. But it stopped Cat from reaching her true destination.

I stand, stretching. She’s given me a lot to think about.

“Good kitty,” I say, patting her on the head, which is only as high as my chest. “I’ll bugger off then.”

I open the door and step back out into the alley.

“Wait—” she calls after me. “What’s the theory?”

“Theory?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

She makes a face as she trails me to the door. It pains her to ask, but she can’t resist. “About us.”

“Oh. That.” I grin as I jog backwards, towards the main road. “Deal’s a deal. You can ask me tomorrow.”

I doubt she will, and that’s fine. I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to share yet.

“That is bullshit, Ollie!” She stamps her foot as she screeches behind me. I chuckle at her indignation.

Cleo is a tough nut to crack, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.

CLEO

Wes invites our new coven to hang out and watch the band rehearse. Now that he has a shiny new hobby to fixate on, he’s been neglecting his old friends. He’s bailed on them twice now, and his transgressions are finally catching up to him—in the form of Ian pointedly asking what’s got his calendar so full all of a sudden.

He’s not the only guilty one. I’ve only seen Gilly at work since Ollie and Bailey arrived, and she’s been covering half my shifts, so I’ve barely even seen her there. But she’s here for band practice, having fully embraced her groupie slash drummer’s dare-I-say-girlfriend identity. So at least I have someone to hang out with. With four college guys in one house, band practice almost always ends in at least a few hours of casual drinking if not completely devolving into a full-out party.

“Who’s the hottie?”

Gilly eyes Ollie brazenly over the rim of her cup. Clearly, being taken doesn’t mean she can’t still admire the view.

“Just some strays we picked up.”

I give Ollie a quick once-over. He sits on the couch across from us, nodding politely to the music as he sips on a beer. Having known him for almost a whole week, I can tell he’s not entirely at ease. I don’t think this is exactly his idea of fun. It’s definitely not their type of music.

I try and see him from Gilly’s point of view. Objectively, he is a tall buff guy with a nice smile and a British accent. I can theoretically understand the appeal, if hot jocks with hearts of gold are your type. They are the absolute opposite of mine. I also happen to know that he is one of the most irritating people on the planet, rivaled only by Elliott.

Interest piqued by the new pretty girl in our midst, Gilly straightens as Bailey walks over to him. She’s my best friend for a reason.

“What’s their deal?”

“They’re friends. They grew up together.”

Ollie makes room for Bailey next to him, the tension in his shoulders evaporating as she sits.

“Just friends?”

“Well. He wants to fuck her, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But I don’t think it’s gonna happen for him.”

The pizza arrives, signifying the end of practice for the night. The guys drop their instruments, clambering over each other for a slice. Gilly and I hang back. She’s not much into savory food, and I’m not into mob mentality, although I’m tempted to grab the greasiest meatiest slice and devour it in front of Ollie, show him what he’s missing. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll turn him to the dark side.

Instead, I chew absently on an ice cube, watching as Wes hands Ollie a box.

“Here, this one’s veggie—you eat regular cheese, right?”

He’s been trying harder since we found out about their parents. Bailey shoots him a grateful smile as Ollie wolfs down a slice. She gives Wes her undivided attention as he talks, listening with her whole body, something I never do, not because I’m not listening but because it would play into his ego too much and put me in a position of weakness. Bailey doesn’t worry about things like that. My heart hurts to see him stand a little taller when she laughs.

“Do we hate her? Other than the obvious dog-person thing.”

Lovely loyal Gilly, declaring her solidarity without me even needing to ask. Her animosity is purely for my benefit.

“Maybe. Probably. I don’t know yet.”

She grimaces as the opening bars to “Let It Snow” play over the Bluetooth speaker.

“Wes! What the hell is this playlist? It’s so fuckin’ random.”

Gilly saunters over to Wes and drapes herself on the arm of the other couch, placing herself squarely between him and Bailey.

“Like, I wasn’t going to say anything when it was Cher and Coldplay or whatever, even though none of those songs go together, because what do I know about your musical muse? But Christmas music? Seriously?”

Gilly doesn’t really care about the song selection; she was just running interference on my behalf. But Wes smirks, his dimple showing.

“ ’Tis the season, I heard.”

He quirks a brow at Bailey. For a second I see red, before I notice the recognition blooming on Bailey’s face as she realizes why he’s playing that particular song. She catches my eye, and improbably, we share a smile. Sometime soon—maybe even tomorrow—we’re going to do what the song says.

“So, you’re like, here on vacation or something?”

Gilly gleams at Bailey, speaking in an overly bright tone that belies an interrogation.

“Something like that…”

If you call a little recreational cross-continental stalking a vacation. I haven’t forgotten that all it took was a little vision of me in the shower to make them drop everything and hunt us down.

“How long are you here for?”

“We’re not sure yet. We booked a one-way ticket.”

Gilly raises her well-manicured brows.

“Wow… you don’t have like, school, or a job to get back to or anything? You’re so lucky.”

She’s gushing in a way that makes it hard to believe that what she’s saying is passive-aggressive. I’m not even sure if Gilly knows herself. On one hand, her dedication to ‘girl code’ dictates that she needs to alienate the newcomer. On the other, Gilly is naturally amiable, although her goth-leaning aesthetic makes people assume otherwise. Plus where she’s from making newcomers feel welcome is something akin to a blood sport.

“It’s my gap year.”

Gilly tips her head.

“Is that like, a British thing?”

“Oh! I suppose so. A lot of people take a year off before university to work, or travel.”

“Right. Don’t most people go somewhere a little more… awesome? Like backpacking through South America, or whatever. Why would you pick freezing-ass New England? You can’t even legally drink here.”

“My parents had some friends here I was hoping to meet.”

Gilly’s forehead creases with incredulity.

“Seriously? You’re taking a year off to hang out with your parents’ friends? No offense, but that sounds seriously lame. Unless your parents are supercool. Are they famous?”

Bailey glances over to Ollie, looking for support, but he’s too busy discussing the intricacies of something inane like soccer versus football versus rugby with Elliott. They have taken to each other like a dog and a dead animal, leaving Bailey to fend for herself.

Because Bailey is everything I’m not, she chooses honesty and vulnerability instead of my preferred lies and virulence.

“They went missing when I was a baby. I don’t have a lot of memories of them. I guess I wanted to feel close to them. It probably sounds silly.”

Gilly looks stricken. She isn’t heartless—in fact, she’s the opposite, which is why she’s one of the few people who are genuinely both a dog and a cat person.

“No, not at all. I didn’t know that.”

Wes steps in, chiding Gilly with his eyes.

“Bailey’s parents and mine knew each other.”

Wes stands angled slightly in front of Bailey, a defensive position. Ready to fight for her. I suck in a hitching breath as my heart gives a painful little flutter.

they look good together

It’s an unsettling thought, mostly because it’s true. Wes and Bailey make sense together, a perfect match—a sad boy and a lonely girl each looking for a family.

When Gilly replies, her voice is barely above a whisper, her face crumpled like she might cry.

“Wow. That’s… so horrible. And sad. I’m so sorry. You must be really happy to have found each other.”

“It’s nice to have someone to talk to. To not feel so alone.”

Wes gives Bailey a small smile, and I swear that she glows. It makes me want to be sick. Gilly looks between Wes and Bailey appraisingly as her original mission directive kicks back in.

“You weren’t alone, though, Wes. You have Cleo.”

Gilly’s face is at war with itself, torn between empathy and indignation.

It’s all getting too horrendous for me to handle. I’m desperate enough to follow Ollie and Elliott into the kitchen. Elliott barely acknowledges my appearance, but Ollie nods at me.

“Alright, Trouble?”

I roll my eyes at him as I bury myself in the fridge, pretending to examine my drink options. Elliott reaches over me to grab himself a fresh beer.

“Where are you guys staying?”

“We’re in an Airbnb at the moment, but they were already booked over Christmas, so we’ve got to find somewhere else soon.”

“No way! You should crash here. Save some money.”

I make a horrified face at Elliott’s declaration.

“You can’t offer that!”

We’re already spending multiple hours every day with Bailey and Ollie, which is bad enough. But that’s for the spells. I have no interest in exponentially increasing how long we’re in close proximity to each other. Elliott clucks his tongue.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only rent-paying resident in this room, and thus the only vote that counts.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from visibly pouting. Elliott’s technically correct, since he has no idea I’m his landlord. It’s not like I can cite the ‘no dogs allowed’ rule when, as far as he knows, there aren’t any dogs present. Not one to back down from a fight, I pivot.

“Where are they even supposed to sleep? On your filthy-ass couches?”

“Why not? I’ve slept on worse.”

Ollie chuckles at that.

“I’m sure we all have.”

He has the gall to wink at me, as if he knows anything about my life. Trust me, I’d take the shed over those lumpy bedbug hotels any day of the week.

Elliott turns back to survey the living room, considering the setup for perhaps the first time.

“Seriously, if you don’t want to sleep on our couches, I totally get it. I wouldn’t be offended. But we’re all going home after finals for the holidays, so there’s about to be three slightly less filthy beds up for grabs.”

Ollie looks surprised.

“I have to talk to Bailey, but I think that would actually be… amazing.”

I flail my arms at Elliott indignantly.

“And he needs to talk to his roommates, whom he has not consulted at all.”

Elliott frowns at me.

“You know they won’t care.”

Ollie chews on his bottom lip, running his hand through his hair.

“Are you sure we wouldn’t be putting anyone out? We could pay you, of course…”

“No way, man, don’t even sweat it—you guys can chip into our beer fund and call it even.”

“You don’t even know them! What if they’re serial killers?”

“If you’re so worried about getting murdered, you could always stay at your own place.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, looking back at Ollie.

“Sorry, man. She doesn’t have a filter.”

“It’s fine. I can handle her.”

Ollie grabs me around the waist with one arm and pulls me against him, rubbing his knuckles in my hair. I screech, shoving myself away from him, using a lot more force on him than he did on me. Elliott laughs in delight.

“I’ll have to remember that one.”

I give him a death stare.

“If you ever try, I will literally slit your throat in your sleep.”

“See, Cleo, why would I worry about letting murderers in the house when we already have one in residence?”

“You’re still here.”

I turn from where I’m sitting—sulking—on the back steps. Wes is silhouetted in the doorframe by the kitchen light, dark and slender like a shadow.

“Where else would I be?”

He shrugs.

“You’ve been here a lot this week. Cleo, I mean.”

“Sorry?”

Is this it, have I outstayed my welcome? I normally cut out while it’s good, while it’s at its best, and for good reason. If you leave while you’re cresting, you won’t be around for the fall.

“I don’t mean it like that. It’s nice.”

I hold up my cigarette to him. Over the past few days, we figured out smoking is also a spell, in its own weird little cancer-causing way. An entire stick of undivided attention, when all you’re doing is existing in your breath. Tonight, it’s an olive branch. But he shakes his head.

“I’m trying to cut down.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s bad for you?”

He gives me a squinting smile, like, duh.

“So? What isn’t?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you think smoking is kinda… gross?”

My brows shoot up so high they could’ve left my body.

“No. I don’t. Nor do you. You fucking love smoking.”

He drops down next to me and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply.

“Perfect pleasure.”

He leans his head against mine, our shoulders pressed into each other. With each of my exhales, he inhales, only releasing when I take a drag, so our breath is in sync but opposite.

“What was up Gilly’s ass tonight?”

I falter at his question.

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

My shoulders stiffen.

“I mean we’re suddenly hanging out with these random people all the time. She’s probably trying to figure out what’s so great about them.”

“She was pretty rude to Bailey.”

My neck prickles, partially in annoyance, but also something deeper—a warning.

“She was just asking questions.”

“Personal ones.”

“I don’t think she was being rude.”

“I do.”

I whirl on him suddenly, shoving him off me.

“Why are you always taking her side?”

He knows who the her in question is.

“I’m not.”

“If you want to fuck her just do it already and get it out of your system.”

The old Wes—the Wes from barely a month ago—would have engaged. He would have yelled. He would have told me I was being crazy, that maybe he would fuck her, and wouldn’t I be sorry if he did. I would throw something at him—probably a beer bottle—and it would shatter against the side of the house; maybe it would even break a window. He’d punch a hole in a wall, or a door, something near enough to me to send adrenaline through my body, but never so close that I was actually scared. We’d have hot makeup sex right here on the back steps, the jagged concrete scraping my back like sandpaper.

This Wes shakes his head, his face grim, his voice totally level.

“I’ve never given you any reason not to trust me.”

This Wes is infinitely worse. We thrive in the scalding heat. It’s the cool I’m afraid of.

I purse my lips.

“Not yet.”

OLLIEDOG

We run down the path

i am holding a good stick. when we get to the pasture bailey will throw it. and i will bring it back

she thinks it is a game. it is a game but it is also training. always training

bailey is strong. she is fast and she can run. but it is a game because i dont want to scare her. and anyway we like games

we run until we get to the sad house. bailey takes a deep breath. we never breathe by the sad house. only when we pass it

today there is something in the sad houses tree

i stop. bailey talks to me but my ears are busy listening to the sad tree

there is a squirrel but it is late for a squirrel. and the squirrels should not go near the sad house

i growl. bailey tries to pull me back by my collar. she is frightened. i pull against her. i escape. i run to the tree. bark bark bark

i cannot climb. if cat was here she could climb. she could catch the imp squirrel

the imp squirrel sees me. it runs and jumps. to the next tree and the next. and there are walls between me and the trees. i cannot cross it is gone

bailey pulls me. please can we go ollie? she is frightened

i dropped my stick but it is still on the path

we will go train now. she doesnt know but magic can be dangerous. magic can hurt

bailey needs to be strong. and fast. bailey needs to be able to run

CLEO

Wes’s understanding of magic is intuitive. He felt instinctively that the words aren’t the spell at all, they’re just a tool. To get everyone in rhythm, and focused on the same intention, present but unfettered by distractions. Like meditation, or hypnosis. The words do help, though, especially when your spell-mates tend toward the literal.

Bailey is the kind of person who thinks mysteries are meant to be solved. A question has one answer, a poem has one meaning, and a spell has one intention. For Wes, a question is just the punctuation to an unseen litany of questions that led to the one that was asked, and he’s maybe more interested in where the question came from than finding the answer at all.

We get good at the coin spell, and then the same spell but on any number of household items, including ourselves. It turns out there are a lot of well-known songs about weather. We make it snow, and rain. We’re not quite strong enough to banish the Boston winter, but we do manage to part the clouds over the house and get a couple of sunbeams through. We can take most things through the whole spectrum of the rainbow; it turns out we all know Chappell and Charli, so that gives us pink and green; and we add “Purple Rain” and “Blue Velvet” to our repertoire. Bailey doesn’t let us bloom flowers anymore, though, and she shoots down my idea to use the same spell to make an egg hatch into a chick. I guess I really threw her off with the “stealing life” concept.

“We could scry for lottery numbers.”

I can tell right away Bailey doesn’t like that either. Because it’s cheating, or unethical, whatever.

“C’mon. We’re wasting our magic on party tricks. We should do something useful.”

She shakes her head firmly.

“No.”

She considers magically manipulating the stock market to be in the same immoral category. As if the entire concept of capitalism is somehow based on fairness rather than using whatever you can get your claws in to your greatest advantage.

Magic corrupts, but not in the way people think. It’s not an exchange, a little bit of your soul for the power of a spell. There’s no dark magic and light magic, no mysterious committee secretly deciding which spells are good and which are evil. Magic just is. It corrupts in the way that everything else does—money, fame, power, sex—only worse, because magic can give you all those things.

If you let it. Bailey won’t.

“We could donate all our winnings to charity. Give a bunch of money to the unhoused. We could literally change someone’s life!”

She’s tempted for a minute but holds fast.

“We don’t know how we’d be interfering with what was supposed to happen. What if the person who was supposed to win was going to use their money to send their child to a good school and because of that they would have gone on to cure cancer? We would have stopped that.”

“Or their kid might have been held hostage by someone who heard about their win in the news and wanted a piece. Or they might have been murdered by their spouse for the money. We could save them.”

It’s still a no. She offers to put it to a vote, but what’s the point? Ollie goes along with everything she says, and Wes already has more money than he has minutes left to live. He chooses not to confess we had already done something similar on our own when we looked into who would win last weekend’s football game. Not that we did much with the information. I did manage to piss Elliott off by declaring ‘they’re going to lose’ as I walked past the TV while the Pats were up fourteen points. The look on his face when they lost was worth more than any sports betting payout.

But ultimately it’s Wes who comes up with the most outrageous idea, wild enough that it even shocks me.

“I’m sorry, did I hear you right? You want to stop time?”

“That’s what I said.”

Bailey stares at Wes, wide-eyed. She’s become so used to having to fight me, she didn’t even see him coming at her flank.

“I don’t think…”

I square my shoulders. If she’s against this, I’ll be firmly on his side. Things have been off between us recently. We used to feel completely in sync; even when I was being unreasonable, I always knew he got me. If doing this resets us, whatever the consequences would be well worth it.

“Why not?”

I talk a big game, but my heart is simultaneously thundering in my chest and yet deathly still. It takes me a second to identify the feeling for what it is. Not fear. Excitement.

Magic is like a drug, like heroin but better. Or what I think heroin must be like.

For Wes, magic is poetry; it’s music and art. It’s expression, connection, exploration. It can be deep and scary and daunting, or it can be light and silly, neither better than the other. It’s a way to engage, with himself and with us. Wes plays with spells like he plays with words. To Wes, magic is always beautiful, even when it’s ugly.

For me, there’s one major appeal to magic, and it’s everything—him. When we’re in a spell, none of our bullshit matters. We’re connected deeper than even the early days of great sex, more intensely than a shared orgasm. I can feel him in every part of me, like I burned him up and snorted his ashes.

Bailey opens and closes her mouth a few times like a fish out of water. I take her surprised silence as an opportunity to continue.

“We stop time, it starts up again; life continues. No one gets hurt. No mysterious repercussions. That’s what you’re always so uptight about, right?”

My support renews his determination. He pulls a grocery bag out from behind the couch, where he must have stashed it earlier. How long has he been planning this?

“I got some stuff—thyme, obviously. Dried, fresh… live. And more lemons, because you said they were good for physical energy?”

Bailey can’t help her smile. All her lecturing wasn’t for nothing—he was listening. Along with the expected stabs of irritation and jealousy, a sick kind of pride wells in my chest. He knows how to manipulate her, even if it’s unintentional. But Ollie shakes his head.

“That’s a heavy spell. I don’t think we’re strong enough.”

I scoff at him.

“So, then it doesn’t work, who cares?”

He gives me a disapproving look, but if he thought I would be the voice of reason he is dumber than I thought, and that’s saying a lot.

Wes looks at me as he takes the next items out of the bag. Thick white pillar candles.

“I want to try using fire.”

He sets them at the center of our salt circle. Then he holds out a blurry Polaroid. It’s a test shot, the picture you trash. Too dark to make anything out except the bright white skin of Wes’s wrist holding the camera aloft.

“We set this on fire. And if the spell works, it’ll stop burning. At least for a couple of seconds. I think.”

I don’t love it.

But he’s my witch, and I’ll stand by him. Isn’t that my function? To want what he wants?

Fire also makes Ollie real jumpy, so that’s sort of fun.

“He’s right, fire makes sense. The picture is thick enough that it should burn slowly, it won’t just go up in smoke, but still flammable enough to see progress. It’ll show us that we did more than stop a clock from ticking.”

Ollie grunts at me in annoyance.

“I really don’t think we’re there yet. Maybe in a few weeks, when we’ve had more practice…”

“We can do it without you.”

I cross my arms defiantly. Bailey looks from me to Wes, waiting for him to rein me in, but I’m only voicing what he won’t say. Which I suspect is another of my duties as his familiar—I dive into my memories, and the confirmation comes easily.

We protect our witch.

Not just physically. We also shield him from having to be the bad guy, the asshole. I can be that for him.

“I’m serious. You can leave.”

I can see her doing the math in her head, her desire to say yes. Finally, she nods slowly.

“I guess Cleo is right. If we’re not strong enough, nothing will happen. Life moves on.”

Ollie scowls, but without her, he’s lost.

Wes puts the photo in our largest metal mixing bowl, padded with a nest of kindling we have for the fireplace we hardly ever use. The bowl goes in the center of the salt circle, surrounded by a ring of candles. He lights them, one by one, then drops the match in the bowl. The kindling catches fast.

He picks up the guitar leaning against the mantle and starts to strum, a slow melancholic tune. ‘Wait’ by M83. There are barely any lyrics, but we sing them with him. Even Bailey and Ollie know it, but maybe only because it’s heavy on Wes’s current song rotation.

I’m quickly lost, in the music and the fire, the flame so bright it’s white. The hissing, snapping, spitting. There’s a pop as one of the wood chips bursts in two and with it my body comes alive, crackling with energy.

There’s a brief moment before the flames touch the film where the image lights up like a TV screen, the heat exposing the picture: the four of us in the kitchen. Wes holds the camera up, and Bailey grins widely at the lens. Ollie is wholly focused on pouring drinks. I’m leaning against the counter, arms folded and glaring. Deep in the background, I can even faintly see Gilly and Elliott making out in the hallway. I want to reach my hand into the embers and save it—

But the moment is over. Large white splotches blister the surface, obscuring our faces again. The corners of the square start to curl inwards, turning orange, then black, the edges turning white again.

And then, impossibly, the flames stop moving. They stay in suspended animation, my eyes still glaring beneath them. We keep singing. Until—

“If I could turn back time.”

Wes sings over us, so he hits his “time” at the same time as ours, joining the songs, then abandoning M83 and continuing with Cher. The lyrics are so literal, there’s no question of his intention. We’re almost instantly dragged into the new spell with him.

He stares intently at the flames, willing them to recede, willing the spell to work. There’s the faintest backwards flicker. We keep singing.

I feel a tug deep in my gut that makes my voice falter. Wes, pulling at my magic. This spell is a colossus, as we knew even before he changed it, and it wants more. He wants more.

He takes without asking, but I’d give him whatever he wanted anyway, if it was within my power. Even if it wasn’t. There are so many things I can’t give him, so many things I don’t have, but this I do, and he can have all of me.

A flux of magic bellows out of me, searing my veins as it races for him. I hear his sudden inhale as it rushes through him. He doesn’t let it overwhelm him; he controls it, sends it to the spell.

This is our purpose.

The smoke starts to curl inwards now, returning to the bowl. It’s working. The picture goes from gray back to black again, and then slowly returns to white. Still, Wes wants more. The cellulose blisters leave our faces, and there we all are, caught in time—and then we’re gone, back to the shadows. More—

Bailey and Ollie are there too, strong and solid and constant, the lattice to our climbing vines. We drag at what they’re feeding the spell, willing their steady stream into a rushing river, but it’s not enough. My magic darts through space and time, looking for more to take from, more that we can give to Wes. There’s a flicker of an answer—

I sway; the world starts to go sideways—

Ollie breaks the circle, leaping over the candles to catch me before I hit the floor.

“Stop—stop!”

The spell fractures, the magic dissipating as Wes stops playing. The flames take the picture back, turning it to ash. He drops the guitar, scrambling over to me. He pulls me away from Ollie so I’m laying across his lap, my head on his thigh. He brushes my hair off my face. I blink hard twice, willing him into focus.

“What did you do to her?!”

“Me? You’re the succubus draining her—”

Ollie looks indignant, his fists clenched, his body quivering like he’s barely holding himself back from jumping all over Wes. Bailey’s hand grips his arm, commanding him to stay.

“Wes. Your spell. Didn’t you feel it? It took too much from her.”

Wes pales at her words. I stare up at him hazily, enthralled by his anguish. I would let him do that a thousand times if it always ended like this, with me in his arms, the rest of the world fading away.

“I’m fine…”

Wes frowns down at me. He knows I’m lying. It’s possible that my words were slurred.

“I didn’t—how would I even do that?”

“When we do spells, we pool our magic. We share one intention. Cleo and Ollie… their magic is different. More powerful. Your spell needed more than we had… but Cleo made up for our deficiency, I guess you could say.”

“That would be the understated explanation. You kept pushing beyond our abilities, and you took from Cleo to do it.”

Ollie fumes at Wes. I half expect Bailey to step in with more soothing words, but she doesn’t. I wonder if Ollie has all Bailey’s untapped anger, in the way that I have Wes’s.

Wes strokes my hair, traces my face, pulls me closer.

“I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. I’m sorry.”

I scowl, but I don’t have it in me to rise yet.

“You didn’t take from me; I gave. I’m not some inanimate battery pack. I have free will.”

He gives me a look—we both know that isn’t strictly true. Not when it comes to him. I push myself up to sit, steeling my body against the wave of vertigo that follows.

“Also, if you used my magic and the spell worked, it wasn’t beyond our abilities. That’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s the point of having a familiar, right?”

I grip his hand. Wes needs magic, and I have magic to give. More than Bailey. Wes needs me. The last thing I want is for Ollie to scare him out of trying again. Ollie shakes his head, face twisted in disgust.

“That was not cool, man.”

Wes bristles.

“I told you. I didn’t know that could happen. I would never hurt her intentionally.”

Ollie shakes his head.

“You lied to us. You changed the spell. If I knew what you really wanted to do, I never would have agreed.”

Wes’s eyes snap to Ollie; this time it’s his turn to look indignant.

“Bailey did the same thing!”

“This was different. You planned this.”

He did, of course. We all knew the song. We’ve been listening to an acoustic cover of it for days. He’s been feeding both songs to us through his playlist. He thought of spells, found songs to bring them to life, and made sure we knew them, so we’d follow his magic when the time came. Without telling us. Ollie growls.

“You manipulated us on purpose.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

It was, though. He wanted to use our magic without asking. He should have known, with me, he doesn’t need permission.

“What else have you been forcing on our subconsciouses?”

Wes purses his lips.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Are we?”

Bailey searches his face with probing eyes, looking for even the smallest hint that they got it wrong. Wanting to believe Wes is innocent. He’s not.

“You did it first; how was that not the same thing?”

“Intention! Magic is all about intention. And you had it.”

Her body is almost quivering as she explodes at him. She could never have the stomach for premeditation. What she did was impulsive, a celebration of connectivity. Wes was testing us—and himself. His ability to control his coven.

“Well, I didn’t intend to piss everyone off, okay?”

“Relax. It’s not like we really stopped time.”

My words are beyond effective. They stop arguing instantly and turn their attention to me.

“We didn’t?”

Wes looks so disappointed I almost wish I hadn’t said anything. Ollie’s eyes are practically bulging out of his head.

“You guys are so literal. As if we could mess with dimensional laws. Think about it. Magic is all about intention—you were just saying it. Was anyone actually thinking about turning back time? Does anyone even understand how that would work enough to picture it? I, personally, do not.”

They’re silent.

“Or were you thinking about our little burnt faces not being burnt anymore?”

Bailey lets out a breath.

“I was thinking about undoing what happened to the picture.”

Wes runs his tongue over his top molars as he thinks.

“I was focused on reversing the fire.”

“So… we only reversed what happened in the bowl.”

Ollie’s finally caught on. I shake my head ruefully.

“Can you imagine how much magic it would take to actually turn back time for the whole world? The universe? ’Cause you’d have to turn back time everywhere, right, or else the part that you did turn back would be out of sync.”

Ollie frowns at the damp ashes, trying to follow what I’m telling them. I continue.

“I don’t think we could hold the intention while turning back time anyway. We’d be singing backwards. Thinking backwards, even. The spell would be undone by time being reversed, because if the spell was working, time would never have been reversed in the first place.”

They’re all quiet, mulling over the paradox I’ve presented them. I’m the only person in our group with an understanding of theoretical physics, and it shows. But at least they’re not at each other’s throats. I smile weakly. It’s taken a lot out of me, being the sensible one.

I leave them to ponder the laws of relativity, retreating to the kitchen. I stand in front of the fridge, basking in the protection the open door provides me. Breathing in the cool air.

A moment to be weak.

Ironically, it’s the only part of the house that still smells like home. A little stale, a little sour. Everything else smells like herbs and incense these days. It’s a wonder the roommates haven’t caught on.

“Even if we didn’t mess with actual time, we still shouldn’t have been strong enough for this spell.”

Trust Ollie to invade my clearly established personal space. I slam the door shut.

“Well, we were.”

I gulp down a glass of orange juice, praying that the sugar will help with the dizziness. I wish he would go away so I could collapse in peace.

“You shouldn’t let him do that to you. You need to know your limits.”

he’s jealous

I square my shoulders as I eye him with this new idea in my mind. Is he jealous? He and Bailey are always telling us how ineffective their spells were before they started doing magic with us. Does he wish he could give her what I can give Wes?

“You don’t like how strong I am. Stronger than you.”

Ollie levels his gaze on me. Doesn’t deny it. I raise a brow.

“Wow. Didn’t take you for such a misogynist.”

That gets him.

“No, it’s not that—it isn’t you per se. No one person should have too much magic. It’s not safe. No checks and balances. That’s why you have covens.”

I roll my eyes. He’s not talking about me; he’s worried about Wes. He’s so transparent.

“Are you kidding? If it weren’t for us your shitty little ‘coven’ of two would still be yelling bad nursery rhymes at a coin on the ground.”

“Exactly my point!”

“You guys came looking for us, remember? We didn’t ask for this. It’s not our problem we’re not what you expected.”

He scrutinizes my face.

“You knew. You planned this together.”

He looks almost relieved, as if my involvement takes the stink off Wes somehow. As if that makes us less dangerous.

“Of course you let him do that to us.”

I don’t correct him. I prefer this version too. Wes and I, against them. Together.

“You could have told me the plan.”

I perch on the windowsill as I watch Wes sweep up the salt circle, dumping the dustpan into a trash bag that’s already half-full of wilting herbs and ashes. Ollie and Bailey left pretty quickly after the spell, only sticking around long enough to make sure I was okay.

I grab his belt loop as he passes, tugging him over to me. Wrapping one arm around the back of his neck, I run my fingers through the end of his hair, then slide them down, letting my hand trail across his chest. I lean in, my hand drifting lower.

He steps out of my reach.

“Maybe later.”

“I’m really fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

He goes back to cleaning. The lemons go in the fridge, for another spell or when we inevitably run out of limes for tequila. The mixing bowl has a discolored wave around the inside from the flame, but no one’s going to question the cookware being subpar in this household.

“If I had known, I could have helped.”

We keep the candles too, arranged in the fireplace in an artfully haphazard way. I want to get rid of them. Having them there is just a temptation to use them again.

He finally stops cleaning and addresses me.

“It wouldn’t have worked the same if you knew.”

It stings. Knowing he thought about telling me, then actively made the decision not to. I thought this was an us against them fight, but it turns out we’re our own islands.

“When did you even come up with the idea? I feel like that song must have been on your playlist for a while.”

“The day we bloomed the flowers, when you were talking about how we stole life. It made me think about stealing time, or giving it back.”

I stare at him. That was only the second spell with Bailey and Ollie. He’s been thinking about this for over a week, and never even hinted at it to me.

“Since when do we keep secrets from each other?”

He looks at me, brow creased, genuinely perplexed.

“We always have. Haven’t we?”

always

CAT

Our snow still dusts the yard in a fine layer, preserved by the cold.

The Witch Girl holds My Wes at arm’s length. He broke her trust—he broke ours too, but ours is not as dear. He wants her to see him as she did before; he wants her to see him as good.

He tells her his stories. Until now they have only been for us. He does not talk to others about the fires. He does not talk about his family. Until tonight.

I never knew my parents, so I guess I can’t really miss them. But I miss the idea of them.

I lie on his lap, pretending to doze. It is easier for Cat than Cleo when part of ourself is trying to tear free.

My grandparents aren’t exactly… warm. But that’s just how they are. And I’ve never had to worry about money, or like, a roof over my head or anything. I’m lucky.

She squeezes his hand.

You must have been so lonely.

I don’t mind being alone.

I do. I hate it. And I haven’t ever really been alone.

She pets the Dog, who is at her feet, always. The Witch Girl is a pack animal. This is why she came to find us, even though she has her grandmother, and the Dog. Her magic wants a coven.

I guess I haven’t been in a while either.

My Wes lets his fingers thread absently through the soft fur of my upturned belly. It was comfortable before, but now I resent it. He takes my presence for granted. He exposes my weakness as if it is his right.

I turn on him, grabbing his hand with my paws and biting down, the needles of my claws and teeth piercing his skin. He leaps up, dropping me to the floor.

Ow! What the fuck?

I slink from the room as he glowers at me, sneaking out into the cold night.

The Dog follows quietly so I do not turn him away. His presence is loud and pungent, but I tolerate him tonight because his heart is also ripping from his chest.

A moth that is Not a moth informs me that they are falling in love and he will leave us. Or worse, I will stay by his side and live in the shadows, feeding off whatever scraps of attention he deigns to throw my way.

like before

The Dog growls at it and snaps. It flies higher and I track it into a tree.

we could help you get rid of her

It tells me quietly so only I can hear.

we have that power

I swipe it out of the leaves and the Dog leaps from the ground to catch it, crushing it between his jaws. I jump down to the ground and cast the rune. Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. Isa, to freeze its magic to this body. When the body is killed, the magic will die with it. The Dog calls Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz, destruction.

You do not have that power anymore, Not-Moth.

CLEO

Fucking imps.”

Ollie shakes his head in irritation as he pulls on his sweatpants. I have graciously allowed him to keep a change of clothes in the shed. Even more surprising, I let him install a doggie door for himself so he can come and go at will. In my defense, it was more for my convenience than his. I was sick of having to get up to let him in. And… maybe the poor guy deserves a refuge too.

He’s started joining Cat on patrols, which almost always end in the shed so we can debrief in private. Wes and Bailey haven’t questioned why we disappear for hours every evening. They probably write it off as cat and dog stuff. Familiar business. Which I guess it is.

if they even noticed

“Imps…”

I exaggerate the p as I try out the word, sitting cross-legged on the cot, back against the wall. I pile the blankets over my lap.

“We have them at home sometimes too. It’s how I knew for sure you were like us; I saw you get one.”

“How do you know what they are? Another book?”

“I don’t really. But yeah, I saw the name in a book. Imps are supposed to be small mischievous creatures who are bad but not powerful enough to do any significant harm.”

I nod, acquiescing. It’s nice to put a label to them. Cat doesn’t really follow traditional naming conventions. Ollie furrows his brow, worried.

“So that’s two here within a month… that’s a lot.”

“Is it?”

I think back, try and recall all the Nots Cat has encountered lately. There have been more than there used to be. A lot more. I eye him.

“I think someone is looking for us.”

I try for nonchalance, as if the idea hasn’t been at the back of my mind for months. I’d never admit it to Ollie, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all this. Someone who gets it. Someone other than Wes.

“Why do you say that?”

He squats so he’s below my level. It’s something he does a lot, making himself smaller, trying to take up less space in a room. Especially in the shed, where he knows his continued presence is a privilege I could revoke at any time.

“We have these dreams. Only they don’t feel like dreams.”

He sucks in a breath.

“Do they feel like memories?”

I frown at him.

“What? No. It’s a spell. Someone scrying.”

Now I’ve tried it myself, I recognize the dreams for what they are. Cat must have always known, since we were able to fight them off, hide.

“There’s a raven flying, over landscapes. Looking for traces of our magic. Searching for where we’ve been—where we are.”

“Probably the manifestation of the spell.”

I mull over the idea. The raven could be the magic taking on a more literal form in our dreams, something our brains can understand. But I don’t think that’s right. The raven’s eyes are too penetrating, thoughtful, and aware.

“When did you have them?”

“A bunch of times… the last one was after Halloween.”

He gives me a look.

“Well, yeah… us.”

“No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t smell like you.”

Ollie and Bailey’s magic is cool and fresh, like moss and pebbles at the bottom of a stream. They smell like the sky right before it rains. The dreams are dry, warm and dusty.

“You’ve never dreamed of it?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“No. We’ve never dreamed of that…”

The way he emphasizes “that” implies that he has other dreams worth noting. I remember when he asked if I dream of fire. He must be thinking the same thing, because—

“I never told you my theory.”

“I’m over it.”

I’m not falling for it this time. I don’t like to be tricked. I’m not sharing whatever squishy memories he thinks will unlock the secrets of our past.

“We’re different than Bailey and Wes.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“They’re orphans. But we’re not.”

I open my mouth to point out that we are, but he beats me to the punch.

“Sure, none of us have parents, but they used to. They have birth certificates and baby pictures. We were adopted, and neither of us remembers anything from before we were five. They were born. We seem to have just… appeared.”

“No one remembers being a baby. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“What did it feel like, when you were with your aunt?”

He rests his chin on his arms, which are crossed on the edge of the cot by my knees. His warm brown eyes are round; soft and gentle. I have the most mortifying urge to brush his hair back. Not in a sexual way, but affectionate, which might be even worse.

“Did it feel like it does with him?”

It felt like I was floating. I was existing, but not living.

We were waiting for him.

But I’m not about to admit that to Ollie. I shiver, rubbing my arms.

“Can we focus on solving actual problems that are affecting us right now?”

He looks like he wants to say more, but holds himself back.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

I eye him, suspicious. He’s not one to drop something so easily.

“Okay, you don’t want to talk about it yet. That’s fine. So, what do you want to do?”

He stands, hands on his hips. I stare at him blankly.

“Right now?”

“Like what should we do about the raven? Scry back? Find them before they find us?”

“No! God, why do you feel the need to solve every problem?”

“You literally said we should focus on problems we could solve.”

“I was thinking our immediate issues were more along the lines of insulating the shed better or buying a bigger space heater.”

He shakes his head.

“Why did you tell me about the raven if you didn’t want my help?”

“I just wanted to talk to someone about it!”

“Yeah, so we could figure out what to do—”

“No! Sometimes just talking is enough.”

He throws his hands up in the air.

“Okay, fine, sometimes. But in this specific case you do think someone is looking for you, which is a problem that warrants at least discussing a solution.”

I take a deep, steadying breath. The fact that I didn’t snap at him and leave shows that I’m really growing as a person.

“We don’t need to go on the offensive. They’ll give up eventually and leave us alone. I just want us to be careful. Safe.”

He gives me a stern look.

“I’m not the one pushing us.”

He’s right. I’ve thrown all my rules out the window completely. We’ve been anything but discreet with our magic. Changing the weather? If someone was looking for us, that’s the equivalent of a giant arrow pointing directly over our house.

He peers out the window, through a sliver between two sheets of paper covering the glass.

“We should check the wards. Strengthen them.”

“Cat’s been doing that already.”

“Good. So, we’ll check them again. See if there’s anything we can add. My runes are different from yours.”

That’s an understatement. I’ve seen firsthand how aggressive Ollie’s runes can be. Knowing him, if someone unwanted passed the threshold of the house, they would explode into a cloud of red mist like they stepped on a landmine. Which might not be the worst thing—if the runes do target our enemies.

“Fine. We can do that. Tomorrow morning.”

Ollie nods, then smacks his lips, making a face of disgust.

“My mouth tastes rank. I need to go brush my teeth. Coming?”

He tips his head to the door. I shake my head.

“I’m going to stay here tonight.”

Wes and I haven’t been the same since the time spell. Not the draining me part—I let that happen willingly, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But the fact that he had this whole plan without me even picking up a hint of it freaks me out. What else has he been thinking about that I’m missing? I thought we were united, but this whole time I was—

alone

always alone

Ollie frowns, but doesn’t push. Before he leaves, he turns back to me.

“They’re full of shit, you know? The imps. Don’t listen to them.”

I don’t correct him, because he’s saying it for himself as much as he is for me. But he’s wrong. That’s the thing about the imps that makes them truly terrible. They’re just shadows of your darkest parts.

OLLIE

It’s a full moon tonight,” Bailey announces with gravity.

“Hate to break it to you, but your boyfriend already turns into a dog in any moon.” Cleo gives me her sweetest closed-lipped smile.

Wes shakes his head. His tolerance for her brand of caustic humour seems to be in short supply these days, or maybe he’s doing it for Bailey’s sake. Sacrificing Cleo to prove he’s repentant.

“Ow-ooo,” I howl softly at her, welcoming the moment of playfulness given what’s about to come. “But seriously… it’s the best time for divination spells.”

The spells we’ve been doing are mostly still physical, moving things, changing things. There’s nothing more gratifying than watching a spell’s success in real time. Divination, on the other hand, is more esoteric. Its effect isn’t always immediately obvious. It asks the universe a question, and hopes for a response. It’s the kind of magic Bailey and I have worked on the most. Not that we’ve gotten many answers. But our spells are stronger with Cleo and Wes.

“We want to scry for a memory.” Bailey lets the statement hang in the air.

“What is it?” Wes asks. “Something from when you were young?”

“Sort of…” Bailey looks around the group. “I want to see Beltane. Eighteen years ago.”

Wes’s voice goes hoarse. “You want to see the night our parents died?”

“I do. And I think we should use fire as our element again. We were so strong when we did it last time, and…”

It has to be a fire, for this spell… this memory.

Cleo snorts. “Can’t wait to re-create the situation where a spell fire got out of control and burned a bunch of people to death like it was Salem 1692. Isn’t that what you think happened?”

“Cleo…” Wes starts, trying to reel her in, but this time Cleo snaps back.

“I’m serious. This is a bad idea. People died. Why would you want to watch that? Feel that?”

Her words send a shiver down my spine.

“We just want to understand what happened.”

His body doesn’t move, but everything in the room shifts. Suddenly, it’s Wes standing with Bailey, against Cleo. I find myself in the middle, torn between wanting answers and the absolute dread of what I think we’ll discover.

“They probably got greedy and took on a spell they couldn’t handle, and it all went to shit—which is exactly what we’re about to do.”

“You’ve never cared about a spell being too big before,” I say.

“And you’re always telling me I should,” she retorts.

“You don’t know what it feels like,” Bailey pleads. “To lose everyone who was supposed to love you…”

“Because I never had anyone to begin with, right?” Cleo says, voice dry. “I was born alone. If I was born at all. And so was Ollie,” she adds, an afterthought. “How can we miss something we never had?”

“You know she didn’t mean it like that,” Wes says.

Cleo’s brow twitches slightly. Then, she sighs. “What’s the spell?” With her submission, the building tension within our circle is released, offering us immediate relief. “Please don’t say—”

“No, not ‘Memory’ from Cats,” Bailey says quickly. Cleo looks at her expectantly. “Um, well, do you know the Sarah McLachlan song?”

Bailey starts to hum, and Cleo makes a strangled sound. “God, you’re so fucking literal.”

“Stop saying that like it’s such an insult,” I growl. It’s one thing to come after me, but I’ve had it with her trying to put Bailey down. “There’s nothing wrong with being direct. Saying what you mean. We can’t all be poets.”

“Fine. This is a bad fucking plan. Direct enough for you?”

We glower at each other.

“I know something we could use,” Wes says. “It’s a cool song. Let’s see…” He starts humming, before easing into the lyrics.

Bailey gapes at him. “ ‘As It Was’? But you said Harry Styles was ‘too twee’ for you…”

“I’ve been checking out his work. It’s not really my thing, but he’s got some good stuff.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the way Bailey glows in response makes him smile.

“This is a joke.” Cleo’s upper lip is raised in disgust as she glares at Wes. “You pop princesses have a great time. I’m out of here.”

She shoves herself up from where she was sitting on the floor and makes a beeline for the doorway.

“Please, Cleo,” Bailey implores. “It’s really important.”

“I don’t care,” she calls over her shoulder, not even looking back.

Wes clears his throat. “It’s important to me too.”

That gives her pause.

“So do it without me. You guys are strong enough. You’ll be fine.” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice, her body rigid with the need to flee.

Wes shakes his head. “But I don’t want to.”

For all her acerbity, if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that Wes could ask for anything in the world and Cleo would find a way to give it to him, even if it killed her. He knows it too; he’s seen her do it.

And he still asks.

To use the moon, we have to wait for the sun to set. Luckily, at this time of the year that happens in the afternoon, so we don’t have to wait long. A few hours later, the moon glows like the white of a giant eyeball in the sky.

As Bailey and I walk outside, Wes pulls Cleo back so they hover in the doorway.

“Take it seriously,” he murmurs to her. “It won’t work if you’re being ironic.”

“I know that.” Then I hear her faint whisper. “Please don’t make me do this.”

And his hushed reply, firm, uncompromising. “I need you.”

His words are like kindling, defrosting her. She steps into his arms, her head tucked under his chin.

I jog over to Bailey to give them some privacy. She has candles ready, but the back garden is so icy and cold we decide a full-on fire might be a better plan.

We move over to the rusted metal firepit, and I tip it over, shaking out the wet leaves and old ashes. While I go round the side of the house for some wood, Bailey lines the outer rim with tangerine peels, rosemary, and sage. Divination, meditation, connection.

“I found some cedar to burn.” I hold up the bag of mulch I found in the pile of gardening supplies under the stairs. Cedar is good for divination, and protection.

I shake some of the chips into the bottom of the bowl, before adding the logs. I arrange them in a square, the corners overlapping as I build upwards, focusing on the minutiae of the task. My hand trembles. Bailey touches my shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” I step back, crossing my arms, tucking my traitorous appendages firmly against my body. She gives me a worried look but lets it lie.

Wes appears with a white plastic bottle of lighter fluid and squirts some over the pile, the pungent fumes sharp in my nostrils. He pats his pockets, brow furrowing. Cleo sighs as she watches, then takes a lighter out of her own pocket and hands it to him.

“Thanks,” he says, holding it to the wood.

As the flames start to crackle, Bailey takes out a little vial of essential oil and pours a drop onto the back of each of our hands. She rubs the oil over her palms, nodding for us to follow suit. It has a sweet, citrusy mint smell. “Lemon balm. It’s supposed to unlock memories.”

When Cleo rubs her hands together, it looks more like she’s trying to wipe the oil off than in.

The fire hisses as it reaches the damp cedar chips, a sound that slithers down my neck, making me shiver.

I take my pouch of runes out of my back pocket and toss the familiar weight in my hand a couple of times, shaking the wood etchings inside. I hold the open bag out to the group.

“Ask a question.”

“What is this?” Wes asks.

“People sometimes use runes for divination. Like fortune-telling.” I shake the bag again, the tiles rattling. “Think of it as a warmup to the spell. You ask the magic a question, and the rune you draw will give you your answer.”

“We’ll go first,” Bailey says. She closes her eyes, and I do too. “How is our energy tonight?”

I rummage through the bag and pull out a smooth wooden block.

“ ‘Isa,’ ” I read. Bailey and I exchange a look. It’s not great. Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. Isa means a spiritual standstill. Or, “Ice. Got that right. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here.”

“Hers or mine?” Cleo asks dryly. Bailey cracks a smile and I snort.

“Hers,” Wes says, without missing a beat. “Or mine. You’re not a witch.”

Cleo stiffens. Without perhaps meaning to, Wes has drawn that line again, where Bailey is with Wes, and Cleo is not.

“You have a go,” Bailey says, gesturing at Wes and Cleo with the bag. “Ask the universe a question.”

Wes closes his eyes and takes a deep, pensive breath. “How did our parents die?”

The point of this exercise was to lighten the mood, but Wes has about killed any levity we managed to obtain. Still, the question was asked.

“Now you pick for him,” Bailey says to Cleo.

She shakes her head. “I’ll pass on the witchy Bananagrams, thanks.”

“Relax,” Wes says. “It’s just a game.”

Cleo’s face says she thinks otherwise. Reluctantly, she reaches into the bag, opening her palm to reveal a little wooden tile. She stares at its face, her lips pressed together.

“It’s blank,” Wes says, disappointed. “Pick another one.”

“It’s blank on purpose,” I tell him. “Odin’s rune.”

“He was considered sort of the father of rune magic,” Bailey supplies.

“Oh.” Wes rocks on his feet. “What does it mean?”

“It means your question is unanswerable,” Cleo says flatly. As usual, she knows more than she lets on.

“Or it can mean you already have the answer,” I counter. All runes have layers of meaning. “Odin’s rune invites the caster to reflect inwards.”

Wes mulls over our words. “I guess that’s a sign we should start.”

“Or—” Cleo starts to counter.

“Don’t say give up,” he cuts in. Then, in a lowered voice: “Please.”

He offers her his hand. For a moment, she just stares at it. Finally, she lets out a deep breath and takes it. They turn to face the fire together.

I put away my concern about the runes and reach for Bailey’s hand. We’re not quite a circle, more like two eyelids around the fire’s pupil. From above, our formation could look a little like the rune Jera Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol formed by two opposing bent strokes arranged diagonally, representing harvest. jera, two torches striving in opposite directions. Growth. A turning point.

I watch Cleo listen to Wes as he starts to sing. His version of “As It Was” is slower, melancholic, and overwhelmingly nostalgic even without the eighties synth backing it. She doesn’t know the song, but that’s the gift of the literal; it’s easy to follow. She insists the lyrics don’t matter for the spell to work, but as he reaches the chorus it’s hard not to think about them, and how right they feel. In our world, there really is only the four of us. All of us were alone until we found one another.

We’ve had no one to guide us; everything we know about magic we’ve scraped together from chopped-up books and vague internet searches. How did we end up this way? It’s not right. Their parents should have been here to teach us. Protect us.

My attention shifts to Bailey, her hand warm and relaxed in mine. Even though we haven’t known Wes for very long at all, his voice always feels comforting and familiar, the warmth of his magic coaxing ours to follow.

I stood in the front garden, staring up at our window. Grief rolled off the house in waves, like even the foundation knew what we had lost.

“That house…,” Wes mutters. Bailey’s voice falters; we saw it too. A stately home with a gravel drive and a red front door framed by white marble columns. I know it, I’ve seen it before… but it’s just a shell now, the columns blackened and covered in twisted vines. I focus on the image, try to call it back, but it stays resolutely out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” Bailey says, covering her face with her hands. “It’s my fault. I was distracting us. I don’t know why I was thinking about that place…”

“You’ve been there?” Cleo asks. “In real life?”

“We pass it when we go running, sometimes. On the edge of the park. It’s sort of creepy. Ollie went absolutely mad the last time we went by, trying to chase a squirrel.”

Cleo’s eyes dart to mine. She doesn’t need to ask; she knows I was hunting an imp. My stomach clenches. What do the imps and that house have to do with the Beltane fire?

“That’s my house,” Wes says quietly. “Or at least I own it. It was my mother’s childhood home.”

Bailey and I exchange wide-eyed looks as he rubs a hand over his face. “It’s where the second fire was, the one that killed her parents. My grandfather, my father’s father, thinks we should bulldoze what’s left and sell the land. He’s probably right. I just… haven’t been able to yet.”

“That was your house?” Bailey repeats in disbelief. “We saw your house before it burnt down?”

“Yeah. I guess we did.”

“So the spell was working,” Bailey says, excitement creeping into her voice. “It wasn’t me projecting. The magic was showing us something.”

“We should try again,” Wes says immediately. Cleo is looking increasingly disturbed, but this time she doesn’t object.

As we pick the spell back up, I picture the house again, as it is now, dilapidated and ghostly. I think of how I saw it before, pristine white paint and a tidily mowed lawn. The image in my head doesn’t fade into a memory, though. I lean further into it, exhaling slowly as I let my magic flow through Bailey, to Cleo, to Wes, and back to me. All of our scents mingled together, our enchanted closed circuit.

Nothing.

I push harder, but something pushes back. I try to drive through it, but the more force I put in, the more I’m met with.

I imagine the house in flames, like the ones from my dreams. Focus on the crackling of the fire in the pit, the smell of the smoke. Only this smoke is pleasant, just the clean scent of the firewood filling the air. The smoke in my dreams is suffocating, overwhelming, choking me.

Then the resistance gives.

We were surrounded by flames. The fire darted forward, and sideways, ripping through the group, isolating us from each other.

From my other side, Michael cried out. I heard Nina’s strangled scream. The flames licked at her flesh, without consuming her completely. Teasing her. Torturing her.

I’ve seen this before, in my dreams, but never as clearly as this. The sharp intake of breath next to me tells me it isn’t only in my head. It’s the work of the spell.

Bile rises in my throat as the faces of the couple in front of us become clear. We know them. Even if we hadn’t seen them in photos, it would be obvious who they were. The woman’s skin is darker than Bailey’s, but their button noses and full lips are identical. And while Bailey doesn’t have a lot of the man’s features, his facial expressions could be a mirror of hers.

Nina and Michael, Bailey’s parents.

The vision swims as it changes, morphs. We’re in the same space, a large hall with thick stone walls, but we’re viewing the fire from a different corner.

The air smelled of soot and sulphur, burning clothes and burning hair.

Nina groaned as what little was left of her familiar’s magic left this world. The hound let out a last sorrowful howl as his witch followed suit.

I feel Bailey’s body quivering as through the flames, we watch her parents die. I grip her hand tightly. We can’t lose the spell now.

A shadow passed over me, wings circling overhead.

Wes’s voice wavers. I strain to look up, but I can’t control the perspective. If I could, I suspect I would see Cleo’s raven. Is it really there, or is it a manifestation of this spell too?

As Lizzie sank to the floor, I sank with her, my vision thick from smoke and sorrow.

I keened.

The pain was unbearable.

With a violent shove, we’re thrust out of the spell. Bailey lets out a small gasp as she stumbles from the force. I grab her, to steady her or to use her to steady myself. I’m drowning in desperation; to help them, to reach them, to do anything.

“My parents… that was… they’re…” Her voice cracks.

“Dead.” Cleo presses her lips together in a tight line, her harsh words tempered by how pale she is, and the quiver in her hands that she can’t hide. “Isn’t that what you wanted to see?”

Bailey steels her face, squashing her emotions down. Once she’s composed again, she nods. “It was. Thank you for helping.”

We’re all quiet for a minute. I swallow the acid in my throat, try to slow my pounding heart, and just focus on not puking for now.

Bailey looks up at Wes from under her lashes. “The woman at the end… was that your mum?”

“Yeah…” Wes’s eyes are wet as he nods.

“You look like her.”

The same long dark hair, and depthless blue eyes. Only while Wes’s are usually sharp or thoughtful, his mother’s were filled with terror. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I wish I had seen my dad.”

“We could…” Bailey looks around the group nervously. “Try again?”

“You’re fucking kidding,” Cleo mutters, shaking her head. I don’t entirely disagree with the sentiment.

“It’s just… maybe we’ll see more.”

This time, Bailey takes Wes’s hand with her left, while I hold her right. Cleo completes the circle, alone on the other side of the fire. She doesn’t reach for either of us.

The spell rises quickly, the magic already focused and the image of the burning hall still seared in all of our minds. It should be easy to return to the memory. But we don’t see anything at all.

We’re ejected from the spell almost immediately, our magic dissipating as our surprise distracts us.

“Do you think it was the spell?” Wes asks, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Maybe Cleo was right, maybe a different song—”

Bailey shakes her head. “The song was working before.”

“Or we’re not strong enough?” Wes suggests. “We haven’t done a lot of divination; maybe we should’ve started with something easier.”

“I don’t think it’s the spell,” I say. “It was working. But then… it almost felt like…”

“What?” Bailey presses.

“Like something’s blocking us.”

Normally when Bailey and I can’t get a spell to work, it’s like we’re trying to push open a door that’s too heavy to budge. This time, it’s like someone is slamming the door in our faces.

I turn to Cleo. She’s unusually quiet. “You know what I mean?”

“No.” She crosses her arms stubbornly. “But maybe we should take the hint and stop looking where we aren’t wanted.”

She stalks to the bottom of the garden, practically hurling herself into the shed, the door squeaking and grating as she shoves it shut. A second later, loud music starts to blare.

Bailey looks at Wes, biting her bottom lip. “Aren’t you going to go after her?”

He stares darkly at the shed.

CLEO

It’s Ollie who comes to check on me. I knew it would be, but hoped it wouldn’t. It should be Wes. After what we saw, we should be together.

His long chocolate snout pokes through the doggie door before the rest of his body squeezes through; even his dog form is a little too big for the space he occupies. Using the real door as a human would have been easier, but this is how his nonconfrontational ass chooses to approach the situation. I glower at him.

“That’s it, right? That’s your big theory.”

He whines up at me, nosing my hand, but I push his face away. All his questions about my earliest memories, about how we seemed to appear out of nowhere, most of all his ominous ‘Do you dream of fire?’—they all make sense now.

“You think we were there. Those were our memories, from before. A different life, or something.”

He finally turns, his naked body appearing in front of me. I don’t look away as he moves to his pile of clothes on the floor, but I do get there first and kick them under the cot, just to spite him. He gives me a long-suffering look as he lowers himself to the floor, using one hand to protect his sensitive area while the other gropes to retrieve them.

“Familiars? Like, family? Stands to reason we might be… inherited.”

My lip curls in a sneer.

“Inherited?! We’re not jewelry, Ollie. We’re people.”

“Sort of.”

“Yes, we are.”

I cross my arms over my chest defiantly. He’s wrong. He has to be. He doesn’t reply until he’s fully clothed this time.

“We’re more, and you know it. Our relationship to magic is different than theirs.”

I can’t deny that. We’re not a coven of four witches; we’re two witches and their familiars. Wes and Bailey use magic; Ollie and I are magic.

“That doesn’t mean we like… belong to them.”

Fine, I do belong to Wes—but he belongs to me too. I chose him. I found him; I brought him home. I hate the idea that this was some predecided thing, like I didn’t have a choice in loving him.

“Maybe he was made for me, not the other way around. Did you ever think about that?”

“Maybe.”

He’s too kind to say what we both know. If I disappeared, Wes would be sad—devastated, maybe. His magic would suffer, but he would live. Eventually, he’d move on. But without him I—

wouldn’t exist

My eyebrow twitches.

Ollie watches as I look back toward the yard. Willing Wes to come after me. My world is spinning, and he grounds me.

“You know, you don’t have to wait for him to come to you. Not everything has to be a test.”

My mouth twists. Is this a test? Maybe a little bit. Or maybe it’s about letting him make his own choices—

“What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“You were the one who left. And you came to the shed. You said he respects your space here. Maybe he thinks you don’t want to see him.”

I find him by the cherry-red ember that lingers by his mouth. He sits on the back steps, watching silently as I cross the yard until I’m standing before him.

“I thought you were quitting.”

“I was. But I really needed one.”

The relief that fills me is overwhelming. My Wes is still in there.

He takes a long drag, exhaling slowly. With someone else he would tilt his head to the side, blow the smoke away from them, but he knows I don’t mind the soft blanket that kisses my face.

“You came back.”

“I’ll always come back, eventually.”

The admission stings. He stubs the cigarette out and holds out his hand.

“Come to bed with me?”

I crawl up his body, dragging my lips across his bare skin, his collarbone, his neck, his jaw. His skin is smooth and cool, like marble. I take his earlobe between my teeth, tugging it in the way I know makes his body jerk.

I grip the headboard as I align myself over him, then press down. He grunts as I let him fill me. I circle my hips, my fingers clutching at his chest.

The moon washes him in frosted blue light, illuminating his distant eyes. He’s here, but he’s not. He’s going through the motions, but his mind is somewhere else. I look away, concentrating on where his flesh meets mine.

His left hand slides almost automatically from my waist until his thumb finds my clit, circling over it as I ride him. He plays me like an instrument, hitting every note. The song’s good, but it’s uninspired, the performance technically perfect but lacking soul. My heart clenches with the rest of my muscles, but while my body is washed with heat and pleasure, my heart stays cold as ice.

He waits until I’m done before he quietly finishes, his final twitches inside me like death spasms. I fold my body over his and tuck my nose in his neck so I don’t have to see his face.

It’s so soon, much too soon, for this stage in our relationship. This is a seven-year itch, but has it even been seven weeks? We burned too bright too fast and now we’re burning out.

“That was good, right?”

I hate how small my voice is. He must too, because he pulls back so he can look at me.

“Yeah, of course. Why? Was it not good for you?”

“No, you just seemed… distracted.”

He gently untangles my limbs from his body, rolling me so I’m lying next to him, both of us staring at the ceiling.

“Sorry. I guess I was still thinking about the spell.”

I wish I hadn’t asked.

“Bailey and I were talking afterwards… it’s funny. We didn’t learn anything new, you know? We saw what we already figured happened.”

They didn’t learn anything new.

I should tell him about Ollie’s theory, which at this point seems to be pretty much fact. Maybe the added layer of connection would be enough to bring him back to me, bring back the sparks that used to make his eyes glow. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that our love wasn’t just ours, it was generations of forgotten history. Maybe that’s what he’s looking for. Or maybe—

“Maybe there isn’t anything else to know.”

He murmurs in disagreement.

“It’s pretty obvious something went wrong. Something they weren’t expecting. I think we need to find out what.”

Dread swells in the pit of my stomach.

“It won’t bring them back, you know. It’ll just hurt more.”

When Lizzie brought me home, Mama knew what I was right away. A blessing, she called me. Not every witch is able to summon a familiar. We must treat Calliope well, Lizzie, so she stays with you for a long time.

I thought I would be with Lizzie until I died.

I sleep restlessly, the spell’s residue still sticking to me, our magic still prickling beneath my skin.

Lizzie loved easily but not seriously. Not usually.

She wrote his name on a piece of paper, squeezed three drops of sweet basil oil on the slip, then held it over the flame of a pink candle. A silly love charm, the kind of thing we played with when we were young. Even then, our magic had an affinity for fire.

“What kind of name is Tripp, anyway?”

“It’s not his real name, duh. It’s a family nickname.”

“It’s so… Waspy.”

Lizzie laughed at me.

“We’re Wasps, Cal. Mama can trace her people back to the Mayflower.”

Then she grabbed my hand, earnest.

“You have to love him, Callie, because I love him, and I’m your soulmate, and he’s mine.”

Lizzie was selfish in her generosity. At parties, she would flit between groups like some kind of John William Waterhouse nymph come to life, giving joyous kisses on the lips to greet casual acquaintances, or sliding an arm around the waist of an old friend for them to spend the rest of the conversation in the nook of each other’s arms like conjoined twins. Touching, always touching.

She was careless with her affections, because they cost her so little. She didn’t care how much they were worth to those she was gifting them to. Which was fine, until she took them back.

The flame was almost to her fingertips now, the letters of his name twisting into ash, my heart twisting with it.

“But how would that work?”

She finally dropped the paper, and the fire consumed the last of it.

“It just will.”

I trusted Lizzie that it would work. Tripp and Lizzie and Lizzie and me. She said we were soulmates. She said it would work.

CAT

The Dog waits in the yard while I patrol the roof. He does not have the same reach that I do. He is an inferior species.

An imp in the form of a lizard watches me from the chimney. It is too cold for lizards. It waits as I prowl toward it. It does not run away.

our Master has a message

I look down at the Dog, making sure he did not hear. He is wagging his tail. He has not smelled the Not; it has masked its scent. They are becoming stronger in their growing presence.

give her to Master

a gift

an offering

I decide too late to go after the Not, and it slips away, down a drainpipe. But not before it delivers its final piece—

you will be rewarded

CLEO

It’s not working.”

Lizzie paced between the bay windows of our bedroom, gnawing at her cuticles. I furrowed my brow, confused.

It had been working, our funny little threesome. Or I thought it had.

Although it did get dicey for a moment. It’s not about you two sharing me, is it? he had said.

Tripp saw in me what I saw in him: competition. We both wanted Lizzie, and too much demand for a resource makes scarcity. Splitting her between two people created a shortage—of time, focus, affection.

“No, it’s fine. I talked to Tripp. We understand each other.”

He didn’t know it at the time, but I had what he wanted, maybe even more than he wanted Lizzie. You can share me, I had told him. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

I could see him thinking, evaluating all the possibilities, until he landed on the truth. You’re her familiar?

I smiled. I wasn’t wrong; he was smart. Smart, hardworking, mostly kind if he liked you. A good partner. For Lizzie. For both of us. We let him bind us to him so he could channel our magic like we were his own. We had never needed to be bound to Lizzie; our innate connection ran deeper than even the strongest spell. But now we were bound to both.

“Cal, you’re not getting it. I won’t share him.”

She took a deep, centering breath, then came to kneel in front of me, suppliant.

“He’s good, Callie, and he and I are good together. Please. Let me have him. Please.”

I frowned. She was twisting the situation. As if I had any say in this. As if I’d ever been in charge. Everything we were was because of her. I always let her lead.

“This was your idea. The three of us. I never wanted him.”

“I know. I was wrong.”

I stared down, not daring to look at her. Small dark splotches started to appear on the velour of my sweatpants. My tears.

“So, what now? I’m just a pet?”

She grabbed my hands and pulled them to her chest. It was a gesture she’d done a thousand times, but this time it made me feel ill.

“No, of course not—you’re my sister. You’ll always be my sister.”

I frowned at her, pulled my hands back.

“Stop saying that—we’re not sisters. Sisters don’t do what we do.”

I didn’t learn how to use Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz by myself.

“What do you want me to say? It’s the best I can be for you. Take it or leave it. It’s your choice.”

But it wasn’t at all. The fact that she could deliver an ultimatum like that meant she’d already decided for both of us. She’d taken my only choice off the table.

My eyes snap open, boring into the darkness. It takes me a second to get my bearings, to register that I’m in a different bedroom, in a different house.

Wes lies next to me; the inches between our bodies might as well be an ocean. We used to sleep pressed together, so close our hearts beat to the same rhythm. Now he sleeps on his stomach, and I sleep on my side, facing the wall. I wonder what he dreams about?

another girl

a better girl

a witch

He would be with her, if he didn’t feel so bad about me.

He loves me, deeply, but he wants her. She’s better for him, because she’s better than me. She’s bright and shiny, and her glass is always half-full. I am bitchy and moody, and I never saw a glass I didn’t want to slowly push off a table.

The imps keep digging at me, telling me how I’m holding him back. They’re getting stronger too—we only used to be able to hear them this clearly as Cat, but now it’s all the damn time. It’s her or me. I need to choose before I don’t get to choose at all.

you’re losing him

I know that, of course I know; I don’t need some shit-stirring literal cockroaches to tell me that.

The thing about ‘letting people in’ is that once one gets in, what’s a couple more? ‘People’ being a loose interpretation. They aren’t just in my head. They’re in the walls. In the trees, the grass, and the storm gutters, hissing petty conspiracies at me as I walk to class.

Our wards should stop them from getting in the house, except the imps have found a back door. They aren’t the enemy, they tell the runes. They’re my friends. They want to help me.

They’re the loudest at night, when we’re in bed. I can hear them in the shadows, whispering about how the sex is mechanical when it’s good, and melancholic at its very best. Wes hears them too, although he doesn’t know what they are. I have a pretty good sense of what they’re telling him, when his face goes stormy, and he can’t look me in the eye.

In the end, I listen to the imps and make the choice for us.

he won’t forgive you

“Rerack!”

Bailey’s voice is higher pitched than usual, on account of all the alcohol she’s consumed. As of three hours ago, finals week is officially over, and winter break has begun. Ergo, party at the house.

People spill out of the warm interior and litter across both the front and backyards despite the sub-zero temperatures. Even though they’re on home turf, the band doesn’t play, determined to completely cut loose. Instead, the floor pulses from the bass of the speakers, mostly old-school hip-hop like Snoop and 50 Cent.

Gilly left early to catch a flight home, leaving me all alone in my personal hell. Wes is determined that this is the best opportunity to teach Bailey and Ollie the intricacies of the great American tradition known as beer pong and has conscripted me into helping, abusing his status as host to totally bogart the table on the front porch.

I certainly never would have agreed if I had known I wasn’t going to be his partner. His argument for ditching me with Ollie was that there should be one person on each side who knows what they’re doing.

I shoot Bailey a withering look.

“You can’t rerack. Your team only hit two cups.”

“Oh.”

She juts out her bottom lip, looking perplexed. Wes smiles at her confusion.

“You technically can—we get two per game. But it would be wasting one this early.”

I feel sick from anxiety—or maybe it’s the way Wes touches Bailey’s elbow, adjusting her aim. I wait for his tell, the quick little flicker of his eyes over to mine, the challenge in his grin. If the game is on, my plan is off, I tell myself. We’ll live to see another day.

But he doesn’t look my way at all. He’s not playing. With Bailey, everything he does is real.

Since they’re occupied in each other’s smiles, I throw my ball back at them, making a cup. Barely a millisecond later Ollie sinks his ball in the same one, which eliminates three.

“Balls back.”

Ollie holds out his hand to catch the wet Ping-Pong balls as Wes tosses them over, and I grudgingly meet his high five. Ollie, thankfully, catches on quick, which means this game is over fast.

“Another round? I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Bailey looks at us hopefully over the rim of the final cup as she chugs it. Ollie shrugs in acquiescence.

“I’ll get more beer.”

As he heads into the house, I pick up my drink and down what’s left, letting the ice hit my teeth. I hold up my empty cup and gesture inside.

“I need a refill.”

As if anyone would miss me.

I trail Ollie through the hallway, the crowd parting for his wide form, and into the kitchen where we’ve set up the bar—which really means we put a bag of ice in the sink, and every available bottle on the counter.

I make sure my cup is full of a noxious red jungle juice concoction, then accidentally-on-purpose bump into him, basically hurling the fluorescent liquid at him.

“Shit! Sorry.”

I try to sound sincere. Ice cubes scatter across the floor as the stain spreads across his chest, making the white cotton of his T-shirt a translucent hot pink.

“Doubt you are, Trouble.”

He gives me an annoyed look, but he can’t be that mad since I’m pretty sure the nickname is vaguely affectionate.

Trouble. He has no idea.

He turns and heads to Wes’s room, where he and Bailey have stashed their stuff during the party. They took Elliott’s offer, and once the guys leave tomorrow they’ll upgrade from lumpy couches to lumpy mattresses.

Undeterred—encouraged, even—I grab an almost full bottle of shitty tequila and some other supplies and follow him. Leaning against the doorframe, I watch as he shucks off his leather jacket, pulling his little baggie of runestones out of the pocket and dumping it on the desk. While he rifles through his bag for a clean shirt, I poke through the tiles.

“I really am sorry.”

I set three out next to the bag—Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. wunjo, Jera Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol formed by two opposing bent strokes arranged diagonally, representing harvest. jera, Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz. Harmony, Growth, Union. A message of peace.

Or is it sexual union, pleasure, orgasm? That depends on the caster’s intention, I’m told.

He reaches over his head with one hand to pull his T-shirt off from between his shoulder blades. Wes always crosses his arms in front of him. As Ollie wipes his chest and jacket off with the dry side of his dirty shirt, I set the bottle, two shot glasses, salt, and lime on the desk.

“Drink and make up?”

He looks at the bottle, then down at the runes, and raises an eyebrow.

“You trying to get me naked, Cleo?”

I shrug and hand him a shot, holding his gaze as I slowly tap each rune. They spark under my fingers as the casting flares to life, reflecting as fire in his eyes.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before…”

Reminding him that not only have I seen him naked on more occasions than most people I’ve slept with, but he’s also seen me naked.

“You some kind of virgin, dog boy?”

“No.”

He shakes his head. He can tell I’m toying with him even if he doesn’t know why. He downs the tequila, only grimacing a little at the taste.

“But she is?”

His silence says it all. Of course she is. I must make a face, because—

“Why are you so mean, Cleo?”

“To cover up how I really feel, Ollie.”

My tone is dry enough to sound sarcastic but not so much as to completely discredit the idea. I pour another round.

He watches me as I swipe my tongue over the inside of my wrist, sprinkling salt on my skin, then hand him the shaker so he can do the same.

We clink glasses, lick our wrists, and take the shots. I should probably be faking it, throwing the alcohol over my shoulder or something, but I need the liquid courage. I suck on my lime slice, pretending to be musing.

“It would be pretty convenient if we liked each other, don’t you think?”

“I do like you.”

“I mean, like liked.”

The surprise on his face is undermined by a wet belch, which is the perfect combination of interested and intoxicated for my purposes. This round I offer him the salt off my wrist and make him hold my lime, letting my lips brush his fingers as I take it from him, testing his boundaries.

“But you’re with Wes.”

I shrug.

“But is he with me?”

“What does that mean?”

I set about pouring another round, speaking offhandedly.

“How come it didn’t work out with the other girls? I bet you’re a good boyfriend. You seem like the type.”

The openly adoring, holding hands in public, cuddling at night type. There would be no games with Ollie, no waiting three days to text back, no uncertainty if he was seeing other people.

“I think they could tell I was keeping something back.”

I hear that. It’s why I never let myself get too close to guys, before Wes.

“And… they couldn’t handle my relationship with Bailey.”

I snort.

“Yeah. It sucks when your boyfriend is in love with Bailey.”

Even Ollie isn’t obtuse enough to miss my meaning. He crosses his arms, jaw set.

“Nothing’s going on with them.”

But his brow twitches, and I can’t help the victorious tilt of my lips.

“For now. But think about it. Wes and Bailey, you and me, two witches and their two familiars, all neat and tidy in our little boxes. Win-win, everyone’s happy.”

I point to the skin where my neck meets my shoulder. He leans forward and licks it obediently, although his eyes are still questioning.

“I wouldn’t expect ‘neat and tidy’ to be something that would make you happy.”

I don’t answer, and his lips turn up in a small, gratified smile. He’s right, and he knows it. Even though we’re nothing alike, he sort of gets me.

As I sprinkle salt over the damp spot, I loosen the lid of the shaker so it spills all over me. I give a little shriek, brushing the grit off my skin. Sighing, I pull my shirt over my head to shake the remaining granules out.

“I guess we’re even, now.”

I hand him another shot before he can question why we’re both standing shirtless in my boyfriend’s bedroom. Or maybe he doesn’t want to question it. He doesn’t say anything when I hold his lime slice between my teeth either.

As he closes the space between us, I let the lime drop.

I had been prepared to use a little more magic to nudge things along, but in the end I don’t need to. His breath is hot and ragged as our bodies crush against each other; his fingers run over my shoulders and down my back, the bulge in his pants pressing between us. His hands slide under my ass, lifting me so I’m perched on the edge of the desk. I start unbuckling his belt.

Ollie is rock solid and surprisingly assertive, so as long as I don’t let myself think too hard about the details—like how when Wes fucks me on this desk he grips one thigh with each hand, but Ollie holds me with one arm firmly across my back, the other pressed against the wall as if to stop himself from crushing me—it isn’t that difficult to do what I need to do. It’s alarmingly easy.

I grope around the desk drawer for a condom, and hand it to him. He tears it open without breaking our kiss, sliding it over his dick. He’s smoother than I expected. He positions himself at my entrance and I tilt my hips so he slides into me.

No going back now.

It feels good—shockingly so. Maybe it’s the angle, or maybe it’s the way all my nerves are already on high alert, but as he thrusts I feel the heat curling inside me, dancing on my skin, the telltale signs I could actually—

“Wow.”

The voice is soft, but it cuts right through me. I glance over my shoulder to where Wes is standing. It took him less time than I thought to come looking, but it’s a relief he came at all.

Bailey stands behind him, bug-eyed.

“Oh, Ollie…”

At her breathless admonishment, Ollie pulls back. His panicked eyes dart between me and Wes and Bailey, as if her presence matters at all. I slide off the desk, tugging my skirt back down casually. My heart is racing and breaking, but I show no remorse.

“Shit. Shit. I don’t know. I—fuck.”

I’ve never heard Ollie cuss like that.

Wes and I don’t break each other’s gaze. His voice is cool when he finally addresses me.

“I can’t believe you took it this far.”

I force my body to stay still, not to gravitate toward him, my event horizon. My heart flutters with the gentlest breeze of hope.

“You were playing? With her?”

My eyes flick to Bailey, and he stills. His silence is crushing; everything in my chest is swallowed into itself and torn apart. I straighten, begging my voice not to crack.

“Me either. It’s been a while since I was fucked properly.”

Ollie’s eyeballs just about pop out of his head. Wes sucks in his breath—maybe it’s the truth in my words that stings him.

“Get out.”

He means it. I lift one shoulder in an unaffected shrug.

“I was just going.”

There.

I did what he needed me to do. I was the bigger person.

I let him go.

I hope it fucking hurts him, but I know it hurts me more.

OLLIE

While Cleo flees the scene, I stay, rooted in place. She slams the bedroom door behind her, leaving Bailey out in the hallway, and me alone with Wes.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. I wish I could blame the alcohol, but it takes more than a couple of shots for me to lose control. I can’t fault the magic either. I watched her choose the runes, held her gaze as she cast them. I fully knew what was happening, and I let it. I didn’t care that Cleo had a boyfriend. Part of me even said that their relationship wasn’t my problem, all that mattered was if Cleo was willing. But I still shouldn’t have done it. I’m better than that.

you’re nothing

I push the thought out of my mind.

Wes turns away, not bothering to meet my eye. “Don’t worry about it.”

He’s gone cold. All of his anger seems to curl into itself, tighter and tighter, leaving him tense as a rubber band, ready to snap. It would be better if he did.

“Do you want to punch me?” I ask hopefully.

“Why would I want to do that?”

I can think of any number of reasons, most of all relief, for both of us. “I, um… kissed your girlfriend. Well… she kissed me. More than kissed, we fu—”

Wes tries to hide a flinch as he interrupts me. “I’m not interested in the details.” He inhales through his nose, resetting his mask of apathy. “You don’t have to feel guilty. This has nothing to do with you.”

He’s dismissing me. From the conversation, the room, the entire situation. I bristle.

“I think it has a little to do with me.”

“Not really. You could have been anyone.”

you’re no one

I suppress the growl in my throat as I recognise the intrusive thoughts for what they are: an imp. They shouldn’t be able to get through the wards. I have to stay vigilant. Ignore its words. Better yet, counter them.

“I’m not anyone. I’m the only other familiar she knows. The only person who understands what it’s like. We have a connection. How do you know I wasn’t the one who seduced her?”

He smirks at me, his mouth twisted in contempt. “You’re sweet.”

Patronising fuck.

I remind myself that he’s hurting, because of me. He feels everything acutely, like Cleo does; his callousness is self-preservation. If he wants to punish me with his words instead of his fists, that’s his prerogative. Even if it isn’t my preference.

“It’s not your fault,” he continues. “You just don’t understand her games.”

My nostrils flare despite my inner motivational speech on supplication. It’s obvious that Wes thinks I’m thick. He and Cleo believe they operate on some higher intellectual and emotional level than Bailey and me. That they run mental rings around us, and we’re just caught up in their whirlwind of mind games. But they’re wrong. They aren’t as complicated as they make things.

“You won’t even give her the benefit of the doubt? How can you claim to love her if you don’t trust her?”

His face turns stony. It feels good, in the moment, to challenge him. I can say hurtful things too. That’s not a skill reserved for him and Cleo.

“Because I know her better.”

He swings the door open with a little more force than someone truly in control would, and stands with his hand on the knob, gesturing with his other hand for me to go. I do. It closes behind me with a petulant click.

Outside his room, the party continues as if nothing’s happened. Music thumps through the house, interspersed with drunken laughter.

Bailey’s back is to me as she paces the short length of the hallway, taking three brisk strides away from Wes’s door only to whirl around and stalk back towards me, fists clenched. She starts when she sees me.

“Are you okay?” Her eyes dart from my face to my hands. Finding both unblemished, her shoulders dip ever so slightly. She was expecting things to get physical.

I nod and follow close at heel as she leads me outside. My stomach churns, the remorse settling in waves of beer and liquor.

Bailey’s breath catches in her throat. “Why’d you let her do it?”

I stiffen. Let her. Bailey doesn’t think I’d have the stones to initiate what happened either.

Why did I let her? It’s not like I’m secretly in love with Cleo; that’s a distinction held by the witch in front of me. I don’t even like Cleo most of the time. Maybe what I said to Wes was true, only reversed; I’m lonely, and Cleo’s the only other person in the world who understands exactly how I feel.

Or sometimes, the most simple answer makes the most sense: I wanted to. I was horny, it’s been a while, and when she took her shirt off, I stopped questioning what it would mean.

CLEO

I sneak back into the shed a little before dawn and stuff a bag full of clothes. I can’t be near the house right now, but I also can’t spend another night as Cat, curled up behind a dumpster, waking up more tired than when we fell asleep.

I skim the unread messages on my phone. I have a couple of missed calls and a million texts from Gilly:

babe heard you and Wes had another fight????

what happened??

im sure it was his fault!!!

want me to beat him up i totally will

… and on and on. I guess Elliott spilled that something happened, although Wes must not have given him all the gory details, and he’s too dumb to figure it out himself.

Then there’s Ollie:

Are you okay? Let me know if you want me to pick you up

We should talk about what happened

Nothing from Wes, though. Not that I expected there would be.

I leave them on read and text my boss to volunteer for the graveyard shift at the hospital. We’re short-staffed with the holidays coming up and someone has to be there 24/7, for the whole ‘we’d like to keep him here and observe him overnight’ diagnosis. I figure if I’m in this self-imposed exile I can at least make some sick overtime.

I feel mostly okay until everyone at work leaves for the day. Then I’m alone with my thoughts and the basement we fucked all over and I can’t breathe. I sit on the floor with my knees drawn into my chest gulping in air, gaping like a goldfish. Once in a while I manage a wail, which is more of a drawn-out garbled roar. It drives the animals crazy, but it doesn’t happen that often. I have nothing left to expel.

You’d think the fact that I was the instigator would make it hurt less, but it absolutely does not. In my darkest moments, I contemplate calling him and telling him I didn’t mean it, I was just being insecure. I could convince him to take me back. He knows me better than anyone; he would understand. But then we’d be back where we were.

When I wake up on the second morning, for one glorious moment I forget where I am, and when. I blink away the sleep as I notice that no, I am not in his bed, or my shed, even though the Spartan setup of the paltry ‘on call’ slash laundry room has its similarities. Then the truth comes crashing down on me all at once and my heart is in my throat, choking me as it claws for its escape. I hold tight to my pain, drowning myself in the unbearable agony. It’s all I have left of him, and once it’s gone, he won’t be mine at all.

At 6:55 a.m. I smother it back down. I wash my face, put on my pants, and press play on a playlist called ‘Christmas Hits’ with a thousand jolly emojis behind it. The music echoes tinnily from the cheap waiting room speakers as I unlock the doors and head to the kennels to give everyone their breakfast.

In theory I need to eat, so I force down half a banana. After three bites I feel a wave of nausea so strong I fold the peel over itself and put the rest in the fridge so it can go brown and mushy out of my eyesight.

Gilly’s still calling and texting endlessly. Finally, I shoot her a reply: I hooked up with Ollie. Telling Gilly makes it real, makes it public. Makes it something unignorable.

She replies:

oh, fuck

Oh, fuck is right.

It’s not the biggest surprise when Ollie shows up. He likes to face problems head on and I’m nothing if not a giant problem.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. He wears a gray hoodie underneath and nudges the hood back as the heat hits him. He looks me up and down.

“You look like what the cat dragged in.”

“You’re hilarious.”

But I can’t help running my fingers self-consciously through my curls, which are greasy and matted at the roots and stringy and frizzy at the ends. I catch a glance of my reflection in the glass window, seeing myself as he sees me. My skin is sallow, my eyes are sunken with massive dark circles under them, and my clothes are hanging off me even more than usual. He frowns.

“Is anyone feeding you?”

“Me. I’m feeding myself. Like a normal person.”

“Are you?”

I hate the pitying look in his eyes.

“How are you doing?”

I flash him my most cryptic sneer in response.

“Fantastic. Couldn’t be better. What do you think?”

“I think you’re sad.”

He tips his chin in a confident nod, answering the question that I had intended to be rhetorical. I snort. Sad. That is the understatement of the century. I am more than sad; I am devastated. I am ravaged. Anguished. Bereft. But that isn’t any of his business.

“I slept in your shed last night. I didn’t think I’d still be welcome on the sofa.”

I don’t care where he’s sleeping—I don’t care about his life at all. I especially don’t care to hear what parts of it I ruined.

“Bailey is pissed off with me too, you know.”

As if it’s the same thing. As if Ollie and Bailey have what Wes and I have.

“She’ll get over it.”

“She will. She doesn’t hold a grudge.”

Not like Wes, he means. Ollie rubs the back of his neck with his hand, looking sheepish.

“I came to say I’m sorry. I know that I tease you a lot, and we have this banter going on. And I can be touchy. So I can see how it could seem like I was flirting with you…”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“I didn’t think that.”

“Okay. Well. I probably was, subconsciously. So, I’m sorry for my part in this… I didn’t mean to do something that would hurt your relationship with Wes.”

I shrug, face drawn.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over between me and him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…”

He clears his throat and seems to have a hard time swallowing. He fiddles with the cuff of his jacket, unsnapping and snapping the silver fasteners as he continues, voice strained.

“But… then… if you were serious, and you did actually want to… you know… try.”

I stare at him. His face is beet red, and looking even more aw, shucks than usual. I can feel what’s coming, but I can’t look away. It’s like watching a bomb detonate, only I was the one who lit the fuse in the first place.

“I wasn’t that drunk. I remember what you said.”

Off my silence, Ollie leans over the counter, closer to me. His voice lowered.

“And I remember how you smelled. You were into it, Cleo. And so was I.”

I had been trying to put the whole night out of my mind, but it’s hard to forget something that’s seared into your brain like a brand.

The look on Wes’s face. That was the worst. It wasn’t anger, or even betrayal. It was resignation. No surprise at all. Like he’d been waiting for the day when I pulled some shit like this.

I duck under the counter and brush past Ollie to the door. Instead of fleeing, which is definitely an option, I lock the dead bolt and flip the ‘welcome’ sign to ‘on a break.’ Then I turn back to him. Offer him my hand—he takes it without question.

I lead him through the back. Not to the kennels, or downstairs. Nowhere that would remind me of Wes. I take him all the way outside to the back alley and, after a moment’s hesitation, down the exterior stairwell that leads to the basement, so we’re at least a little sheltered from the cold and any prying eyes.

Then I reach up, snaking my hand to the back of his neck, and drag his head down to me. I have to stretch to the very tips of my toes before my lips connect with his. He gives a surprised oof at the contact, and for a moment I think he might pull away, but he just leans lower, closer.

Ollie is so big—tall, broad, all of it—he overwhelms me, I’m drowning in his flesh, his smell. Which is exactly what I need right now.

His hands go to the wall on either side of me, creating a cage with his body so spacious my back doesn’t even touch the wall when I press myself against him. There’ll be no scratches or bruises with Ollie, no badge of honor. Except—

His mouth is open on my neck, and he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. I use my palm to push his face away.

“Absolutely not.”

He grunts his dissatisfaction, and I still feel his mouth on my neck, but the pressure is gone. Instead, his tongue laps my skin as he migrates to my collarbone, leaving a tingling path as the cool air meets his wake.

As he unbuttons my flannel shirt, I reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet. Flipping it open to find what I’m looking for—one hopeful condom, the wrapper slightly weathered from waiting.

I draw back. There’s an old plastic folding chair leaned against the wall, which I left there so I have somewhere to sit on my smoke breaks.

“Sit.”

He does, of course. He’s good at doing what he’s told.

He watches with a pleased grin as I try to shimmy my jeans off over my shoes, the condom packet safe between my teeth.

“Here, you’ll get them wet.”

He sits me down on his thigh, one less layer of fabric between our skin. His arm is long enough to help pull the denim the rest of the way down my legs, leaving me half-naked in the back alley of my place of employment. He drapes my discarded clothing over the back of the chair behind him.

I swing one leg over his so I face him. When I straddle him like this, I’m still only at his eye level. I unzip his jeans and unleash him from his boxers. His breathing gets shallow as I rip the condom packet open with my teeth, and slide the latex down his dick. It’s a good party trick, doing that seamlessly, but if he’s this turned on now his mind would be blown if he saw how I can do it with my mouth.

My breath catches as I ease myself down on him, letting him fill me. The last two days have felt like a fever dream, but this is real. Just like what I did before was real. Can’t deny it now. My eyes burn, and I push any thought of Wes out of my mind. It would be mortifying to cry right now.

I try to focus on the present, on the physical sensations. The blue paint of the basement door, the sharp metal of Ollie’s fly pinching my upper thigh, the faint white clouds of our hot breath in the cold air.

He kisses me everywhere he can reach, my face, my neck, my chest, my shoulders. He keeps one hand on my hip, using it to keep rhythm for his own hips tilting toward me. He feels good—as good as it could be. But not quite good enough to get me there, and while I’m sure he’d be willing, I’m certainly not in the mood to teach. I reach my hand down, so I can touch myself while I ride him. I focus on myself, my pleasure, not my pain, although sometimes aren’t they the same thing?

He watches my hand between my legs, fixated.

“Fuck, that’s so sexy.”

If some frat boy said that to me I would laugh, but somehow I don’t hate it in the context; it seems even I am not immune to the appeal of a nice accent. I tilt my head back and close my eyes so I can concentrate, clenching every muscle, forcing the air out of my lungs and stomach. I’m trying so hard it hurts. I finally give in to temptation and cross my fingers where they touch my skin—once, twice—Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz. I skip over the more gentle meanings and focus on my goal: orgasm. And at last I find it—relief.

He groans as he feels the magic, and my muscles clenching over him as I cum. He lets himself loose, slamming up into me, pulling my hips down with both hands, hard. I wish he’d been like this from the start, rough and unrestrained, instead of acting so well-behaved. He catches my hand, running his tongue over my fingers, the ones that I was using to touch myself. And here I thought he was a vegetarian.

That sets him over the edge. He gives one final rasp as he hits the finish line, dropping his forehead to mine. Now that it’s over, his breath is invasive, sweeping over my skin in irregular huffs, damp and ticklish.

My legs are wobbly when I stand. I feel hollow, empty, numb, which I guess is preferable to acute agony. I put my jeans back on, then reach for the metal tin on the windowsill, where I always have some loosies stashed for emergencies. My stomach twists as I light one.

I watch his back as he straightens himself out, ties up the used condom, and wads it in a crumpled napkin from his pocket. He sets the napkin up on top of the wall, at street level, to grab later. When he turns to face me, his smile is warm, affectionate, satisfied—everything I’m not.

“Where’d you learn that trick?”

He uses his index and middle finger to sketch both sides of Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz in the air but doesn’t put any magic behind it.

I let my thumb skim the back of her hand as I traced Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz. Two sharp corners facing away from each other but joined on each side, like a diamond that’s been squeezed together, like two sets of spread legs facing each other, crossing at the thighs. Once, twice, three times. Union, pleasure, intensity. I pretended the skin on her hand was a different place, and my other hand slipped below my waistband to mimic its partner. Union, pleasure, intensity. Pleasure… intensity… pleasure—

I shiver instead of answering.

“You’re cold.”

He pulls my back against his chest, misreading me completely, tucking me in the flaps of his jacket, wrapping his arms around my waist. It’s stifling, like a sauna. I never feel that way when Wes holds me. With Wes I’m molten.

Just like that, all the effort I went through to forget is wasted and I’m back in Wes’s room, his face twisted in disgust. I push away.

“No, we’re not doing that.”

“Okay… we don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.”

“Talk about what?”

He raises his eyebrow at me like it’s obvious. Like I’m making him say the quiet part out loud. Whatever it is, it’s so quiet it’s silent.

“You like me.”

I let out a cackle. I can’t help it. It’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.

“No. Not at all.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Trust me. I’m not.”

He eyes me, as if he’s trying to look deep into my soul, as if he can read me. It would probably work better if he wasn’t illiterate.

“You kissed me first. We just… again. You let me…”

The confusion on his face melts into outrage. It’s almost a relief. At least it’s familiar territory for me.

“Why did you do it? The coven was good. The spells were working; we were working. This messed everything up. You have to have had a better reason than some mind game.”

I don’t explain myself—he could never understand. This isn’t a game; it’s a war. Me against myself—either way I lose.

“I’m just a fucked-up bitch I guess.”

“Yeah. I guess you are.”

He stalks up the steps, full of fury. But when he gets to the top he turns back to me.

“Go back to your witch. You guys are made for each other.”

We are.

But I won’t.

On the third night there aren’t any patients and it would look pretty weird if I stayed. I consider calling Brian the bartender, but thinking about him reminds me of that night at the show. I end up hitting up a townie pub and down a bunch of tequila on an empty stomach. Some rando buys me a festive shot of Fireball, which I immediately throw back up in my mouth. I purse my lips and swallow it down again, and I guess he doesn’t notice because he still wants to make out and never comments on the sour taste that soon covers both our tongues. His touch leaves me cold-blooded even when he tries to slip his hand in my underwear. His fingers feel like sandpaper and the impression of his erection against my leg does not in fact leave much of an impression, so I leave.

I head back to my shed for the first time since it happened. I half expect Ollie to be there, but he’s not. I don’t sleep so much as drift into a kind of stupor. For some unknown and totally diabolically masochistic reason, I refuse to turn, even though Cat would be more self-forgiving, and I’m itching to get out of this skin.

OLLIE

You have to come home.”

Cleo looks up from the reception area computer, covering her surprise with one of her signature just-for-me scowls. “You’re kidding, right?”

Fair enough. We didn’t part on the best of terms the last time I was here. I was angry, and embarrassed. Wes was right, Cleo had been using me, and she did it again. In the moment I was sure I was done with her. But after a night’s sleep, I got over it. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t the worst way to be used. I enjoyed myself while it was happening, at least. Both times.

I do feel bad for her, despite what she did. I might even understand it, even though it was psychotic. She’d rather blow up her relationship with Wes than let him slowly drift away. At least she can pretend it was her choice.

no one chooses you

So I’m here for another try. Same place, hopefully different results.

“I’m serious. I’m here to fetch you so you and Wes can work your shit out.”

I act like I drew the short straw, but I was the only one participating in the draw. Bailey and Wes have no idea I’m here. Bailey has taken it upon herself to atone for my actions by keeping Wes company while he wallows in misery, an activity I am understandably not welcome to join.

The sooner I get Cleo home, the sooner Wes can forgive her and thus Bailey can forgive me, and everything can go back to the way it was. The sooner we can focus on what’s important: discovering what happened on Beltane.

I might have said that last part out loud.

A spasm crosses her face, and she shudders. In a different body, her back would be arched and all her hair would be standing on end.

I take two steps closer to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You might as well tell me,” I say as I hop over the counter so I’m on the same side of the desk as her. If she passes out I can at least catch her before she knocks her head on the way down. “I’m going to bother you until you do.”

“Cat’s angry.” Another shudder. “Making it hard to keep this… hard to stay me.”

“How long has it been since you last shifted?” I ask.

“Not since…” She pauses as her slender frame is wracked with more tremors. “That night…”

I gape at her. “But that was three days ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“That’s too long. You have to listen to your body.” I tut. Cat would ease her guilt; she wouldn’t feel her emotions so keenly. Cat would probably also make sure she ate something, and she’d certainly handle personal grooming a little better.

“No,” she says stubbornly. “And I’m not going with you, so you can leave now.”

I try not to get distracted by her lips as she pouts. They’re pinker than normal, I think from how she’s been subconsciously gnawing on them. But I’m here on a mission, and I’m not leaving a failure again.

As it turns out, Cleo is my only friend left in this city. Sad, I know, but those are the cards I’ve been dealt.

“You have to come back…,” I say, grasping for a convincing argument. “For the magic.”

“For the magic?” She gives me a pained smile. She knows it’s a load of bollocks. But I double down.

“It’s Winter Solstice. High holiday. Bailey has a spell she wants to do.” That part’s not a lie, but the next is: “Wes wants you to come.”

She looks skeptical. “He said that?”

“He did,” I say, nodding. “He’s the one that sent me.”

I’m a shit liar, but Cleo wants to believe me so badly that it doesn’t matter.

Which leaves me with just one little problem: the fact that when I tell Bailey and Wes who’s coming to dinner, they are less than thrilled.

“Ollie!” Bailey’s eyes shift between me and Wes. He stares at the frosted glass panes of the door, jaw clenched. “You should’ve at least asked first.”

The doorbell rings. Too late.

It’s a testament to how unwelcome Cleo feels that she doesn’t let herself in, since it’s literally her house, but also how much she wants to come home.

“She’s not taking care of herself,” I say. “I don’t think she’s eating.”

Neither is he, if we’re keeping track of these things. At mealtimes he mostly just pushes his food around his plate, and it’s hard not to notice his queasy expression when he chews, his eyes as hollow as his cheeks.

“She needs us,” I implore. They need each other. Romantic relationship aside, something about a witch and familiar being permanently separated feels deeply unsettling. I hate even the idea of being cut off from Bailey. It would go beyond heartbreak; it would be torture. I don’t know how they’re surviving it. Sheer stubbornness, I suppose.

“And we need her, if we want our Solstice spell to have any impact.” I aim the last bit at Wes. He might not care about Cleo’s wellbeing, or his own anymore, but he cares about the magic, at least if the last few weeks are any indication.

Bailey gives me a frustrated look. “We used to do spells alone.”

She wants our coven repaired, but baiting Wes with magic isn’t how she wants it to happen. I think in this case the ends might justify the means.

“Not well.”

She purses her lips. She can’t deny it.

“You think the spell won’t work without her?” Wes asks, his attention finally leaving the shadow on the other side of the glass.

“Ollie and I never had much luck with physical magic before,” Bailey admits. “But now that we’ve practiced more, we might be better.”

“I’ve never done a spell with two witches on my own either,” I say. When Bailey and I do a spell, my magic encases hers like armour, strengthening her. With Wes and Cleo, it’s like they’re next to us, similar but separate, and part of the same charge. Without Cleo, where would that leave Wes? Would I have to cover him too, or would he be naked next to us? I try to imagine someone other than Bailey commanding my magic. A hazy image hovers in the periphery of my mind: a short, curvy woman standing close to me, tense.

“She shouldn’t be strong enough to be bound to two witches,” Ruth murmurs under her breath. “It’s not natural.”

“I’m not even sure if I could,” I mutter. Bailey frowns at me questioningly, but I shrug off her concern.

If Wes notices my focus has drifted, he doesn’t comment. He tilts his head at Bailey. “This spell is important to you?”

“Not really,” she starts.

“But doing magic as a coven today is,” I cut in. She glares at me, annoyed at any number of things: that I interrupted her, that I’m speaking for her, that I’m contradicting her. I double down. “Didn’t you say last night it’s the most magical night of the year?”

Wes chews on the inside of his cheek. “You want me to take her back, so our magic is stronger?”

Bailey sighs unhappily. “She’s your familiar. It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It does.” His eyes return to the door. “I don’t know if I trust myself to make the right choice. What do you think I should do?”

All of a sudden, everything Cleo’s been saying about them doesn’t seem so improbable.

“I’m not worried about the spell. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t matter. But…” Bailey touches his arm, her face softening. “It’s Christmastime. She shouldn’t be alone.”

CLEO

After I ring the bell, I retreat down the porch steps as I try not to listen to the conversation on the other side of the door. I think it’s an argument, although Ollie’s firm assertions are the only words I can really make out.

So much for Wes wants you to come.

What if they never answer? What if they leave me out here to rot?

I should leave. At the very least, I should turn. If they only need me for magic, wouldn’t Cat be the better option for all of us?

But I don’t.

Because Wes’s low lilt reaches my ears, and my body involuntarily leans toward the house, his voice music to my soul.

I don’t care what he does. He can yell at me, call me a whore, throw all my clothes out the door and into the snow. As long as I get to see him.

More than anything, I want to see him.

There’s a creak as the front door opens. I hold my breath.

Bailey stands in the entryway, her hand still on the handle. She’s the pinnacle of relaxed in her low-slung jeans and oversized wool sweater—a pale yellow that would wash me out but contrasts prettily with her dark hair and glowy skin. Completely comfortable, and at ease, with my boyfriend and in my house.

I’m glad I stopped by the fitness center at school on the way over. The duration of my shower was spent oscillating between psyching myself up and chickening out, and then I had to rush through everything else before I lost my nerve. My hair is a wreck and my face is bare, but at least I’m clean.

“Hi, Cleo.”

Her silent judgment makes my skin prickle. As if she wasn’t the one who caused this mess to begin with.

Ollie gives me a quick conspiratorial wink from where he hovers by her shoulder. Wes lurks a few feet behind them in the hallway. Maybe so he can run out the back if he changes his mind about seeing me.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

He has dark circles under his eyes, and his already fair skin has gotten even more pale, but instead of being sallow it’s luminescent like fresh snow. He’s probably smoking less, and drinking more water than coffee or booze. Bailey’s influence. It suits him. He looks good.

My gaze meets his and his eyes shutter, his expression guarded. Like I might have some secret agenda, some new sick game to hurt him. I scowl. I didn’t even want to be here—I came for him, because I thought he wanted me to.

“Don’t worry. I’m just here for the magic.”

He doesn’t say anything, just turns on his heel and storms toward the living room. I stalk up the stairs and shoulder past Bailey and Ollie.

“Let’s get this over with.”

We sit in a circle of salt on the living room floor, just like we did the first time. Everything is familiar, but nothing’s the same.

Wes doesn’t sit next to me, doesn’t want to be in such close proximity to me. Which is fine because that just leaves him the spot across from me, and since he keeps his gaze resolutely anywhere but on me, I’m free to stare at him to my heart’s content.

He seems so sad. After a lifetime of tragedy, you’d think he’d be used to it. But my God does he wear it well. His gauntness makes the angles of his face sharper, giving his features a sculptural quality; I’d rather look at him than any piece of art in a museum.

“Winter Solstice is a high holiday, like Beltane. It’s the shortest day of the year—you might have heard it called Yule, as well? It’s supposed to be a return to the light after a dark period…”

Bailey rambles to cover the awkward silence. She’s not one to sit in discomfort. Conversely, I bask in it. With every passing moment the tension between me and Wes builds, the invisible string that binds us charged like a live wire, electrifying and delicious. For the first time in days, I feel alive.

“So um, to keep it simple, we’re just going to make these Christmas lights turn on. Literal, I know.”

She gives me a small smile as she holds up the tangled ball of cables. I guess I appreciate the effort.

“We were thinking ‘Blinding Lights,’ the Weeknd? But we can use something else if you prefer…”

There’s a million other songs I can think of, but at least it’s not Katy Perry or something. Anyway, what do I care?

“Fine.”

Instead of the basin of water, she lays a large gilded mirror on the floor. It used to live on the mantle over the fireplace before my aunt died. A few weeks ago, I dragged it out of the attic and set it on Wes’s dresser so I’d have somewhere to do my makeup in his room. I secretly liked how discordant the ornateness was with the rest of his grungy clutter.

The string lights go on top of it. Electrics and water don’t mix, and we’re still saving fire for special occasions.

No one reaches for anyone’s hands this time. Wes picks up the guitar by his side and starts to strum.

My stomach drops at the confident movement of his fingers. He has the chords memorized. Did they plan this spell together, or have they just been spending the last three days sharing playlists?

while you suffered

alone

I push the imps out of my head and focus on the intention. Make the dumb little bulbs light up, and I can leave. Go back to wallowing, with even more ammunition.

The smoky timbre of his voice warms me as he sings, unfurling in me like the soft caress of his magic as it reaches for mine, so sweet it hurts. I almost cry out as mine leaps from me along with any semblance of self-control, entwining with his, pliant and ready. A pained expression crosses his face, one I’m sure must mirror mine.

The rhythmic fluctuations of the melody pulse like a current through copper, annoyingly evocative of our intention. The lights start to flicker—pink, green, yellow, blue, doubly bright from their reflections. Easy.

I feel a twinge of surprise at the solace I find in our small success. At least we still have this.

Bailey and Ollie’s magic spins tighter around us, coaxing ours closer together, gentle and encouraging. There’s a small hopeful smile on her lips, which give the tiniest of twitches as she starts to emphasize different lyrics.

Clever. They have a second intention. She said Winter Solstice is a return to the light, leaving the darkness behind. She was working with the subtext all along, trying to repair the break in her precious coven. What a little optimist.

Well, I don’t know about all that, but I’ll light up the whole damn town if Wes wants me to.

My magic leaves me in a rush, making me light-headed, but he barely looks up as the dome light on the ceiling above us flares. The room is bright as every bulb in every fixture shines, even the dead ones, and the lights in the hallway, the kitchen, and the upstairs landing.

His magic tugs—more. It drags us through the house, touching every switch, then outside, and next door. It’s excessive, profligate in its demands. Our strength is waning, but he only pulls harder.

Ollie growls, a low rumble like distant thunder warning of a lightning storm. I shoot him a fierce glare—he isn’t going to ruin this for me. Pursing his lips, he silently withdraws, taking his and Bailey’s magic with him. He doesn’t interfere, but he won’t let us bring them down with us.

That’s fine. I can carry this spell on my own.

I push everything I have into it, and everything I don’t. I haven’t eaten a full meal in days, so my body is weak, but it’s amazing how far obstinacy will get you.

I touch my tongue to my upper lip and taste metal—my nose is bleeding. Wes licks his lip, unconsciously mimicking me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, as if my blood is in his mouth. I swipe the blood away with the back of my hand before the other two see, but there’s a resolute glint in Wes’s eye. He knows what he’s doing.

Draining me.

punishing you

It’s a game of chicken, both of us daring each other to pull out. But backing down would be giving up, not just on the spell, but on us.

It won’t be me.

you deserve it

There’s a faint glow in the window, a cacophony of colors as every bulb on every string of Christmas lights on the street glows unnaturally bright. With it comes a shift in the taste of his magic—still merciless and demanding, but now with the sweet note of glee. He can’t hide his awe at how strong the spell is—how strong we are. Together.

There’s a tickle on the skin where my earlobe meets my face; I know if I touched it I’d find blood there too. Bailey sucks in a breath when she notices.

“Wes, you’re hurting her—”

My nostrils flare in annoyance as his attention leaves me, his eyes flicking up to Bailey. There’s a moment of hesitation in the spell as he debates internally—stay with me and explore the furthest reaches of our magic, or listen to her, and withdraw?

“You have to stop!”

The fire and the fight in him starts to fade, and his voice starts to trail off.

But mine doesn’t. I sing louder.

My magic latches onto his, grasping at the spell’s hidden agenda to unify, twisting it, corrupting it. I trail over him like climbing vines, smothering him, refusing to let him end the spell. He tries to pull away, but we’re bound together, he and I. My magic is stronger, wresting control from his. Spiny thorns dig in, making it impossible for him to escape.

Outside, car alarms start blaring, and I sense that every headlight on every car on the whole damn block must be flashing. Then—

There’s a loud pop as we’re plunged into darkness. Not just us, the entire street.

I start to sway where I’m seated. It’s as if the spell was the only thing keeping my body upright, and now that it’s over my strings are cut. I collapse onto my side, wheezing.

OLLIE

Cleo shifts as she falls.

Wes is at her side in an instant, cradling Cat’s prone form in his arms.

“Get your hands off her!” I grab his wrist, pulling it back, and scoop Cat away from him. Her legs dangle limply against my chest as I check her over.

“You need to mind your own business,” he hisses. “I told you, this isn’t about you.”

I hold a finger under her nostrils. Relief washes over me as I feel the soft warm air of her breath against my skin. I lift her eyelids. Her eyes are glassy, but her pupils constrict as the light hits them, albeit sluggishly. She’s unconscious, but, “She’s alive.”

“Of course she’s alive.”

He tries to reach for her, but I push at his chest, keeping him at arm’s length as I carefully hand Cat over to Bailey. “You don’t touch her.”

“How could you do that?” Bailey demands. “You drained her, you actually drained her, after we warned you last time… and before you say it’s none of our business again, anything that happens to any member of our coven during a spell is absolutely our business.”

He looks at Bailey with wide eyes, caught off guard by her outrage. It’s enough to finally make him reckon with his actions. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders sinking. “You’re right. I’m sorry…”

“Bailey’s not who you should be apologising to.” I scowl. His face is a picture of remorse, but his guilt is misdirected.

“I didn’t mean to do it—”

“I think you did.”

“I’m sorry.” He directs his words to Bailey, again. “I’m sorry. I tried to stop. I swear I tried.”

“Not hard enough,” I snap. “I knew we shouldn’t have let them do magic when he was still so angry.”

“You’re blaming me?” Bailey’s surprise and indignation towards me briefly override her anger at him. “You brought her here. You begged us to do the spell.”

“Because it was important to you!”

“Hey, don’t yell at her,” Wes says, play-acting the peacemaker now. “It’s not her fault…”

“No, it’s yours.”

But the person I’m most angry at is myself. I was so desperate to be back in Bailey’s good graces that I convinced Cleo to do the spell. I should have kept a lid on it.

“Okay,” he says, hands raised in defeat. “It’s my fault, okay? I fucked up, again. I know.”

I jerk my head in a nod. I’m ready to be done with the conversation. We need to be taking care of Cat, not arguing over something that we can’t change.

But Bailey chews on her lip. “What did you mean, you tried to stop? Like you couldn’t control yourself? Your anger?”

“Not my anger. My magic.”

I barely restrain the growl that rumbles from my throat. He glances at me.

“You were right, I knew I was draining her, and I was doing it on purpose—at first. I wanted to hurt her.” His expression turns earnest as he finds Bailey’s gaze again. “But after you told me to stop, I tried to end the spell… but I couldn’t.” Confusion crosses his face. “It was like I wasn’t in control of my magic anymore.”

A memory rushes over me, more a feeling than an image.

I pulled away from the spell, drawing back. At least, I tried to. The spell held tight to my magic, like a rip current under a deceptively calm sea, dragging me down as if to drown me.

“The spell trapped you?”

Wes shakes his head. “Not the spell. Cleo. She wouldn’t let me go.”

“Like she was forcing you to drain her?” Bailey shakes her head. “Why would she do that?”

I scoff, crossing my arms. “Sounds a lot like victim blaming to me.”

“You wouldn’t get it. It’s what we do.”

Bailey frowns as she curls her arms tighter around Cat defensively. “I don’t know if that’s something I want to get.”

“I know it’s fucked up.” He rakes a frustrated hand through his long hair. “We bring out the worst in each other. I wish we weren’t like that.”

His eyes shine with what might be tears. I can see Bailey softening, which only makes my own resolve harden.

“You’re the witch. You control the spell. She’s your familiar; she makes you stronger. That’s how this works. Until you both sort that out, no more magic.”

Wes sighs, looking upwards. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That’s fair. Sorry. I know that messes with your plans.”

“It’s more important that we’re all safe.” Bailey strokes between Cat’s ears as she contemplates. “The thing I still don’t understand is… how did she do it?”

Before either of us can even try to answer, there’s a shrill yowl. In a display of energy she shouldn’t have been able to muster, Cat sinks her teeth into the flesh of Bailey’s arm. Bailey shrieks, throwing her hurt arm in the air, sending Cat flying.

Cat lands on all fours and, with a sharp hiss, darts out the door.

CAT

The Raven flies over winter woods, flapping past rich green pines coated in blue-white snow. He is close, but I am stretched thin.

I muster myself.

I cannot escape the cold, so I embrace it. Alaskan glaciers, icy mountain peaks. Behemoth ocean waves crashing over that pull us under. Deep underground caves whose tunnels weave a complicated web, away from the sky, and the Raven’s roving eyes. It is more important than ever he does not find us.

I see the Raven for what he is now—our past catching up with us.

You can’t look at her or she won’t go for it.

The Witch Girl’s eyes widen in surprise. My Wes does not normally speak to her in harsh tones.

Sorry.

Sorry.

He echoes her, already full of contrition. But she obeys; she stares at his hands which lie in the center of the table only inches from her own.

Oliver does not obey; he surveys the row of bowls on the ground that My Wes uses to try and tempt me. Salmon, rice, chicken hearts, cream, pumpkin. A scoop of crunchy kibble, just in case, although even in my most desperate state I would only touch that bowl to scatter its contents across the floor.

But this is not a game. This revulsion is formed from sorrow. Our soul is torn in two, and now where My Wes should smell of amber and cloves, he smells of burning rubber and resin, anger and sadness.

Where did you find her? She hasn’t been in her shed in days…

The basement. There’s a spot by the water heater.

My Wes pretends not to watch me, but he keeps me in his periphery just as I keep him in mine.

I read this thing… when cats stop eating sometimes, if it’s been too long, they can forget how? Then they stop drinking too. You have to get a feeding tube surgically inserted into their esophagus or else they can get so dehydrated they…

My Wes trails off, pins Oliver with his stare.

Is that something that could happen?

Oliver looks at me. His eyes glean with the certainty of a threat.

No. Cleo won’t let it get to that.

OLLIE

Santa’s been and went, and we’ve just had a lovely roast and Christmas pud. Richard had a very heavy pour with the brandy, didn’t he, Joan?”

Mum holds the phone up for Bailey’s gran, who sits in the floral armchair in the sitting room of my parents’ cottage. A purple paper crown from a Christmas cracker sits on her head.

“And who licked their bowls clean?” Dad calls out from behind them. “Every last person at that table, that’s who.”

They’re five hours ahead, so while we’re still on our first cup of coffee they’re well into the sherry already.

Gran tips her head back and squints. “Is that Oliver?”

She stares through the phone as if only just seeing me for the first time. She has these moments sometimes where she gets a bit lost, especially as we’ve gotten older. Everyone calls me Ollie except some teachers and Gran. She’s always called me Oliver.

“Yes, hi, Gran. I hope Mum’s looking after you while Bailey’s away.”

Gran blinks, her expression becoming sharp again. “Oh yes, Pauline’s taking great care of me. Comes round every morning to make sure I haven’t died in the night.”

“Gran!” Bailey admonishes, laughing.

“Alright, my darlings, we’re going into the village to watch some caroling, so we’ll let you go. But we love you very much, and we miss you, and we’re thinking of you. I hope you have a lovely dinner, and be safe.”

Mum ends her monologue with a mwah as she makes an air kiss at the screen. She always ends calls like she’s writing a letter. She texts the same way too.

“Love you!” Bailey and I sing out in pretend harmony as the call disconnects.

We sit in the quiet for a minute. We’re still not entirely on speaking terms. Not really. She’s angry at me for my part in the Cleo-Wes explosion, and I’m annoyed with her for how quickly she seems to have forgiven Wes. Even if he did try to pull back after Bailey intervened, he was already hurting Cleo on purpose. I don’t doubt that Cleo was just as much to blame as him, but she seems to be the only one suffering for it. Since neither of us are going to change our minds, we’re just not talking about anything more substantial than shopping lists and recipes.

As a result, neither of us mention how homesick we are. It’s our first Christmas away, and the first year that Bailey hasn’t held on to the secret hope that this is the year her parents walk through the door, a Christmas miracle. A childhood dream that was highly improbable, but until now not impossible.

But since we’re not having those kinds of conversations right now, I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker, smothering our melancholy and friction with upbeat Christmas hits, and retreat to the kitchen to start cooking.

As I tackle the carrots, there’s a light tap on the back door. It creaks open tentatively, revealing Cleo. It’s the first time I’d ever describe anything she’s done as cautious, but there she is on the patio, looking hesitant.

“You’re here!”

None of us have seen Cleo since Wes drained her. Before she can back away, I reach my arm around her and pull her inside. Her shoulder blades are sharp even through the multiple layers of black clothing she wears, and her collarbone juts prominently from her neckline. All the more reason to make sure she stays.

“Try this,” I say, shoving a gingerbread man at her. “Can you tell it’s egg-free?”

I don’t care if she can, but it gives me an excuse to watch as she nibbles at one of his frosted toes. I’m a head-first person myself; I like to put the poor bastard out of his misery so he doesn’t have to watch as I eat all his limbs.

“You’re cooking?” She looks dubious as she surveys the counter, which groans with the ingredients we’ve been prepping. “From scratch?”

“We are,” I say, turning her so she’s positioned at her own station, next to mine. I motion to the bowl of Brussels sprouts and cutting board in front of her. “All you have to do is cut them in half and peel off the dead bits.”

She smirks as I hand her the knife I was using. “Surprised you trust me with this.”

Not sure if she means the vegetables or the blade.

“Tea’s ready!” Bailey emerges from the traditional butler’s pantry, faltering when she sees Cleo. “Oh… I didn’t hear you come in…”

“Ollie invited me,” Cleo says defensively. “I think his exact words to Cat were ‘starving yourself to death would really ruin Christmas.’ ”

“It would’ve,” I reply with a grin.

“Of course you’re very welcome,” Bailey says as she hands me a mug, the milk still swirling.

“Ta,” I say, taking a sip and feeling instantly comforted. Which is the primary purpose of a good cuppa. It tastes like afternoons around the kitchen table after school, or huddling under the covers on a gloomy day. It tastes like home.

Instead of stepping away, Bailey drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Sorry, I’m being so rude,” she says to Cleo. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No thanks, I’m a coffee girl.” She eyes Bailey’s hand where it touches me with interest.

“Ollie is too, usually,” Bailey says, bumping my hip with hers. “He only drinks tea when I’m making it. He’s so picky about how it’s done, not even his mum can get it quite right.”

Cleo’s eyes spark with something akin to amusement, only a few shades darker. “I think we might have a holiday blend somewhere. It feels like a spicy kind of day, don’t you think?”

She disappears through the pantry’s French doors and we hear the sink start to run as she fills the coffee pot.

“That’s not fair,” I say to Bailey in a lowered voice as she lets her arm slide off my shoulder, performance over. “You don’t get to do that.”

“What?” Bailey whispers, a hint of defiance in her voice. “I was being friendly.”

“You were marking territory.”

She doesn’t answer, just picks up the vegetable peeler and starts on the potatoes in silence. Until Cleo slides between us, two mugs in hand.

She offers me one. “It’s so interesting. Ollie’s always lapped up everything I’ve given him. Then again, what I’m serving is a little hotter.”

She traces Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. kenaz on the side of my coffee mug and watches the liquid start to steam. The torch, fire; but also knowledge, and desire. Then she gives Bailey a smile bright enough to burst a bulb.

It’s not lost on me that there are also traces of Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa on the mug, which Cleo must have used to cool the freshly brewed coffee so she could reheat it with full effect. I’m not sure what’s more shocking, Cleo’s barely veiled entendre or her casual emotional weaponisation of magic. Bailey should have known better than to toy with Cleo.

“You’re welcome,” Cleo whispers to me, winking as she takes the knife back up, cleaving the Brussels in front of her with relish.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Wes finally rouses himself and drifts into the kitchen. He dips into the pantry to pour himself coffee from the pot, not seeming to mind that it’s probably burnt from sitting out on the hotplate.

He takes a sip. “Does this have cinnamon in it?”

“Oh, I’m not sure…,” Bailey says. “Cleo made it.”

His hand pauses halfway to his mouth. “Cleo’s here?”

As if on cue, Cat slinks into the room and hops up onto the fridge, curling herself into a ball. Wes purses his lips. “Got it.”

Bailey clears her throat. “We can eat whenever… it’s mostly ready, except the Tofurky. That just needs heating up. It’s a vegetarian meal, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine. Not that into turkey anyway.” His eyes flick up to where Cat is feigning a nap but still watching us through little open slits.

“Sorry… we’re hogging the day, aren’t we?” Bailey says. “I should have asked if you had any recipes you wanted us to make, or any other traditions you wanted to do?”

Now he stares up at Cat openly. She flicks her tail, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him.

“No,” Wes says finally. “None worth repeating.”

We sit down at the dining table for what promises to be a horribly awkward meal filled with Bailey’s nervous small-talk chatter. Cat settles herself along the mantle, making sure to kick a few of the pinecones we’ve foraged as decorations onto the floor.

If Wes notices the weird energy, he doesn’t seem to mind it. Brooding is his preferred mode anyway. Bailey and I both try not to watch as he takes a loaded bite, but he must sense our bated breaths. I can’t remember the last time I saw him even vaguely interested in a meal. He glances at us. “It’s really good.”

Then he sighs, setting down his cutlery.

“What’s wrong?” Bailey asks.

He stands and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a side plate in his hand. He starts scooping a little spoon of each dish onto it, finishing with the gravy, then sets the plate in front of Cat on the mantle. She looks down at the meal, then looks away, eyes full of disdain.

“You need to eat.”

They stare at each other for what feels like a full minute but is probably more like five seconds. Finally, she shifts to sit on her haunches and takes a tentative nibble. Satisfied, Wes takes his place at the table, picks up his fork, and starts to eat properly.

After, while I get the plates for dessert, Bailey bends down by the little plastic tree we bought at a charity shop in the square. “We got you something.”

She hands Wes the flat, square package, a red velvet ribbon wrapped around it. ‘We’ is being generous; all I did was pay for the wrapping paper. I didn’t even choose the pattern. But Bailey signed my name on the tag anyway.

Wes’s face falls. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t get you a gift. I didn’t think about it—”

“That’s okay!” Bailey rushes. “We weren’t expecting anything. You’ve been occupied the past few days.”

Wes peels back the wrapping paper. “A record?”

“It’s all the songs we’ve used as spells,” Bailey explains. “Sort of like an audio grimoire…”

He flips it over, reading the track list on the back. “How did you do this?”

“Oh, I saw some place online that makes your playlists into vinyl records, and I know you collect them…” Bailey serves the strawberry and rhubarb crumble with custard, placing a little dish of custard in front of Cat, maybe more for Wes’s benefit than Cleo’s.

“It’s amazing. It might be the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.” He gives me a small nod, but stands to hug her, a real hug with both arms, when his phone lights up with an incoming call. His face turns stony as he looks at the screen. “It’s my grandfather. I can call him back.”

Cat raises her head, although she doesn’t move from her spot.

“No, that’s okay,” Bailey says. “You should talk to him. We’re mostly done anyway.”

He stares at the screen for a moment more, still undecided, before he picks it up from the dining table and starts towards his bedroom. He pauses in the doorway. “Thanks, Bailey. Seriously. Not just for the food, and the gift. For being patient with me.”

Bailey smiles, gives him a small shrug. “You’re stuck with me now.”

me

not us

It does sting a little.

CAT

I nudge the bedroom door open with my nose. He is distracted, but he glances at me as I step inside. He waits until I hop onto the dresser to close the door.

This is a new game we will play. We will pretend that Cat and Cleo are not the same.

Uh yeah. Me and some friends had some food and that’s it, I guess.

On the screen is the Old Man. He was golden like My Wes’s sire, although time has made the Old Man silver. My Wes takes more after his dam, dark hair and stormy eyes.

I had Jacob put some bonds in your account. You should have gotten a certificate or something. An e-card. I don’t know.

Yeah. I got it. Thanks.

Merry Christmas, Dru.

My Wes recoils at the moniker that he does not claim.

You too.

Have you given any thought to the Winchester property? If you don’t want to sell, we could look into building on the land.

Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about this right now.

It’s a waste—that’s prime real estate.

I gotta go.

He throws the phone on his desk as he flops onto the bed and rants.

He only calls because he thinks that’s the thing he’s supposed to do. His assistant probably puts it in his calendar. Check in with old “Dru.” Three times a year, my birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, in perpetuity until he croaks. It’s such performative bullshit. If he really cared he’d call when it’s important. On May first. He’d talk about them. But he couldn’t give a shit. He never talks about anything meaningful, ever. And the fucking bonds, give me a break. It’s always about money with him. He doesn’t even know me. What does he want? He’s not my family, not really. Not like…

He scowls as he looks at me, leaving his thought unfinished. But we know. The Old Man isn’t his family; we are.

He turns on his side and stares at the wall. He pats the mattress in front of him. An invitation.

I accept.

He strokes the length of my body. His lips pucker as he feels the bones of my ribs beneath his fingers.

I’m sorry I hurt you.

Like our dreams, his voice is an echo of times before. Our wounds go deeper than our body; they have weakened our mind.

I shouldn’t have drained you. That was really fucked up.

He sighs heavily.

I got you something. Before.

He snatches a narrow box from his bedside table. A gift. Inside is a thin black collar, with a silver tag. I retract, my neck compressing into my body. I do not eat kibble, and I do not wear collars.

Don’t get pissy—I’m not saying I own you. It’s just a necklace. But it’s stretchy, see?

He tugs on the fabric and it expands. He holds it against his neck, showing how it could stretch to fit him. How it could fit Cleo.

Gilly said I should get you more jewelry.

His face falls.

Fuck.

He drops his hand, his head falling back into his pillow. I paw the collar, nudge it with my nose as if to fit my head in the circle. I will deign to wear his offering.

Really?

His voice is skeptical, but his scent carries hope. We must be careful not to fan that flame too hot.

He helps slip the collar over my head. It sits comfortably on my neck. He pulls me to him, burying his face in my side.

I miss you.

I purr at his breath in my fur, finding comfort in his warmth. Our body is as weak as our resolve.

Will you be Cleo?

I will not.

Please. We need to talk about this.

No.

He cries into my neck, mumbling the same questions, over and over.

Why did you do it? What aren’t you telling me?

He will be grateful one day.

OLLIEDOG

We are sleeping upstairs. which is our new place

i am warm in my spot on baileys feet. she moves but it is not morning yet

she gets up and i get up to follow. but she tells me to stay

she goes downstairs. past the kitchen and into the bedroom. and shuts the door

i lie with my nose by the door floor crack and listen to them whispering

i do not whine. i stand up to find a new spot. i go outside

its snowing. and cold and wet

i go to the shed. cleocat doesnt like me there because i make it smell like my spot. but she opens her eye and blinks and does not hiss when i lie at the end of the bed

she tucks her nose back into her belly

she is cold. i shuffle closer. i can help i am warm

she makes too close sound. i stop

i close my eyes but it is hard to sleep without bailey

OLLIE

Tripp, our Horned God, the winter spirit, took Elizabeth’s hand, claiming his May Queen. We hooted at them as he led her further away, mostly out of earshot but still within view. He would emerge from the coupling as the Green Man, embodying the cycle of life and death and rebirth.

Calliope watched from the shade of a tree, her eyes filled with raw longing. I approached her slowly, hovering a few feet away. I didn’t want to intrude on her privacy, but it wasn’t a day for solitude. She didn’t wave me away, so I sat on the blanket next to her, following her gaze to her witches. “Why don’t you join them?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “She doesn’t want that.”

There was something straining at their binding, that her witches should have been using Beltane to fix, not to exacerbate. I wished I had some sage wisdom to impart to comfort her. Something about how relationships go through as many phases as the moon and this one would eventually pass, even if it might not feel like it now. I was at least ten years her senior, maybe even more; I had more experience to draw upon. But I couldn’t quite think of the right words to say, so instead we sat in silence.

“Lizzie’s jealous of me,” Calliope said finally. “She’s worried Tripp is only with us for my magic. But I’m only with him for her.”

Her fingers traced a pattern in the wool. I felt the warmth of her magic through the ground, but I didn’t see what rune she cast. Elizabeth cried out as Tripp brought her to completion. Calliope looked away.

“How did you know that the circle would be here?” I asked. Partially to distract her, but also out of real curiosity. How could she have known that a ring of stones was buried deep beneath the floor of the great hall?

“A little birdie told me.” She plucked at the grass with her toes.

“Seriously?”

“I’ve been here before,” she said, dreamily. “Centuries ago. Longer. Sometimes I get such a feeling of déjà vu, you know?”

I nodded. I did know.

“Oll!” Ruth beckoned to me. She kept her distance, staying with Nina and Michael by the arch of the portico, eyeing Calliope warily. None of us had seen a shared familiar before. When we were in a spell together, it was hard to scent where Tripp’s magic ended and Elizabeth’s began, so entwined were they both with Calliope. One single seamless unit. Or they had been.

“I can stay,” I offered. My blood was calling for my witch, but Calliope was in such a vulnerable state. I hoped she knew that if she needed one, I could be her friend. I could comfort her through her troubles with her witches, in whatever way would help, whether it was companionable quietness or carnal satisfaction.

She paused, considering me seriously. I wondered for a moment if she would use my body to forget, or to remember. Would she see me, or would she pretend the lips on her skin belonged to someone else?

“No,” she said, finally. “You should be with your witch. It’s where we belong.”

She tilted her ear then, as if listening for something. I listened too, to the wind rustling the tablecloth of our buffet, the water bubbling from the lion’s head fountain in the wall, the birds chirping.

“Just go,” she hissed.

I frowned at the sudden change in her tone. “You’re sure?”

“Why are you here? You don’t even like me. You think I’m a freak.”

My cheeks flushed with guilt. “I don’t think that.”

“Leave me alone,” she choked out bitterly.

I stood, but slowly, giving her a chance to change her mind. She didn’t, at least not audibly.

Far above us, the raven circled watching.

From nowhere, flames shot up, running the circumference of the stone circle. We were surrounded, the border that was supposed to be our protection now our prison—

Long pointed wings beat above the flames as the raven circled overhead, before diving through the fire at Calliope, claws and beak sinking into her skin before rising again, using the smoke to hide—

The spell held tight to my magic, like a rip current under a deceptively calm sea, dragging me down as if to drown me—

I tried to call out, but my voice shriveled in my throat. I rasped for breath as a shock ran through my body… and as it left, it took my magic with it—

I was being drained. We all were.

When I wake up, Cleo’s large green eyes are staring into mine. “Do you dream of fire, Ollie?”

I swallow painfully. My mouth is completely dry, as if it’s still raw and stinging from the smoke.

“You were crying in your sleep,” she murmurs. Then she blinks away her haunted expression, resetting her face into its usual ironic mask. “One might even say whining. And kicking.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks turning red.

“You know if this is going to be a regular thing, we’re going to need a bigger bed.” She gestures around us at the narrow cot. My feet hang off the end, poking out from under the duvet by her head. In comparison, her feet only come up to my armpits. A fact I know intimately since, as of this morning, the majority of her voluntary physical contact with me involves sticking her ice-cold toes into my side. We sleep head to toe, a singularly platonic setup, like we’re kids at a sleepover.

“The only way to get a bigger bed in here would be to get a bigger shed,” I say, surveying the available square footage.

“Then it sounds like you need to get yourself in check.”

My cheeks flush again as I realise exactly how our bodies are positioned. She lies flat on her back, but I’m lying on my side, facing inwards, which means my cock is directly next to her thigh. And it is morning, and we are naked, so it is making its presence very known.

“Sorry…” I roll over to lie on my back so we’re side by side instead. It does create a somewhat embarrassing bulge in the bedding, but she already knows the state of play, so there’s no use trying to hide it now.

“Not that.” She rolls her eyes. “Although just to say it out loud, that was a onetime thing. It’s never going to happen again.”

“Two-time thing.”

“Stop thinking about your dick for a minute. I’m talking about your night turns.”

It’s a little hard to follow her line of conversation when her hand is acting completely at odds with her words. Her fingers snake their way up my thigh, dancing over my skin. Playing.

That’s all she’s ever doing with me, playing.

I should put a stop to this, move her hand away, but I think that might count as a win for her. I’m sure the game is for her to toy with me while we both pretend everything is normal. First to break loses, and I like to win. Although the game is rigged against me, since it’s hers.

Honestly, I’m glad she has the energy to tease me, verbally and physically. It was looking grim for her the last few days. But I try to ignore her and focus. I was in my dog form when I came in, so I must have shifted in my sleep. It happens sometimes when I’m dreaming. When my mind is fighting to escape. “It’s the fire. My dreams have been a lot more vivid since…”

“Since the memory spell?” she volunteers knowingly.

“The fire itself is still… fragmented. But I’m starting to see more. Other memories. Especially when we’re together,” I admit.

“So, no more steamy nights in the shed?” She smirks at me.

“I didn’t say that. I want to see them.”

She makes a face. “Shouldn’t we leave them where they belong? In the past…”

“I don’t want to hide from the truth. I want to know what happened. Even if it hurts.” My voice catches only a little as her hand closes around my raging erection.

My phone buzzes and I grab it, studiously ignoring how Cleo’s thumb swipes over my tip each time her slowly pumping fist reaches it.

“You’re my first… uncut gem, you know,” she says, intentionally lewd to distract me from what she must guess is Bailey messaging.

“I’m honoured,” I quip as I read the text. You up yet? We usually spend the day after Christmas shopping the Boxing Day sales, though I don’t think that’s a thing in America. Even if it was, I wasn’t sure Bailey would want to spend the day with me this year. I stare at the screen, debating my response.

“You should probably go,” Cleo says. “Don’t want to keep Bailey waiting.” She pauses what she’s been doing with her hand and looks at me, waiting for my answer.

She’s put me in check, and I don’t see a way out.

“Yeah, I probably should,” I say, pretending my cock isn’t twitching in frustration. She releases me instantly, lying back against her pillow.

As expected, it was a lose-lose for me. If I told Cleo I had time, she would have stopped anyway just to see me squirm. I should know better than to let myself get drawn in, but it’s hard when it feels so good. When I get back to the house I’m going to go directly to the shower and finish what she started anyway.

Getting up seems insurmountable when our combined body heat has finally made the room somewhat hospitable, but I reach for my clothes. I have to stretch to the point where I’m halfway across the floor to get to them, but at least my legs are still warm.

“How can you do it?” Cleo’s face twists in a swirl of disgust and despair, all traces of playfulness gone.

“Do what?” I look at her in confusion as I turn my crumpled T-shirt so it’s no longer inside out.

“How can you be around them? When they’re… falling in love.” She says the last part in a strangled whisper.

“We don’t know that’s what’s happening.”

“Of course it is,” she snaps. “What else would it be?”

“It’s not like you’re exactly sitting around celibate either.” I’m getting whiplash from her sudden mood swings, no matter how hard I try to keep up.

“What, this?” she asks, gesturing between our two bodies. “This is nothing like that. This is a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. You like getting laid. You love her.”

I cross my arms. “Even if they are falling in love… which I really don’t think they are… love isn’t some finite pool. Her loving him wouldn’t mean she loved me less…”

“Of course it would,” Cleo bursts out. “Love is energy, and there is a fixed amount of that, and then it’s spent. Gone.”

“Bailey’s not like that.”

She bites her lip. “Wes is.”

I lean back into the pillow. “She’s never loved me in that way, anyway.”

“Doesn’t it kill you? You love her.” As if telling me I love Bailey over and over again will suddenly wake me up out of some apathetic stupor, as if I’ve forgotten.

“Right. I love her. So, I want her to be happy. Although I can’t say I see the appeal.”

That’s not entirely true, although I wish it was. Despite my misgivings, I admit that Wes is interesting. He challenges Bailey in a way I never could, and not only about magic. He makes her think about things.

“Think he’s hot enough to give her V-card to?”

I fix her with a stern look. “You’re being a bitch.”

“I know, okay?” she grumbles. “She would be good for him. She’s generous and patient and warm and open, and he’s been so alone for so long.”

She stares at the window, contemplative instead of combative. I get the sense this isn’t a conclusion she just came to, but something she’s been mulling over for a while. She and Wes are always mulling things over.

“You did it for him?” I guess. “So he’d be free to be with her?”

She shrugs. “It would have happened anyway. At least this way he doesn’t have to deal with all the guilt and shame.”

“Or you could have just let him be the bad guy.”

“Everyone already thinks I’m a bitch; what’s one more thing?” She sighs dolefully. “But it still fucking sucks.”

I shake my head. “You whining about it all the time doesn’t mean you love him more than I love her.”

“I never said that.”

“Well then, what do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to be mad!” She throws up her arms in frustration. “I want you to cry, or like, punch your fist through a wall.”

“Why?” I ask, shaking my head at her. I can’t understand her logic. “What good would that do?”

She crosses her arms, hugging herself. “It would make me feel less alone.”

I hate seeing her like this, sad and raw and small. She’s supposed to be sharp and feisty and sizzling.

Without warning, I pounce on top of her, flipping her on her stomach and smothering her body with mine. I nuzzle the spot where her neck meets her ear that always makes her shiver.

“What the hell, Ollie?” she yelps, her voice muffled by the pillow. She squirms under me as I press into the backs of her thighs. Her fidgeting slows, becoming more controlled, as she grinds up in slow torturous circles. Distracting her with sex might not be a complex plan, but it is effective. And it’s a hell of a lot more enjoyable than banging on like she does.

Keeping her pinned, I grab a condom, then hover at her entrance, waiting, giving her the chance to push me away if she wants to. She shudders as I run my tongue along the shell of her ear. “Oh my God, okay, I get it, you’re a good guy, Jesus Christ. Stop being so damn sensitive and put it in already—”

I thrust into her roughly, if only so she’ll shut up. It works, her complaining interrupted by a moan.

If I were like Cleo, played the kinds of games she played, I would fuck her hard, get her to the point where she was right on the edge, and stop. I’d take care of myself and leave her wanting. But I get much more satisfaction when we’re both having fun, so I reach my hand in between the bed and her body, nudging it between her legs and sliding my fingers over her clit. She’s dripping wet, turned on from teasing me.

I felt what she did with the rune the last time, and this time I cast one of my own. But I don’t jump straight to Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz. Instead, I cast Perthro Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a vertical stem and outward-pointing upper and lower sections, representing a cauldron. perthro, feminine mysteries, asking her body to give up its secrets, taking my time to draw them out of her.

Soon she’s panting underneath me, her anxiety about Wes and Bailey dimmed if not extinguished.

CLEO

We were alone for a year.

Lizzie moved away while we stayed in our room, surrounded by things from our girlhood. Trapped in her dollhouse.

Magic was like a plant; it needed nurturing and care. A familiar without a witch could flourish, happy and free in the sunlight. Or they might have become wild and overgrown, twisted and warped. But either of those would be better than to wither and die from negligence.

It was Tripp who made the first move toward reconciliation.

He found me in the leather armchair in the sunny spot on the top floor of the library. He squatted on the ugly patterned carpet in front of me so he could be at my eye level. The sun silhouetted him, its beams reflecting off the back of his head and casting a golden halo around him. He looked like an angel come to save me; he was a snake come to tempt me.

“I miss you.”

I eyed him warily.

“You shouldn’t say that. Lizzie wouldn’t like it.”

“She misses you too.”

I crossed my arms, looking away from him, out the window.

“She hates me.”

He didn’t deny it, but he did stroke my hand. I wanted to snatch it away, but it had been so long since anyone touched me, I couldn’t help the back of my throat vibrating with pleasure.

“We all hate part of ourselves. But I love all of her.”

He stood and lifted my hand as if to help me up. As if I should have been standing too.

“Come home with me.”

Their new place was a two-bedroom apartment in a brand-new high-rise downtown. I sat in the armchair of their catalog-perfect Pottery Barn living room set while they sat together on the pristine cream-colored couch across from me. It didn’t fit her at all.

“How would it work?”

I blurted out the question in the middle of her spiel on the challenges of furniture delivery. The small talk was making me anxious. Tripp’s eyes crinkled with warmth.

“It would be like before. The three of us.”

Lizzie’s smile faltered, just for a second. She squeezed his hand.

“But only for magic.”

So, not entirely like before. Tripp nodded in agreement.

“Like our sister.”

The deal hadn’t improved since the last time we’d talked, but my condition had far deteriorated. So had hers. This time we weren’t in a position to turn it down.

A different familiar would have left, found another witch more deserving. The magic might not be as potent, but it could still be comfortable. Not all magic had to be passionate.

But in this life, there would only be Lizzie. I was wasting away without her. And she was fading without me. Her eyes glistened.

“I missed you so much, Cal. It’s like it physically hurts sometimes.”

My heart ached to hear her say it.

I wake up with a heavy heart, a melancholy that threatens to drown me, deeper and stranger than the existing char of misery from being without Wes. I’ve been napping since Ollie left, his Perthro Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a vertical stem and outward-pointing upper and lower sections, representing a cauldron. perthro’s unintended residual magic filling my head with odd dreams.

Before I leave the shed, I take off the choker. I only let myself wear it here. Cat doesn’t wear it out either, not since he gave it to us. It would send him mixed messages, like there might be some chance at reconciliation, which there isn’t. I didn’t decimate myself so everything could go back to the status quo. I shouldn’t wear it at all, but I have very few things to take pleasure in these days. And when have I been one to choose the emotionally healthy option?

It’s still hard to put it down. The style is perfectly me, a little goth, a little ornate, pretty but not overly delicate. The weight of the locket between my clavicle is a sweet kind of torture—proof we still belong to him, but also a reminder of what we had and what we gave up.

Missing Christmas together was a surprisingly bitter pill to swallow. I had an awesome gift planned for Wes. An Irezumi tattoo artist we follow is visiting Boston from Japan, and I booked one of her few available appointments for him. I liked the idea of Cat in the style of Tora—the Japanese tiger—on his back, over his liver, but I was going to let him choose. I even flirted with the idea of getting one myself, something tiny somewhere hidden like my inner thigh. But I never told him, so as far as Wes knows, I planned fuck all, another example of how I was a shitty girlfriend.

I walk briskly through the alley even though I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t have work today, but I really need to get out. I could go to the mall, but everything’s still festooned with all things merry and bright, and I am not in that kind of mood these days. My vibe is more stand on the docks gazing broodily out to the ocean, but I can’t deal with the windchill. I’ll probably end up at a dive bar, although the memory of my last bar encounter still makes me nauseous.

As I near the street, the hair on the back of my neck stands, my skin prickling. As if someone’s watching me. I turn, holding my breath—but no one’s there.

Something rustles from the trash cans. My lungs ache, but I can’t seem to will myself to breathe. A shape emerges.

It’s a skunk. Just a stupid beady-eyed little skunk. It stares at me, unblinking. It’s unnerving. Alarm bells—make that sirens—scream through every inch of my body.

“Leave me alone.”

I must be crazy, talking to a skunk. Except it’s not a skunk. I know that, indisputably. It’s not like me and Ollie either—not a familiar. I don’t think it’s even an imp. It’s something else. Something worse.

You know me.

I back away slowly as I pull my phone out. The first number I dial goes straight to voicemail. It’s a sign of how freaked out I am that I don’t even pause before I hit the call button on the next person.

“Cleo?”

Bailey’s greeting is a mix of surprise and confusion. She probably didn’t even know I had her number.

“Is Ollie with you? His phone’s off.”

I don’t take my eye off the skunk, using my free hand to feel behind me and make sure not to knock into anything.

“No—I thought he was with you.”

She says it archly, like she knows what we’ve been doing in the shed and she does not approve.

My heart sinks when I hear Wes’s voice in the background as he enters whatever room she’s in, asking her if she wants to grab lunch.

Your witch has abandoned you.

The sound goes muffled as she replies—I think she’s covering the mouthpiece.

“Cleo? Are you alright?”

Bailey’s back, and sounding worried now, as she should be. But Wes can’t know that. The last thing I need is him charging out here trying to rescue me or something. That’s exactly what it wants.

I want what you want.

I try to keep my voice neutral when I reply to Bailey, do my best to avoid getting high-pitched. They probably aren’t even two hundred feet away. If I screamed, they would hear me.

“Stay in the house until Ollie gets home. Order takeout or something.”

“What? Why? What’s happening?”

In the background, I hear Wes’s voice again.

“Is she okay? Where is she?”

I hang up before he can take the phone from her.

The thing starts toward me, and I back up fast, hitting a trash can. I stumble, falling on my ass, and scramble backwards, crab walking, never taking my eyes off it. I find a glass bottle on the ground and hurl it at the skunk. The glass smashes right next to it, showering it with shards of pale green. It doesn’t even flinch.

“Stop!”

My hand scrapes against a surface and I trace Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa—Cat likes Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa, ice; it’s a strong rune; we know it well. I will the skunk to stop, to freeze, to surrender. I wish I had practiced more, or let Ollie carve me my own set of pocket runes when he offered. But all I have is my fingers in the dirty snow.

It makes a strange clicking sound from the back of its throat—is it laughing at me?

You would use your magic? Against me?

I shudder, willing myself to turn—Cat would be better in this situation; Cat has been fighting longer than me; Cat can channel the runes better; Cat knows how to handle these things. This is what Cat has been worried about with the extra patrols, looking for all the nots. Because this is definitely not a skunk.

But I can’t turn—I’m stuck in this form.

Frozen.

A sour taste coats my tongue. It reflected the power of my own rune to trap me.

You should know better.

I try to fight my traitorous rune, push everything I have into it—which isn’t much; I’m still weak from Wes draining me. I shouldn’t have let him do that, and now my stubbornness really is going to kill me.

A chill creeps over me, a bone-numbing iciness that seeps into my joints, into my veins. With the cold comes an awareness that it’s my Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa, twisted again to a new purpose: literally freezing me. When the ice reaches my heart, I gasp, a rasping, painful inhale that grates at my throat because I can’t breathe—I can’t think. I can’t anything. My heart has stopped.

Your frozen heart.

I panic, an internal frenzy that opposes my forced external stillness. I’m in cardiac arrest—I probably only have a few seconds before I lose consciousness, and a few minutes before I die. It strikes me as kind of funny, in that ironic is-now-really-a-great-time-for-jokes kind of way, that I know this because of the pet CPR class I had to take for work. If only they had covered what to do when you’re the patient.

That’s when my fight or flight kicks in—I plan to do both.

I might be hurt, but I’m strong, and more importantly, I’m stubborn. I can free myself. What is the point of being a fuckin’ magical being if I can’t? I just need a little more magic. I reach for it—

The sweet sharp scent of cut grass, damp from morning dew, invades my senses, even though I can’t inhale. Ollie, or at least his magic, answers my call. Rushing to my aid. I falter before his magic finds me.

It’s watching me, calculating. As if it knows what I’m doing.

You remember.

I stop immediately.

I close myself off to Ollie’s magic, let it pass me, and recede, back to the source. If I use his magic, Ollie will know. He’ll scent the runes and he’ll know I’m in trouble. He could follow the trail right to me. And if I use too much, Ollie will be drained. He won’t be able to fight. He won’t be able to protect my witch.

I can’t let that happen.

Which means I’m going to die.

A deep calm envelops me as I accept that fact—or maybe it’s the hypothermia. Sensing my surrender, the thing releases me. I choke in the cool air as my blood starts to pump again. I suck in oxygen as I stand, preparing to run.

It’ll probably chase me. I hope that I can outrun it. That I have enough stamina to distract it long enough for Ollie to get home.

But instead of coming for me, it turns around. I watch like I’m still paralyzed as it starts to walk away.

I should chase it. My form might still be frozen, but my body isn’t anymore. I should hot-wire a car and run it over. It might not be susceptible to magic, but it’s inhabiting a body, and I can sure as hell fuck that up.

But all I do is stare, mouth gaping. It slowly ambles back down the alley, completely unconcerned about having its back to its enemy, until it finally rounds the corner and disappears.

This feels like a trick.

Its voice still echoes through my mind.

You will come to me. Willingly.

CAT

I prowl the yard. I imbue the wards again, retrace the runes of protection, though I suspect them to be useless against It.

Oliver arrives. The back door slams as he bursts through it and charges at me.

What happened?

I blink. Do we tell him about the Not-Skunk? What would Oliver do if he knew? He would want to fight. But this is a fight we cannot win.

Damn it, you’ve got Bailey in an absolute state, and Wes. The only reason he hasn’t gone berserk is that he can see you out here, so he knows you’re alive.

I prickle. It is not my fault he was not with his witch where he was supposed to be. I hiss.

C’mon, tell me what happened—

He takes a step toward me, hand outstretched. I swipe at him, drawing blood.

Bitch…

He sucks at the wound, glaring at me. I glare back. It is better for him to be angry than panicked. He cannot know the truth.

We must not forget; he is not our partner. He is not our friend.

It is becoming harder and harder to ignore. The offer is tempting. But the price is too high.

OLLIE

I roll onto my stomach, stretching out across Elliott’s bed. It’s only a box spring and mattress on the floor, with no headboard or frame, but it’s comfortable enough. A whole room to myself until the next school term starts, it should be paradise.

But it turns out I don’t like sleeping alone.

With four rowdy students as occupants, the house usually features a constant soundtrack, even in the middle of the night: people talking, the TV playing, beer cans opening; thumping music, thumping beds. But now that everyone’s gone, the house is eerily silent. My ears prick at every little noise, the wind against the windows, the low hum of the electrical lines, some small animal rummaging through the bins.

I find myself missing Cleo’s tiny cot. And dare I say, I might even miss her. Not enough to seek her out, not after what she pulled earlier.

There’s a creak on the landing and my head snaps towards the door. Two columns of black shadow shift in the gap beneath it. A pair of feet.

“You can come in,” I say. The door opens, and Bailey slips inside.

She sits at the foot of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She looks like a little girl in her pigtails and pink reindeer pajamas. I sit up too, so my back is resting against the stark white wall perpendicular to her.

“What’s wrong?”

She drops her forehead to her knees so she doesn’t have to look at me. “I kissed him…”

“Bailey,” I admonish.

“I know,” she moans. “It’s so bad. He and Cleo just broke up. He’s heartbroken and confused. The last thing he needs is me complicating things.”

“I don’t care about what he needs,” I grumble. “He’s not who you should be with.”

“Who would you prefer?”

I give her a pointed look. She ducks her head, cheeks flushing. She has to know how I feel about her, but she won’t acknowledge it.

“Someone who doesn’t drain their familiar,” I say, letting her off the hook.

“He made a mistake…,” she says quietly, picking at the cotton nubs on Elliott’s pilling bedsheets. “People do that. And then they learn from them and get better. He’s absolutely gutted about it. He’s a wreck.”

“I don’t trust him.”

She clenches her jaw. “Well, I don’t trust her. But that hasn’t stopped you.”

I lift a shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s not serious with her. It’s just sex.”

Bailey purses her lips. “Nothing’s just sex.”

“Not for you,” I say. “But this isn’t about you.”

“Isn’t it?” She raises her chin at me. “Wes was wrong when he said Cleo could have done it with anyone. She picked you on purpose. She didn’t just want to hurt Wes; she wanted to hurt me too.”

I scowl. This again. The annoying part is,

they’re right

“I know, okay? Cleo picked me for every reason except me.”

Sensing my irritation, she sighs. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pick a fight. It’s just… I miss you. I feel like we don’t talk anymore. Not properly, about the things that count.”

Blood rushes in my ears. I have to tell her. I should have already. I swallow hard. “You know my nightmares?”

She nods. How many nights have I snuck into her room to curl up at the foot of her bed in my dog form?

“They weren’t nightmares. They were memories.”

I tell her everything. I start with the imps since she already knows I saw Cat gut one, that first day. Bailey’s seen the wards on the front door, but now I tell her how they’re all over the house, and the property line, but the imps seem to be getting past them. The more I talk, the deeper her frown becomes.

“How long have you known?” she asks. “About being my dad’s familiar?”

“I’ve suspected for a while,” I confess. “But until we met Cleo, I didn’t have anyone else to compare experiences with.”

Her face falls, and I can read the thought on her face as clearly as if she said it out loud. You told Cleo, but not me.

“Wes was right when he said you and she have a connection we can’t really understand. As familiars.” She doesn’t look disdainful like Wes did, or jealous. She looks sad. “I wish you could talk to me, but if you can’t, I suppose I’m happy you have her…”

There is one last thing I haven’t discussed with either of them.

“Have you ever noticed…” I start. I’m not sure I want to finish the question.

“Noticed what?”

“How Cleo and Wes smell? Their magic, I mean,” I rush on.

“Wes always smells like dried tobacco, or a campfire, but in a nice way.” She shakes her head, laughing at herself. “It’s like what they put on the labels of male-targeted candles. You know I hate cigarettes, but somehow, I love how he smells.”

Her eyes flick up to Elliott’s singular poster, a huge black-and-white photo of four nuns clustered together, lighting a phallic-looking glass pipe.

“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly that. It’s just, in the park earlier, that smell…” I flare my nostrils, summoning an olfactory memory. A sharp but not unpleasant whiff of sulphur. The exact scent of Cleo and Wes’s magic. “I think Cleo was drawing on my magic, sort of like you do in a spell.”

“Can she do that? You weren’t even together.” She shivers, but I’m not sure if it’s from the thought or just the drafty old house. Normally I would tuck her into my side, keep her warm with my body heat, but I settle for throwing the twisted duvet over her lap. She burrows into it gratefully. “And… why would she need it?”

“I don’t know. All she’d say was that she wanted a couple of hours of peace to wander around town without running into any of us.”

Specifically, Bailey and Wes.

It’s completely illogical. But as she pointed out to me earlier this evening, our minds work in very different ways. When I feel trapped, I get out. When Cleo feels trapped, she locks everyone else with her and sets the room on fire.

Bailey flops against me, overwhelmed. “Wes doesn’t know about any of it, he would have told me. But he suspects Cleo’s keeping something big from him.” Then she tilts her head up at me, scowling. “If I hadn’t come in here, would you have never told me either?”

“I didn’t want you to be worried for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. If I’m involved, I have a right to know.” She crosses her arms. “And as your best friend, if you’re bothered by something, you tell me. Always. And then we sort it together. I’m not some helpless damsel in distress. You don’t need to protect me.”

“I think it might literally be my job, as your familiar.” I stifle a smile. Despite the situation, for the first time in a while I finally feel like I can relax. “But you’re right. I’m sorry. I would have been livid if you had done the same to me.”

“I know we agreed no more magic until things were better between them, but what if that never happens?”

“You want to do the memory spell again.”

“It feels like it’s all connected. Cleo’s secrets, your past lives. And whatever killed my parents… it killed you too. What if it could happen again?” She looks distressed. “We have to find out what happened.”

I wipe my hand over my face. She’s right, but we can’t do it alone. “Then we have to convince Cleo.”

CLEO

The crescent moon leers at me through a tear in my paper window covering, a wide grin that seems brighter with every passing hour. I’m not tired, but I’m deep under the covers, doing what I do best—ignoring my problems and hoping they go away on their own. One in particular.

I’ll always find you.

There’s a knock on the shed door.

“Ollie, you can come in—it’s unlocked.”

There’s no reply, just another knock. British politeness, or maybe it’s passive aggression—he normally just barges in through the doggie door. But he’s pissed about the supposed panic I put everyone in. They should be grateful. They don’t know shit about panic.

“It’s unlocked!”

The absolute last thing I want to do is leave my warm little cocoon to let the dog in. Although it’s kind of a relief he’s back—I could use the distraction. I get out of bed and yank the door open.

But it’s not Ollie.

Wes stands in the doorway, the night against his back. The dim light from the LED strip over the bed casts shadows on his face.

“Oh—hi!”

My voice comes out as a surprised squeak. His eyes flick over me, but if he notices the mismatched flannel pajamas I’m wearing are his he doesn’t comment on it. I step back to let him enter. He looks around, unable to hide his curiosity.

“So, this is the infamous shed.”

I give him a wry half smile as I glance up behind me at the tiny room.

“It’s impressive, I know.”

I don’t know what he was expecting; it’s not that bad. I thrifted some vintage quilts that I’m using as wall hangings, which double as insulation. It’s a little more cottage core shabby chic than I’d like, but it’s cozy-ish.

There’s a pile of clothes in the corner that aren’t mine. We notice it at the same time. A thick green fleece, silvery-gray joggers, chunky white crew socks, and an almost brand-new Patriots baseball cap—things that Wes would never wear.

He holds up the paper bag in his hand.

“I brought you food. Uh, leftovers, from Christmas dinner. Because you—Cleo—didn’t get to eat…”

“Thanks…”

I take the bag, which is so full the handles don’t even touch, and set it on my dresser.

“There’s some other stuff in there, some Chinese food, and something from the kebab place. In case you didn’t want…”

To eat Bailey’s cooking. It’s funny how the things left unsaid are the loudest.

“I know you don’t want me in here, but I had to make sure you were okay.”

I am so cosmically not okay it isn’t even funny.

“I’m fine.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his lips puckering in the way that they do when he’s working himself up to something.

“Did something happen today?”

I pause, considering my reply—I can’t tell him. He’d want to figure out what the skunk monster wants, as if that would help us outsmart it. That would be worse.

Hurt him.

“It’s none of your business what happens to me anymore.”

He flinches as my words land.

“Because we’re broken up?”

“Exactly.”

He looks sad but resigned.

“Or because I hurt you.”

“I hurt you first, remember?”

I say it like it’s a good thing, something to be proud of.

“You did. You broke my fucking heart, and I wanted you to feel as bad as I did. But that was a beyond screwed-up way to do it. You could have died.”

His face twists with a silent follow-up: Why didn’t I let him stop?

“Figured I deserved it.”

His eyes are shrewd as he circles another idea. Not something new, that’s not his style. Something he’s been percolating on for a while, somewhere all his questions have been leading him to.

“You wanted me to follow you at the party. You wanted to get caught with him. But why? What aren’t you telling me?”

I blanch. He knows me as well as he knows himself, because I’m his mirror. The reflection of his worst flaws. Which means—

“What aren’t you telling me? Why are you really here?”

He deflates. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to know:

Absolution.

He isn’t here to hear my confession; he’s here to give his own.

It was bound to happen eventually; isn’t this inevitability what drove me in the first place? But I’m still not prepared for the rage and disappointment I feel to have it confirmed.

“Oh yeah, you’re really heartbroken, aren’t you?”

He has the decency to look guilty.

“I was—I am. It was just a kiss. She’s been helping me…”

Just a kiss.

This is her fault.

We were fine before she came. We were happy—mostly. Yes, we were also deeply unhappy sometimes, but when we were good it was perfect. Now we’re nothing at all.

“Classic Bailey, always helping. What else did she help you with?”

Invoking her is all it takes to break him. He takes two furious steps toward me and my heart leaps, not from fear but from ardor. I missed this.

“Fuck you, you can be pissed at me all you want, I deserve it, but not about her. You think I don’t know you and Ollie are still hooking up? You think I can’t tell when you’ve fucked him, when he slinks back in the house trying to hide his smug smile?”

His nostrils flare; I can feel his hot breath on my cheek. He’s inches from my face, glaring down at me.

“It’s funny, you’re usually so loud, but I’ve never heard a peep from in here—doesn’t he make you whimper like I do? Make you beg? Do you not scream when you cum for him?”

My stomach clenches at the comparison. It is different with Ollie. Being with Ollie is like racing through a playground, a mindless charge that leaves you breathless and giddy and clutching at your side. Sex with Wes is a sweet treacly torture; it overwhelms the senses, makes your jaw ache. I see the angry glint in his pupils as he waits for my retort. I don’t back away—but he does.

“Fuck. I said I wouldn’t do this. All our bullshit. Hurting each other.”

A dangerous little spark flares within me, an unexpected glimmer of hope.

“That’s why you’re telling me about Bailey? You want to hurt me? Mission accomplished. Are you happy now?”

I reach up, place my palm on his damp cheek. I am a coward and I am weak; two minutes with him is enough to erode all my hardened resolve. I lean forward, closing the distance between us. Then I do what I’ve been dying to do every minute of every day since the last time we were together.

I kiss him.

His skin is cool from the air outside, and his lips taste like the salt from his tears, or maybe mine. I bunch my hands in the soft cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer, and for a second he lets me. I murmur against his lips.

“It’s fine… I get it. You were angry, you kissed her. We’re even now.”

He tears away from me.

“It’s not a fucking game! There’s no score.”

He takes a deep breath, shaking his head.

“Except we’re both losers.”

He’s wrong; it is a game. But he isn’t a player—he’s the umpire.

She wins.

“You’re picking her over me.”

I see the decision as it lands on his face, a knife to my chest. I made a mistake. He didn’t come here knowing. I could have changed his mind. He hadn’t chosen before, but now he has.

“It’s easy with her. Simple. Straightforward. No games. I can let my guard down. We don’t hurt each other for fun.”

There is nothing fun about any of this. It killed me to do what I did. Everything I do, I do for him. I bare my teeth in a snarl.

“You’re the one who hurt me on purpose. You liked it.”

Back to where we started. Ollie would hate this; he’d say we’re chasing our tails. But some things can’t be torn open. Sometimes you need to strip the rotten layers if there’s any hope of saving the core.

“I know I did. I hate myself for it. Why would you want to be with someone like that?”

“I don’t want to be with someone; I want to be with you. We belong together. We were made for each other. She doesn’t understand you like I do. She won’t love all the worst parts of you like me.”

He sighs, all the fight leaving his body. Tired but resolved.

“I don’t want her to.”

My voice becomes small.

“Do you really not like me anymore?”

He wipes a hand over his face.

“You know I fucking love you, but I don’t like me when I’m with you. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be better.”

His words reverberate through me, echoing through time and space like some cosmic déjà vu. He mistakes my shudder for a shiver. He lifts his hand to my chest, buttoning the top two buttons of his pajama shirt that I’m wearing. So gentle, so caring.

“But you won’t be better for me?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. I know him better than I know myself.

“So it’s all my fault, I’m the bad guy, I’m the one that makes you this way?”

“We bring out the worst in each other. Mutually assured destruction. You deserve better than this. We both do.”

And then he delivers his death blow.

“I think it would be healthier if we went no contact. I don’t think you should come to the house for a while. You or Cat.”

He steps back to the door. The conversation is over, and he gets to go back to the sweet comfort of Bailey’s arms while I’m left out here alone.

He drags the janky door closed behind him, shutting me in. Shutting me out.

I stand in the middle of the room, breathing deeply. Counting, as if I’m counting his steps back to the house. Back to her.

One, he’s on the paver outside my door. Two, he’s past the flower bed, dormant for the winter. Three, four, five, he’s still close enough he’d hear me if I called.

I stuff a pillow over my face to muffle my scream.

It’s not fair. He should be mine. I made a mistake. I pushed him to her. I shouldn’t have let him go.

I run to the door and throw it open. The yard is empty. I was too slow, I always am. I don’t know what else I can do.

Let me help you.

OLLIEDOG

normally wes does not like me, but when i am olliedog it is easier for him to forget

who could not like olliedog

normally i do not really like wes either. but bailey likes him. and i like bailey. and bailey and i are friends again so i am happy. but wes and cleo are not

and it is very lonely to not be friends with your best friend

i share my ball with him. i make Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. wunjo on the ball. it is not my best rune but a good rune

he asks do you want to go on a walk

i love walks. and bailey has gone on her own walk. so i walk with him

he doesnt talk while he walks. his pace is fast his shoulders are hunched. he is trying to walk away from all the thoughts in his head

i try to make him run. running is an even better way to make the thoughts be quiet. and he should know how to run. cleocat has not been training him very well

he doesnt run so i walk next to him

we walk by school and the big grass patch is mostly empty

he pauses by some smokers and breathes in deeply. they ask want a cigarette but he says no. i quit. he walks to the grass

he throws my ball. and i bring it back. and he throws it again. and again and again

he holds my ball and says i know we arent really friends and our situation is weird but i respect that you always look out for bailey. and cleo

he is still holding my ball and not throwing it and still talking. i want you to know id never hurt her

wes and cleo love to talk about things. and their feelings and each others feelings. i dont. mum says actions speak louder than words and thats much better than talking about feelings i think

and anyway i want him to throw my ball again. i bark. he smirks okay good talk. and finally throws my ball again

a girl sees us and tells him your dog is a good boy and he says he is not my dog but he is a good guy. he pats my head. his hand is uncomfortable when he pats

which is funny so i put my head more in his hand. pat pat pat. he wipes his hand on his jeans afterwards. which is a little bit rude so i wipe my head on his jeans too

we walk home slower in nice quiet

CLEO

Gilly won’t stop calling. Since I still won’t answer, she’s taken to sending voice notes, long, rambling ones full of shit I don’t care about. I hoard them to play over my headphones while I work, like white noise.

“… so she got everyone board games for Christmas, which is something none of us wanted, and forced us to play them and was unsurprisingly militant about the rules and would get mad if we got up to get a snack or make a drink, like oh my God your dumb fiancé takes fifteen minutes to decide on every move trust me I’m not going to miss anything… I wish you had been there. You would have hated it. You still owe me like, six replies by the way…”

It’s almost as if she’s here.

“I knew you were listening to my messages!”

I choke on my soda. She is here, in the flesh, holding my phone in front of her and looking somehow both indignant and triumphant at the same time.

I launch myself at her, wrapping her in a viselike hug. She laughs as she squeezes me back. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with her, sugar and spice and fake strawberry lip gloss.

“Is this real? How are you here?”

“You like, kamikazed your love life. You really thought you were getting away with ghosting me after that? Yeah, right.”

“You came back for me?”

“Yeah, bitch, of course I did! I was worried about you.”

She pulls back to look me in the eyes.

“You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. She accepts my answer easily, joining me behind the counter. She starts quietly opening the packages I haven’t gotten to yet. My stomach clenches.

“He kissed her.”

Her eyes widen.

“Bailey? Like, before? That’s why you…?”

“No. After. A day or two ago.”

She bites her lip.

“Asshole!”

Sweet Gilly, always on my side, even when she knows I am totally and completely in the wrong. I knew she would be, which is part of why I’ve been ignoring her.

Somewhere in the floorboards, an imp snickers. Watching over me for its master.

you don’t deserve her

I don’t. I burst into tears.

I knew I had been lonely, but I guess I didn’t realize how much. Ollie is a good physical distraction—he’s easy to be around, objectively easy to look at… and fine, I don’t hate him. But it’s not the same. For everything Ollie knows about me that I can’t tell Gilly, he still doesn’t get me like she does. And the only other person who does is the one person I can’t talk to.

Gilly slides us down so she’s sitting with her back against the lower cabinets and I’m lying on the floor with my head in her lap. I clutch at my chest, above my heart, desperate to alleviate the pain.

“It hurts… I didn’t know it would hurt like this.”

She strokes my hair back, gently scratching my scalp with her acrylics, soothing me with soft murmurs.

“Do you want a Xanax?”

She grabs a bottle of alprazolam from the shelf next to her and shakes it. I laugh, a gurgled chortle as I swallow my snot.

“I’m sorry I ruined your winter break.”

“Oh my God, you didn’t at all. Jeannie was driving me crazy. And what New Year’s party was I going to find in butt fuck Minnesota anyway?”

“You wanna be my date?”

“Obvi. We can get dressed up and look superhot and go to a club in the city, find some cute guys to flirt with… or we could stay in, watch a show? Or! We could egg his house. Whatever you want.”

“What about Elliott?”

“What about him?”

“He lives there too.”

“He’s in California for another week, so I’m sure Wes will have cleaned up whatever we do before he gets back. But honestly, even if he didn’t, I highly doubt Elliott would notice.”

I finally feel myself enough to rise to sit next to her, knees to my chest, arms wrapped around them. She gives me a sideways glance.

“So… don’t kill me for asking, but…”

I hold my breath, waiting for the rest of the question. Of course she’s going to ask why. Any sane person would. When she does, will I tell her?

“… was Ollie any good? Because he looks like he could go either way, like either he’s really good, or he’s never had to work for it so he’s totally clueless.”

Relief washes over me, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

“He’s good.”

For Gilly, I can at least admit this much about Ollie. In a different life, where there wasn’t Wes or Bailey or runes or any magic at all, I can see us being something. That version of me would have a little less baggage, be a little freer, and have told fewer lies. We’d still be an unlikely pair, but we’d have fun. Maybe he’d bring out the good in me. Before it was too late.

it’s too late

“Really good.”

She puffs out her cheeks.

“Thank God. There is hope.”

“I mean, for a dog guy.”

I wash my face in the bathroom and hold a damp paper towel under my eyes, trying to reduce the swelling. I hear the door open and close, then a murmured greeting. Gilly’s reply is hostile.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you—”

I already know who it is. Fresh-cut grass and sprinklers in the spring. I dry my skin and wipe away the running mascara.

“For someone who puts out such ‘girl’s girl’ energy, you didn’t waste any time swooping in on someone else’s boyfriend.”

Gilly steps in front of me protectively as I walk into the reception area. I see the effort it takes Bailey not to come to her own defense. She swallows her retort, takes the high road.

“Can we talk? Privately?”

“Fine.”

I ignore Gilly’s loaded look and grab my jacket and lead Bailey out back, right next to the staircase down to where Ollie fucked me last week. I fish around in my pocket for my cigarettes and light one. Why waste a break? She might have taken smoking from Wes, but she can’t take it from me.

“Ollie told me everything.”

everything

I seriously doubt that.

“He told me you’ve been sleeping together, if that’s what that look is for. But he also told me that you guys think you were our parents’ familiars, that you died in the fire too. He said you tried to use his magic, when you weren’t even together. How did you do that?”

I stand corrected. Evidently, Ollie told her a whole lot.

“What do you want?”

She straightens, pushing her shoulders back, raising her chin. The stance suits her; she’s all cheekbones and determination. Like she’s steeling her nerve, gathering her courage to face off against some great opponent, when the only person in front of her is little old me—and when I say ‘little,’ I mean she literally has half a foot on me.

“I want to make a deal.”

a deal with the devil

To her, I’m as good as the devil.

“Help me find out what went wrong on Beltane. Do the memory spell with us again.”

I absolutely won’t, but my interest in what she thinks she has to trade is piqued.

“What’s in it for me?”

She takes a sharp, jerking breath.

“If you do it… I’ll leave. I’ll go home, and you never have to see me again.”

Fire burns in my eyes as I take in what she’s offering.

“You’d give up your coven?… Wes?”

For a moment, she looks torn. But it wouldn’t be a good deal if she didn’t sacrifice something valuable. Something she knows I want.

“Yes—but you have to leave Ollie alone too. Once we go, you don’t talk to him anymore.”

“No big loss for me there.”

She watches me carefully, her expression identical to the one I’ve seen on Ollie countless times, when he’s about to call my bluff.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Does Wes know you’re here?”

“No. Neither does Ollie.”

“I don’t think they’d like you using them as bargaining chips.”

She blushes, her brown cheeks brightening prettily. I hate that everything she does is pretty.

“I’m not using them.”

The subtext is obvious: she doesn’t use people—not like me.

“Doesn’t matter. The guys will never agree, anyway. Ollie banned us from doing magic.”

“Ollie already agreed.”

Of course he did.

“Well, Wes made it pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. No thanks to you.”

I turn to head back in, leave her out in the cold for once, when she calls after me—

“If I can convince him, will you do it?”

I wonder how she thinks she’d convince him. Ollie would always try to use logic to argue, but this isn’t that sort of game. She’d have to use an emotional appeal, but something tells me she has too much pride to resort to tears. Or else she knows that he likes her enough that he’d do it just because she asked him to. He probably would. A lump starts to form in my throat; it burns when I try to swallow it.

Bailey is driven by a single purpose. She thinks it’s the pursuit of the truth, but actually it’s—

the hollow space between the ribs

the echo in the stomach

the thickness in the lungs

The excited chatter of the imps is so loud in my head it’s hard to get the words out. I look back.

“Finding out what happened won’t make you feel whole.”

Her eyes flash angrily. She recognizes the rejection of her bargain.

“As if you know anything about being whole.”

I can make you whole.

CAT

I met It in the woods beyond the boundary of the property, past the protections of the wards. No one noticed me slip away. Perhaps if they had paid more attention, they could have saved us all.

The Lord of Wild Things had many forms. This time It had the head of a stag, on the torso of a man. It was clothed only in leaves. With this body, It made a mockery of the celebrations.

I dropped the shrew I held in my mouth at Its feet, an offering. It did not need my paltry quarry, the Horned God was the embodiment of the hunt, but to not bring anything would be an affront. And this was only a token, a promise of what was to come.

It towered above me, the branches of antlers casting jagged shadows over me.

My May Queen.

It goaded me with this title. We were the queen of nothing except misery and anguish.

It is a sin what they have made you.

I shrank under Its scrutiny. It was right. We were a shell of ourself.

How they mistreat you.

How they insult you.

We were great once. We were a queen.

You have made them rich. Strong. Powerful.

At your own expense.

Everything they had, they had taken from us.

I gave you a gift of strength,

But you let them make you weak.

How could It not see that everything we had was not ours to keep?

This cannot continue.

I could not live like this any longer.

You are pathetic.

It was callous, but It was honest. It was my only friend. My constant companion, where my witch had abandoned me.

You must take your power back.

You must show them.

All of them.

But what could I do? I was just one.

I will help you.

My eyes are open, but my mind is foggy. I am overwhelmed by the specter of words we never spoke, feelings that are not ours. It is hard to know what is from now and what is part of before.

In our grief, we are losing the definition between us, we are blending our minds, and with that our memories. Before there was My Wes, there was My Lizzie. Before there was Cleo, there was Calliope.

CLEO

I wake up shaking.

It all comes back to Bailey. Not his feelings for her, but what she was trying to do. What she was trying to discover. What she is going to find, with or without me.

They won’t forgive you.

But I will.

I reach for my phone, send a text. One single life-ruining word:

Deal.

The gates were chained shut with a heavy padlock to warn off intruders. But someone has taken bolt cutters to one of the links so the chain barely holds the two gates together, the padlock hanging impotently between them. Anyone could unravel it and stroll on in. I don’t bother—the gap is big enough that even Ollie will be able to squeeze through.

I stand outside the old house, staring up at our window—Calliope and Lizzie’s. Or where the window used to be. Now it’s a gaping hole between two blackened support beams. I suppress a shiver.

I guess even the best zip codes have haunted houses.

The windows and doors were all boarded up at some point, but enough wood has since been pried off the back door that it’s easy to slip in. Enterprising high school kids, probably, looking for a secluded place to party. This isn’t the type of neighborhood to tolerate the unhoused. It’s a wonder they let it get this bad—there must be a stack of complaints from town hall, hefty fines that will never be paid.

Inside, I use my shoe to brush away the worst of the debris where the living room used to be. Beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the floor, along with dead leaves and puddles of snow, melting in the beams of light that shine through where the roof should be. I look up at the blue, cloudless sky.

It would be sunny, on this darkest day.

I start to unpack my bag. I draw a circle of salt, big enough for the four of us to stand in. At its center, I place three pillar candles—dark blue, purple, and silver—and surround them with a wreath of sage and rosemary. I have some oranges too, which I nestle with the candles. A little homage to Bailey’s failed full moon setup. It’s all junk. Pageantry. We don’t need any of it.

In the distance, I hear the metallic clang of the gates and the soft crunching of a car on gravel. It fills me with relief, and utmost dread.

I steel myself and go outside to face my coven.

By the time I get around to the front door, the three of them are out of the car. They stand in a triangle on the driveway, Bailey at the apex. Her chin juts defiantly, as if daring the house to try and stop her. Ollie hovers by her right shoulder, her constant shadow. I wonder if she told him what she offered, and what she demanded in return. I wonder if he’ll miss me when it’s done.

Probably not.

I finally let myself look at Wes, and discover he’s been watching me. His sharp intake of breath when our eyes meet cuts into me, first blood. I came dressed for battle—all black, of course, and all mine. Nothing pilfered from Wes or Ollie, nothing that claims either of them. It’s also the first time I’ve worn makeup in days—thick winged eyeliner that elongates my eyes. My version of armor, and he knows it. I raise my brow.

“So much for no contact.”

He shrugs, feigning indifference, but I read him as if his thoughts were my own. He was resigned to coming here, for Bailey’s sake, but it annoys him that his heart still leaps when he sees me. My own is clawing its way out of my throat to reach him, blocking my airway, scratching at my flesh.

His eyes drift upwards, at the ruins behind me.

“Did it have to be here?”

He white-knuckles a crowbar—for the front door, but also to have something to hold on to.

“There’s a way in around back.”

I lead them through the tangle of dead weeds and step aside. Wes enters first; it’s his house, I guess. Ollie goes after, needing to personally evaluate the situation before risking Bailey’s safety. I grasp her wrist before she can duck through, digging in a little harder with my nails than I need to.

“It’s not too late to back out.”

She shakes her head obstinately.

“No. We’re doing this.”

“You sure? Think about what you’re giving up.”

That brooding dark-haired boy who drinks his coffee black like his soul; except it isn’t the darkness of infinite nothing, like a black hole. It’s exactly the opposite—he’s an inky pool of passion and poetry, the darkest of blues scribbled layer over beautiful layer.

She swallows, but her eyes glint fiercely.

“I’m sure.”

Damn her conviction.

I step past her, not checking to see if she’s following. She looks down at the damp-rotted floorboards warily.

“Is this safe?”

“The house won’t hurt you.”

Her eyes dart upwards, tracking the clawlike trails of soot that cover the walls, to where the ceiling would be—as if suddenly realizing a building could be a sentient thing.

We catch up to the guys, who stand rigid by my salt circle. Ollie surveys my altar, tongue pressing on the inside of his cheek. Bailey steps in between them and takes a lighter out of her pocket to light the candles, a hot-pink BIC that used to sit on the windowsill above Wes’s bed.

“Same spell as before?”

I shake my head.

“ ‘Come As You Are.’ Nirvana?”

I know Wes is familiar with Kurt Cobain’s oeuvre; the question is directed at the other two. Ollie shakes his head.

“ ‘Memoria, memoria’? Look who’s literal now.”

“It was Lizzie’s favorite.”

I realize what I’ve said too late, or maybe I did it on purpose. No point hiding now. Deep breath. I focus on Wes, remember what today is really about: him and me, and my final inquisition.

“Cat knew your parents. Before…”

I trail off, but Ollie picks up for me. This speech is old hat for him; he’s already given it to Bailey.

“We were part of their coven. Their familiars, in a previous life. We were in the fire—me and Cleo. What we saw before were our memories.”

“Not ours.”

My voice is sharp with warning. Panic floods my lungs, bleeding from my nose, bitter and tangy.

“They were a different version of us. She wasn’t me.”

Wes looks between us, but the accusation in his eyes is reserved for Bailey.

“You knew?”

She didn’t tell him. He expects it from me, but she was supposed to be different. She wasn’t supposed to keep secrets. He gives me a bitter look, like I corrupted her. She shrugs, unapologetic although not unsympathetic.

“It wasn’t mine to tell.”

Wes swallows hard, his hand twitching.

“You died with them? You were two of the seven?”

I bite my lip. I know the answer, but I shouldn’t.

“No. Tripp’s coven had seven witches and six familiars… but we don’t leave bodies behind. We just disappear.”

They stare at me. I twist my fingers together as I confess what I’ve done—at least recently.

“It was Cat blocking the first spell. I didn’t know at the time… it won’t happen again.”

Wes tilts his head as he looks at me, his gaze penetrating deep into my soul. My hollow empty universe–swallowing self.

“Cat knows something about Beltane she doesn’t want us to see. What is it?”

I shrink under his scrutiny. Ollie takes my shaking hand and squeezes it, giving me a nervous smile.

“Cat was probably trying to protect us… didn’t want us to have to relive the trauma.”

He tries and fails to suppress a shudder. He’s dreading the spell almost as much as I am. He knows how it ends. Bailey’s eyes glisten as she clocks it.

“Who could blame her, really?”

Her words are kind, but her voice is steely. She’ll let us all drown in torment before she gives up on the truth.

Wes looks at me with unexpected pity. Not because he thinks they’re right, but because he knows they aren’t. We’re different from them. We don’t keep secrets to protect each other from pain; we keep them to save ourselves. He’s afraid of what we’ll see too. We’re united, for one last time.

He holds my hand and turns us to the center of the circle. Another last, I think.

“Only one way to find out.”

He grips my fingers. This is the answer he’s been looking for. Why did you do it? Now he knows. I was running away from the truth. I don’t know the specifics of what Cat has been shielding me from, but I know it’s abysmally, horrifically, treacherously bad. He’ll never forgive me.

As we start to sing, I release the last of my defenses. I cringe at how easily our magic rises and melds with theirs, twining together like star-crossed lovers. It yearns for us to yield, command, and use it.

It craves.

It hungers.

I stood in the front garden, staring up at our window. Grief rolled off the house in waves, like even the foundation knew what we had lost.

The magic compels us to release the memories. Moments we have not lived in for so long. We want to resist, but Cleo is determined. Cleo has always been self-destructive, just like Calliope.

Lizzie looked like perfection in a white slip dress, glowing bright amidst the sea of green that the rest of the coven wore. Green was the color of Beltane; only the May Queen wore white. It wasn’t by accident that she stood out—Lizzie loved to be looked at.

In her hair, she wore a circlet of vines laced with white roses and hawthorn blossoms. We picked the flowers together that morning, gathering them with the first dew, and I wove them into a wreath, pruning each thorn carefully with rusty shears so they wouldn’t cut her like she did me.

Tripp took her hand in his and led her to a spot where the sun shone brightest, and the lawn was the lushest. He bore his own crown of leaves, two bone-white antlers protruding from each temple. He had stripped off his shirt some hours before; his chest was golden and smooth. Of course he was playing the Green Man to Lizzie’s May Queen.

I watched as he lay her in the grass. He worshiped her body with his mouth, and she stretched her spine languidly as her fingers twined through his hair. The flowers in her crown were being crushed under her and the satin of her dress was getting stained with dirty streaks as he pushed it up past her hips, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was being with him.

This was supposed to be a celebration, of spring, and love, and magic, and what was I if not those things?

I felt alone, so alone.

Not alone.

Never alone.

The flames surrounded us.

As Lizzie sank to the floor, I descended with her, my vision thick from smoke and sorrow. I wished I could hold her—

“Please, Lizzie—”

My fingertips reached for hers—

It did this to me.

You did this to yourself.

No. Not that.

We will never forgive ourselves.

OLLIE

Cleo, or Calliope, or I suppose it was Cat, ejects us from the memory before the fire really starts to hurt. The smell of smoke lingers in the room as the candles go out, stronger than the thin wisp that wafts from the extinguished wick. It sticks to the inside of my nostrils like tar, makes my skin prickle.

“You said Cat wouldn’t stop us this time,” Wes says.

Bailey stares her down. “You promised.”

“It hurts!” Cleo presses her hands to her heart, sinking to the floor like Calliope did before. “Didn’t you feel it, burning them?”

A chill goes down my spine.

On my tongue, I taste ash that isn’t in the air anymore. But I’m not in Calliope’s memories; I’m in my own. I’m watching Michael and Nina as they burn, and I’m burning with them. I can feel the flames on my flesh, the layers peeling off my bones. I see the raven flying overhead, diving at Calliope, screeching in anger. I’m pleading, I’m begging her to stop…

her

“You…,” I grasp, throat hoarse.

“Me?” Cleo’s eyes are wide and filled with dread. The same eyes that stared at us from the bonfire, the same eyes that stared at us through a different fire, that Beltane night.

“I remember…”

Her shoulders slump. She’s been waiting for this moment.

her

She was hiding from it, but she had to know that all she was doing was delaying the inevitable.

“I know what you did.”

My magic rises, seizing onto what’s left of the memory spell.

The day was for celebrating, but the night was for magic.

The coven gathered at sundown in the great hall of the castle. Under our feet, the slate tile gave way to a disc of thick glass, to best show off what lay beneath: the ground had been excavated to reveal seven massive slabs. A stone circle, over three thousand years old.

No wonder the castle hummed with power. At this proximity, the vibrations coming from the ancient monument were almost staggering. A huge metal basin sat in the middle, set with a teepee of wood: the base of a bonfire.

“Is that safe?” Nina asked, Ruth clucking in solidarity.

“Absolutely,” Tripp said. “This hall was designed to have an indoor fire.” He pointed up to the roof. The beams were interspersed with ceiling lanterns, a medieval solution to ventilation.

As he spoke, Calliope prowled the perimeter of the room, a ball of feral energy. People gave her a wide berth, despite her being easily the smallest in the group. She paused as she passed us. “You’re looking delicious tonight, Ruth.”

Ruth gave a nervous squawk, and while she didn’t quite shift, three white feathers floated softly to the floor around her.

I sniffed, frowning. The air was sweet and floral, but also rank, like fruit rotting on the tree. I leant close to Michael, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “Something’s off.”

His eyes searched the room, not finding anything amiss. “The wards will stop anything from getting out of hand.”

I reached out with my magic and tested the wards. The familiars had cast them when we first arrived, bind runes of protection around the perimeter of the property. Wards that kept prying eyes out, and evidence of our magic in. But something was different.

“We scrubbed the runes on the roof,” Tripp said, Calliope close to his ear. She must have felt my probing. “So, the smoke can escape, and the fresh air can enter.”

A small wave of calm washed over me. That made sense. The fire would be the centre of our magic; the smoke would carry some of that power with it and wouldn’t be able to cross the wards. It would build up in the rafters, eventually choking us.

I felt for the wards around the room and found them intact, stronger, even. Calliope imbued them today. To compensate for what they had removed from the roof, probably.

“I have a spell prepared,” Tripp announced. “It’s a purification spell, of sorts, to honour the spirit of Beltane. It asks for our enemies to be revealed to us.”

I wasn’t aware we had any enemies.

“Political rivals,” Michael murmured. “He wants to see who he needs to deal with at work.”

Of course, Tripp’s spell wasn’t altruistic; it was for personal gain, moving up in the corporate world.

There was movement by Calliope’s hip as she cast a rune. I relaxed as I felt the effects of her Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. wunjo, family. What better way of describing the bond of a coven? The rune asked for harmony, and promised rewards.

Why shouldn’t Tripp have something for himself? He and Elizabeth had already done so much for the rest of us. Last Beltane, it was Elizabeth who had come to the farm with the spell of fertility that helped Nina and Michael finally conceive. It was fair that this year would be their turn.

We began with a binding.

We renewed the spell that tied our magic together as one, making the coven’s magic more potent. Our scents entwined as we chanted, different but the same. Spicy amber and cinnamon mingled with syrupy sweetness, and red clay. I let our magic join the others, swept away in a circular river.

With that part of the ritual complete, Tripp’s spell blended seamlessly into the next intention. Show us our enemies, the magic asked, so we can face them with eyes open.

But when it came back around, when it passed through me again, it felt thin. It didn’t feel like it should. The intent of the magic was changing, twisting away from what our collective goal should have been.

I pulled away from the spell… or tried to. It held tight to my magic, like a rip current under a deceptively calm sea, dragging me down as if to drown me.

I could smell the coppery tang of blood in my nose, but when I touched my nostril it was dry. I reached for the wards on the edge of the room, the ones Tripp and Calliope didn’t scrub, and found them weakened and decayed. As if they had rotted from the inside. My body jerked: someone in the coven had betrayed us.

Let me in.

My eyes darted around the room. That voice, did anyone else hear it? From the panic in their eyes, it was clear they did. But it was too late. The whispered legends were true: the stones were a portal, and they were letting something in. Something our spell had invited.

I tried to call out, but my voice shriveled in my throat. I rasped for breath as a shock ran through my body… and as it left, it took my magic with it.

I was being drained. We all were.

Flames shot up seemingly from nowhere, running the circumference of the stone circle. We were surrounded, the border that was supposed to be our protection now our prison. The fire darted forward, and sideways, ripping through the group, isolating us from each other.

I locked eyes with Calliope, for only a second, and she seemed to glow, the magic a halo around her. Show us our enemies. Then I knew.

It was her.

I started towards her, moving slowly, like I was wading through water against the strongest current. And then I couldn’t move at all. My legs were frozen. As I twisted, I felt the paralysis traveling upwards, through my whole body.

From my other side, Michael cried out. I stopped struggling against the magic and focused all my remaining strength. I cast Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz, and called for its multiple layers of protection. The breaking of ties, to sever us from the coven’s binding and the spell that was draining us still. Literal hail, snow, sleet, and rain, to combat the fire. It was my strongest rune, but even this was difficult.

There was a crack as my Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz struck, giving us a moment of reprieve. Bertram seized the opportunity to shift to his familiar form, and took to the air. His long, pointed wings beat above the flames as he circled overhead, before diving through the fire at Calliope, claws and beak sinking into her skin before rising again, using the smoke to hide.

Following him, Ruth managed to shift. Ruthie lifted off the floor, her wings flapping laboriously to support the deadweight of her plump legs. She heaved herself upwards, following the smoke, towards those precious little gaps in the roof.

I turned my focus back to Calliope. She had already taken so much from us. I didn’t understand how. She was strong, but not more than all of us combined.

I needed to distract her, give Ruthie a chance to get away. If she could make it out, she could get help. I drew on Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. halagaz again, although its response was weak. But Calliope’s attention was wholly on Elizabeth and Tripp. She lay on the floor next to her witches, sobbing as her fire consumed them.

There was a squawk as Ruthie’s wings froze, her body falling to the ground. The smell of decay started to give way to something fresh and savoury.

It was only when I heard Nina’s strangled scream that I realised. Ruthie was trapped. Her feathers had burnt away almost completely; all that was left to cover her were the blackened stumps of her quills, jutting out like a porcupine. The flames licked at her flesh. Teasing her. Torturing her.

Calliope was cooking her alive.

CLEO

Ollie drags us back into the spell, and Cat loses control of the magic. This time we’re captive until the whole memory is complete. We let them see everything, much more than we had intended. We remember more than we wanted to.

Tripp’s gaze snapped to mine—he was the first to understand what was happening.

“Calliope. What have you done?”

I hope he appreciated the irony of the situation. There was a special kind of violence in having your own magic used against you. I would know. I used our magic to wield the fire like a lasso. Nothing burned unless I wanted it to.

I wanted it to.

I had laid my own runes, hidden in plain sight, as part of the wards. The fire runes, Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. kenaz and Nauthiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke crossed near the center by a shorter diagonal line, representing need. nauthiz, contained energy and self-preservation, that I’d twisted into pain and dependency and… flame.

I couldn’t see It yet, but I knew It was there.

I am always here.

It was always in my heart, but tonight It was in the room. Its figure was in the plumes of smoke and the harsh shadows the flames cast on the walls. Earlier, we used Its power to make the others amenable to Tripp’s spell. Only the tiniest amount, so small they couldn’t even taste it under all the other flavors in the air.

And now that I’d given It access to the coven—their magic—my side of the bargain was complete.

Not yet.

You must drain them for me.

Thanks to Tripp, I was bound to all twelve members of the coven, tied to their magic. He had seen how serving two witches had depleted me. He presented the binding to the coven to unify our magic, to make our spells stronger. The fact that we then had a deep supply of other familiar magic to draw from, even when the coven wasn’t gathered, was a happy side effect he didn’t bother to mention to them.

But I was also bound to It.

I was Its tether and tap. Through our tie, I fed It what I was taking. Let It taste the earth, the water, the air. Even the fire.

“Callie!”

Lizzie’s cry pulled me from my trancelike state. I dragged her to me, freeing her. She was shaking, terrified. I clutched her in my arms, stroking her hair.

“Shh, it’s okay… shh…”

I sketched Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa onto the floor. The fire receded. Time stopped, or at least paused. A simple rune shouldn’t have had the strength to do that, not at that scale, but none of my magic was simple anymore. Lizzie’s lip quivered.

“Are we going to die?”

I kissed her forehead.

“No. It’ll be like how it used to be. The two of us will be together again.”

Realization dawned on her face. She understood, finally.

“You’re doing this?”

“For us.”

She looked around the hall, where the coven was still frozen. They were not yet completely consumed by flames, but it was too late. There was nothing we could do for them. She knew this and accepted it. They were not her friends. They used her like they used me.

“What about Tripp?”

I looked at him, handsome and ambitious Tripp, who valued our magic. Valued me. Brought me back when Lizzie sent me away. Who loved all of Lizzie, even me. Tripp who gave us the baby.

Who took her love from you in the first place.

I wrenched my gaze away from Tripp’s paralyzed expression.

“No.”

“No?”

“No more sharing. You have to choose. Him or me. You can’t have us both.”

I couldn’t have them both, even if I wanted to. It wouldn’t allow me to.

She looked between me, her salvation, and Tripp, her end. My heart sank when I saw—it wasn’t even a choice.

“Him! I choose him—save him, Callie. Have him; leave me.”

The Lizzie I knew wouldn’t have picked Tripp, or anyone else. She would have picked herself. She would have picked me, for her own survival. But this Lizzie would truly die to save him. Somewhere somehow, without me noticing, she had changed.

“Please, Callie! If you’ve ever loved me at all—”

I let go of her, staring at her in dismay.

“How can you say that?”

She grabbed for my hands again, kissed them.

“No, no, of course I know you love me. And I love you; I always have; you know that, right, Cal?”

My heart lifted with hope. This was everything I’d been waiting for her to say.

“That’s why I know you’ll save him for me.”

Fool.

It helped me see the bitter truth—she didn’t mean any of it. She was only saying what she thought would get her what she wanted. Typical, manipulative Lizzie.

“I don’t want him.”

“I won’t live without him.”

Her chin was set. Calling my bluff. She thought I’d save them both.

I released my hold on time, and on her. I let my power flood Tripp; it took no effort, we were already so entwined. And then I pulled. His eyes widened and he let out a gasp as I drained him, completely. It wasn’t much. Tripp was never very strong by himself, and compared to the magic a familiar contained, it was almost nothing at all.

“Stop!”

Lizzie’s magic reached for mine and twisted through me, trying to drag me away from him. She thrust everything she had at me, debilitating herself to save him. My magic followed hers willingly, as it always has, each almost indiscernible from the other. It burned through me with despair. It was too much, to watch the life sap from her body.

I pushed her to him—into the flames. She screamed. It melded into the cries of the others—I was done with ceremony; I let my fire reach them all at once. I didn’t look their way. The only death I cared about was Lizzie’s.

Her hair went first, her beautiful thick black waves frizzling and becoming white, then dust. I took her voice, I couldn’t bear to hear her as her skin melted from her flesh. As Lizzie sank to the floor, I sank with her, my vision thick from smoke and sorrow. I wished I could hold her.

“You said I could keep her!”

I cried out into the ether. It wasn’t fair. This was not the deal.

She does not want to be kept.

“She does!”

Then take her.

“Please, Lizzie, just choose me.”

My fingertips reached for hers, but her hand was gripped in his. Even though it was too late, she’d die with him over living with me. Their flesh fused together from the heat. They were united forever now, just as she wanted. Their beings irreversibly entwined as their ashes mixed.

I keened.

This pain was unbearable. How could Lizzie put me through this? This was what she wanted, to be free of the magic. I thought we would be together.

It lied to me. It did this to me.

You did this to yourself.

There was a rumble in the hall as a rune was cast, a hailstorm that evaporated into mist as soon as it touched my fire. They were too weak to fight me. The raven circled overhead; it dipped at me, scratching me, biting me. I hurled Nauthiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke crossed near the center by a shorter diagonal line, representing need. nauthiz at it, delivering Bertram the pain he tried to send me. As if there could be any pain greater than what I was already experiencing.

They did this to me.

I released the fire, letting it take everything in its path. The furniture, the walls, the roof.

The coven.

The fire couldn’t consume me, because it was part of me. We always had an affinity for the element, and now it would forever be close by.

Just as It would be.

I did the chicken first, because she was the easiest—the weakest—and I liked her the least. She was half-done already, anyway. Her witch groaned as what little was left of her familiar’s magic left this world. The hound let out a last sorrowful howl as his witch followed suit.

Wait—

I took the boar and her witch next. They were clutched together, the boar trying to shield her witch with her body.

Not like this—

It’s a mercy, that I let them die as one. Even though the boar was in human form, she smelled like bacon when she fried.

Wait—

The snake tried to escape, slithering from her circle, fire be damned. She froze though, when I doused her witch in flames. He flailed, his skin bubbling in blackened blisters that burst with little hisses.

What have you done?

Its rage was palpable. I had failed—betrayed It. I was to borrow Its power, to be returned elevenfold when I delivered the magic of the coven. But I took their bodies without draining them completely, all that power disappearing with the smoke of their burning bones.

You fool.

The glass of the floor cracked. I fell into the cavern below the hall as the building caved in above me, collapsing onto the stones, showering me with burning debris and the ashes of my coven.

When the spell finally releases us, the room is silent.

Ollie retches, managing to reach the empty window frame before emptying his guts into the snow outside, and if I didn’t feel so hollow maybe I would join him. Fuck, oh fuck, the truth is so much worse than I could have imagined.

Bailey’s eyes are red and her cheeks wet with furious tears. I’ve never seen her cry before.

“This whole time… I’m such an idiot. Of course it was you.”

I put my quivering hand up to my face and discover that I’m crying too.

“I’m not Calliope.”

That crazy bitch might have looked like me, and I might have her memories—we might even share the same magic—but we are not the same person. I am not her. I can’t be. We would never do something like that.

Wouldn’t you?

I shiver as the voice fills my head. It’s still with us. How long has it been here? Another thing drawn by that stupid Halloween spell.

Bailey starts to pace, running a hand through her hair, tugging on the tangled ends.

“I saw you. On Guy Fawkes, when we were watching the fire—I was thinking about my parents. I was asking why they left me, and the magic answered. I just didn’t understand what it was telling me.”

Ollie can’t even look at me when he speaks.

“I was thinking about my dreams. I was wondering if they were memories. I was asking how that could even be possible. That’s when I saw you.”

“You saw Cat.”

“Cat, and you. Shifting.”

The determination in his voice makes my chest ache.

I always knew they would turn against me. They think everything in the world is black and white, damn anything in between. So what if I’m a little more gray than they’re comfortable with? And, since when do I care what Ollie thinks? So what if we slept together? He isn’t my friend. He never was.

Never.

I was an idiot to think he cared about me, that he could see the best in me. He’ll abandon us, just like Oliver did before. He’s as guilty as we are in this. Only one person’s opinion matters here.

Wes huffs a dry laugh, completely devoid of humor.

“No wonder you didn’t want us to find out.”

His eyes pierce into my soul. He sees through all my layers, all my denial. He sees all the things I won’t. Even now.

Ollie growls.

“I trusted you—I defended you. All that stuff you didn’t tell us you knew how to do? I told myself you were trying to protect us. But you were just covering up the truth.”

“I swear, I didn’t know. We had blocked the memories. They only started coming back after the first spell, but even then, I didn’t understand everything.”

“But you suspected. You knew enough. It was self-preservation. Everything you do is about you.”

“That’s not true—”

“Why did you even agree to do the spell this time?”

“I had to… I was doing the right thing. Right? I had to tell you…”

I look between them all, eyes wide. Surely this one time, I made the right choice. I latch onto Bailey.

“Bailey made a deal with me. She offered me something I couldn’t refuse—she offered me you.”

Wes and Ollie both look at Bailey in disbelief. She meets their gazes, fearless. Doesn’t deny it. I would have.

“I needed to know the truth. But I was relieved when she said no…”

Bailey shakes her head slowly as she turns her attention back to me.

“But you changed your mind. Because you knew we would have found out anyway. Ollie was starting to remember. We were going to try the memory spell, with or without you. Eventually it was going to work. Ollie would have remembered, and we were going to see everything you did.”

She has it all wrong; she’s twisting everything.

“I’m not Calliope. Calliope is dead.”

“Calliope was Cat. And so are you.”

Wes’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, and too calm. The ice in his voice sends shivers down my spine, to my very soul. My shoulders slump.

“Yes.”

Wes nods, decided. I never knew him to be so unyielding. This isn’t my Wes—this Wes belongs to Bailey.

“… It’s good that you showed us.”

Her voice is kind, gentle. It’s so obvious what she’s doing, trying to calm me, ready to negotiate my surrender. I can see her mind racing as a plan clicks into place. Whatever it is, I know I won’t like it.

Ollie gives a sharp nod.

“I told you. You have too much power for one person. It’s not natural. Where is it coming from?”

Dumb, dumb, I’m so dumb. We shouldn’t have shown them; we should have left before they found out. What did I think would happen? I start to back away.

“I swear, I wouldn’t do that.”

They close in on me, or maybe it’s the walls that are closing in. Ollie shakes his head slowly.

“You would. You did.”

Bailey puts her hand on my shoulder, more firm than friendly.

“I know what we can do… what we need you to do, to fix this.”

My heart leaps—if there’s an opportunity for forgiveness, I’ll take it.

“Anything—I don’t care. I’ll do anything.”

They can take their pound of flesh, if they want it. Take it all. What good is it without Wes?

“A binding.”

I nod fervently. Binding our magic together could make them feel safer, a little more in control.

“Sure, we can do that—although I think we’re already sort of bound together, or at least Ollie and I are… from before. That’s why our spells are so strong…”

Bailey shakes her head, almost apologetic, but her mouth is set in a determined line as she delivers her blow.

“No. Just you. I want to bind your magic.”

I take a step back, sputtering. I was expecting to be shut out, banished from the coven for some amount of time, or to be kept close but quiet. But not this.

“It won’t be permanent. Just while we process this. Wes—we’ll need eucalyptus, pepper… and a spell. A strong one.”

I wait for Wes to jump to my defense—after all, my magic is his magic. By binding me, she’s crippling him too. Surely, he can see that this isn’t the right punishment. He stays silent. She turns her attention back to me.

“It would help if you cooperated. Think of it as a gesture of goodwill. Show us we can trust you.”

You can’t trust them.

I blink. It’s so hard to separate my thoughts from it. Is it showing me my doubts, or creating them? I can feel the tendrils of its influence in my head like a migraine, bearing down on me.

I need to think.

“You can’t—you won’t be strong enough—”

Without me, their only real source of strength will be Ollie. Binding me will doom us all. Ollie’s face is dark as thunder.

“Are you threatening us?”

I retreat even further. He’s misunderstanding me. I’m making a bigger mess of everything.

“No—not me; I mean, you need my magic, to stay safe—”

I clamp my mouth shut. I’ve said too much. I should have said yes, and then run.

“Stay safe from who?”

Ollie narrows his eyes at me. Do I tell them how Calliope made a deal with the devil? Do I tell them it has returned, and offered me the same?

They’ll never forgive you.

“No one. It was no one.”

I can’t explain. They could never understand. It warned me this would happen if I told them the truth. It was right.

“You’re lying.”

Almost too late, I see Ollie’s hand in his pocket, I know what’s coming. Has he forgotten I’ve hunted with him? Anger flares within me. I won’t let him violate me again—and I won’t let them bind my magic.

I give Wes, my Wes who I would do anything for, one last look. I would let him take my magic if it would fix us; I would let him drain me twice over if we really could turn back time. He would just have to say the word.

But it’s too late for that.

“Calliope really loved Lizzie. I tried to love you better—I wanted us to be better.”

I barely have time to register the softness on his face before Ollie’s hand swoops toward me, rune in his palm. But I’m faster—I leap back—

CAT

Oliver’s hand meets my side with force, the rune searing my flesh as I knew it would. This form is better fit for countering Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz than Cleo. This body has a higher tolerance for shock, and for pain.

I twist in midair—try to turn back—but I am stuck. I hiss. Oliver has not cast Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz; he has cast Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa.

Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. Isa is our fighting rune, not his. His Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa is peace and focus and reflection. But this Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa demands our surrender.

Shit—

Oliver’s face is surprise. My Wes looks down at me, alarmed.

What happened? What did you do?

It was supposed to freeze her magic—temporarily, but at least until we got a real binding spell ready… But… I don’t think it worked right.

I use their confusion to dart between their legs, evading capture. I leap for the window, using the windowsill to propel myself across the yard. The woods are before me, beckoning.

OLLIE

I lunge for Cat a moment too late, the orange fur of her tail slipping through my grasp as she escapes.

“I’m going after her.” I stalk towards the door. Cat’s fast, but I will be too. And even if I can’t smell her, I’ll be able to scent her magic.

Wes moves to stand in the doorway, blocking my exit with his body. “Wait—we should talk about this, right? What happened?”

“What’s there to talk about? Calliope made a deal with a demon, and I’d wager Cleo did too.”

“The demon? Now?” Wes looks around wildly, as if he might catch a glimpse of it. “There’s no way. She wouldn’t do that.”

“It stinks of its magic in here,” I tell him. The smoke has cleared, but one scent lingers, the sickly-sweet stench of decay, the same odour that filled the hall on Beltane. “And didn’t you say she’s always been paranoid about this stuff?”

A shadow crosses his face. “It can’t be that simple. She wouldn’t be working with a demon for no reason.”

“Well… it wasn’t for no reason, was it?” Bailey says softly. “She was jealous of you and me.”

He shrugs, fine, but he’s not convinced. “Okay, let’s hypothetically say she is. What’s your plan, once you find her? You going to kill her?”

“If I have to,” I growl. Whatever it takes to protect Bailey.

“Wes, let him go,” Bailey says. We’re wasting time while he plays devil’s advocate. The longer we wait, the more time Cleo will have to regroup.

He levels his gaze at me. “What about you? Have you ever killed anyone before? In any of your lifetimes? You really think you’re that kind of guy?” His words make me falter. I plunge deep into the recesses of my mind. I think I’ve been in wars, but I couldn’t say where or when. Nothing stands out clearly like it did in the spell. He tilts his head as he watches me think. “You don’t know, do you?”

“No,” I admit. “Our past lives are in the past. We can’t just conjure up a detail whenever we have the inclination.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of unfair to blame her for something she didn’t know about? Calliope and Oliver both died. You guys aren’t them.”

“Not exactly. But trust me, Cleo’s a dead ringer for her.”

Wes levels his gaze at me. “Maybe that’s not all bad. Calliope was smart, and strong. She just got lost.” I can see them in him now. The soulfulness of Elizabeth, the keen intelligence of Tripp, the mysteriousness of Calliope. And the sly cunning of all three.

Bailey levels him with a stare. “She was a little more than lost… she was a murderer.”

“Calliope was—not Cleo.”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Not ever.”

“Why are you doing this?” Bailey asks. “Cleo hid this from us. You can’t be on her side…”

“I guess I just… sorta get why she would do it. She was scared.” He turns to me. “You know her. You care about her; I know you do. She’s a dumb fucking idiot sometimes, but she’s not evil. She’s not good… but she’s not bad. She’s just Cleo. You once asked me to give her the benefit of the doubt… I’m asking you for the same thing. If she’s working with the demon… it could have tricked her. Can you at least consider that?”

She was so twitchy, she could barely even focus on what we were saying. I had assumed her mind was still muddled from the spell and the memories, like mine was. I think of the way Calliope snapped at Oliver in the field, and all of the times Cleo has done the same to me. The way she’ll seem suddenly distracted, like she’s listening to two conversations at once.

“Ollie?” Bailey touches my shoulder, bringing me back.

“The imps could have been picking away at her,” I admit. I know well enough to ignore them, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. What have they been saying to Cleo?

“Imps?” Wes asks.

“Oh…” Bailey tries to explain, as best as she can. I see the recognition in his eyes as she describes what their effects can feel like, when you don’t know how to identify that it’s their voices you’re hearing in your mind, sowing seeds of doubt and dissatisfaction.

“So these things have been fucking with our heads for months, at least, and all of you knew, and no one thought I should be looped in?” His tone is icy.

Bailey’s cheeks flush. “It wasn’t our place… if Cleo didn’t tell you…”

“That has to be how the demon got to her,” I say. It can’t be a coincidence. They were here for her, in service of their master. To lure her back to him. I should have seen it sooner. Now it might be too late.

Bailey shakes her head. “You couldn’t have known.”

Wes’s expression says he disagrees.

“However it happened, it doesn’t change the fact that the demon got to her,” Bailey says. “We have to find her. Fast. Before she finishes what Calliope started.”

“You’re not coming,” I say, turning to her. “Absolutely not. We attacked her; she’ll try to retaliate.”

“You attacked her,” Wes says. “She’d never hurt me.” His confidence makes me scoff. As if we didn’t all just watch the familiar that became his annihilate her own witch, his mother, out of loneliness and desperation. As if he’s not guilty of making Cleo feel the exact same way that Calliope did.

“We’re all going,” Bailey says. “As a coven. We’re in this together. No point wasting time arguing about it.”

“Fine,” I say between clenched teeth. “But you stay behind me. And if I tell you to run, you run. Promise?”

Bailey nods. “Promise.”

I stretch my back, and I shift.

CAT

It has been calling me for so long.

I was Its favorite once, and It has not forgotten. Many lives ago, I sat by Its side. I lay by Its throne. I fed It with magic and It guzzled from me like a mewling kitten.

It disgusts me, but beguiles me.

Together we laid waste to cities. It consumed my enemies. Never feared my desire. It loves my hunger, and my flame. Even when I left, It never tried to taper me. Only tempt me back.

Daughter of Freyja,

Come home to me.

It has been calling, and I finally allow myself to answer.

I run through the woods. The Nots travel with me, around me. They stay in my periphery, out of view. But I can hear them, and I can smell them. A royal escort.

It always finds us.

It is inevitable.

CLEO

I’m still running when I turn—it takes me by surprise.

I’m close enough to it now that any charms and spells are stripped from me. Including Ollie’s Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa, which was holding me hostage in Cat’s body. All the energy I’ve spent trying to turn since is released at once, and it’s staggering. Literally.

I’ll meet it as Cleo. That’s what it demands. It wants to bargain with my human side. Because free will, and probably a little fixation on something biblical like original sin. When we’re Cat, we’re led by instinct, we’re part of magic and nature, we’re driven by more base things. When we’re Cleo, we’re at the top of Maslow’s pyramid of needs. We’re full of feelings and choices, and it wants us to choose.

Even in the daytime, the forest is infinitely spookier as a person with all my people levels of anxiety than it would be for Cat. I can’t react as fast in this body, and I’m less in tune with the magic. I should turn back to Cat. If it would even let me. Or better yet, I should turn back around to the house, to safety, to Wes—but it’s too late. It knows I’m here. I’m committed now.

The branches of the bare trees reach for me like caged animals, clawing for escape. The winter sun casts a dull gray over everything, the light almost worse than if it was night. I have nowhere to hide.

It waits for me in a clearing. It has shed the skunk’s body since our last encounter. This time, it chooses to appear to me as an ancient oak tree, gnarls and knots contorting to form the semblance of a humanoid figure. A crown of gold leaves circles its head, twigs stabbing through it like horns. The foliage is the only color to be seen, all the other trees are bare, and even the green of the pines seems muted. At the base of the tree, roots curl up and out of the ground, forming a throne for two thick leglike stumps. Where calves should be, the bark splits into serpentine offshoots that twist out in every direction, dipping in and out of the ground like a sea snake.

At last.

I try to keep my voice from shaking as I approach.

“Who are you?”

I have been many things.

I have gone by many names.

Cat called it the Lord of Wild Things.

Cernunnos,

Baphomet,

The Green Man.

I don’t know if it really is all those things, or if those were names of others it was happy to answer to.

The Horned God.

Some have thought me a god.

“You’re a demon.”

Demon, god,

Is there a difference?

I guess not.

There was a time I would have lamented, “Why does it want me?” In this life, and before. But it’s a demon, and with the imps it thrives in chaos and negativity, and I happen to be a well of everything it craves.

“I want to make a deal.”

You have come empty-handed.

You used to have respect.

A chatter echoes through the clearing as the imps laugh, mocking me. I hold my chin up and my shoulders back, glaring defiantly into the knots of its eyes.

“I’m the prize.”

My bold declaration silences them. It appears to consider me, so I press on.

“Take me. Leave the others alone.”

I’m not here to join it; I’m here to protect my coven.

It’s a no-brainer. There’s no way to defeat something this ancient and powerful, not permanently. If I give myself over, then Wes is safe. Bailey and Ollie are safe. It’s too late for me, Calliope bound us to this demon, so now it’s in my head and I can’t get it out.

I do not want your death.

I want your life.

Dread envelops me. It wants me alive to do its bidding. To trick people into taking bad deals, like some kind of glorified imp. Living in the shadows, trading whatever dreams I have for nightmares until that’s all I am.

No fuckin’ thanks.

“You owe me. You never delivered on Calliope’s deal. Lizzie wasn’t supposed to die.”

It was Calliope who reneged.

“Yeah, well. That’s my offer.”

I straighten my back and hold its gaze, as if my guts aren’t a pit of snakes, twisting in terror. This is the right move. I’ll die, yes, but we’ll come back. Some version of us will. And maybe on the next round, we’ll be a better person.

Not this time.

My breath falters as the tree creaks.

If I take you I will consume you.

Completely.

My heart thunders in my chest, the sound filling my ears as my blood rushes to its erratic beat. The great power it wields is a cocktail of stolen magic, offered freely by devout followers or forcefully taken from unwilling victims, like it tried to do with Calliope. That was why it had been so angry, she deprived it. All that magic, wasted in death.

Ollie and I came back because Calliope destroyed our bodies, but our magic survived. He always said we were magic. We’ve lived many lives that way.

But this time it will drain me beyond anything I could ever conceive. Infinitely deeper than what Wes took. It will devour my magic in its entirety, bleed everything from me until I’m nothing more than a husk. We won’t come back as a different girl, who is also a cat. We won’t come back at all. There’ll be nothing left.

Save yourself,

And your witch.

Give me the others.

It’s a tempting offer. Wes and I would be together; Bailey and Ollie would be out of the way. Isn’t this almost the exact deal I’d made with Bailey? Except in this instance, she and Ollie wouldn’t be in England. They’d be dead.

It wouldn’t even be the demon; it would be me, sucking the vitality from them through our binding like a straw. I’ve already seen how this plays out—there would be nothing left of me that Wes loves. I would have sold my soul again. I might as well be dead too.

I won’t give them up this time. This has to end here, tonight, with me.

I shake my head.

“No.”

Disappointing.

“You drain me, and you never go near my coven again. Deal?”

There’s a deep silence that shimmers with satisfaction. It’s pleased with this outcome, even if it wasn’t exactly what it intended. My magic is enticing enough.

Deal.

A branch twists forward like an outstretched arm, ending in spindly fingerlike twigs. But where the tree ends, its reach doesn’t. I feel its power curling behind my back, gripping my clothes, lifting me like a rag doll.

I hang, suspended in the air. Invisible fingers reach into my chest, and clutch around my heart. They pull—and I gasp as my heart goes with them.

Literally.

My ribs crack and blood pools through my clothing as my flesh tears open in the fabric, bones pushing through my skin as my heart is torn from me. I choke as my arteries stretch behind it. The sinewy muscles pulse as the organ continues to beat, floating inches in front of my torso, out in the open. The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt, all-encompassing, sharp like pins and needles over my skin, but also a heavy dull ache that weighs on my bones, and everything in between—how am I still alive?

Because it won’t release me, won’t let me go to the darkness. Not yet.

Give me your magic.

The thick viscous tang of its power creeps through my veins, sticking to mine like sap, dragging it out of me. I let it—I’d do anything to make this stop. The quicker it takes what it wants, the sooner it’ll let me die. At least the pain will be over.

The temptation to reach out and pull strength from elsewhere is overwhelming, like a drowning person fighting their way to the surface to breathe. I suspect it’s intentional. I can feel my magic grasping for anyone we’re bound to. Wes, Ollie, Bailey… others. I could suck up their magic. It would keep me alive.

But I won’t give it the satisfaction. My body is frozen, but I picture my fingers scratching Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa into my palm. I imagine the rune like a frozen pipe, blocking the bindings that tie me to anyone but the demon, blocking my lifelines.

I take comfort in the thought that there won’t be a body for anyone to find. Nothing left rotting in the woods or, worse, frozen in the snow until a warm spell melts it away and some off-leash dog noses me out of the slush. This will be clean.

There’s a rustling in the bushes behind me, and the dissection pauses. I smell the demon’s surprise and pleasure in the breeze, filling me with dread. Whatever it senses can’t be good.

I knew you would not fail me.

OLLIEDOG

We chase cleocats trail. away from the sad house. through the trees. along the paths we run with bailey and alone. but cleocat leaves the path to go deeper. she leaves pawprints in the slush of old snow for us to follow

calliopecat used to smell like the smoke that sticks to your fur. but now cleocat smells of cinnamon

ollie is not oliver but ollie is like oliver in many ways

we cannot trust her. she is not a friend. she has killed michael. and nina and ruth and oliver. and she has made bailey lonely

but olliedog did not protect her. she is so small and she is so lonely. olliedog should have seen

bailey is close behind me and wes is close behind her

the shrubs and weeds still snag on her. biting her skin. her blood is clean like river water. but she should not be bleeding at all. she should not be here. it is too dangerous

there is a vole in a tree. it watches us and follows. it reports to its master

i cannot hear it but i know

it is joined by a bird. and a squirrel. a raccoon watches us. there are so many of them

we are close

CLEO

Ollie charges into the clearing in his dog form, snarling when he sees me—hovering two feet in the air, aorta stretched to snapping. He lunges for the demon tree, snapping at its protruding twigs.

The imps rush him, a rat sinking its teeth deep into his hind leg, but he doesn’t let go of the branch between his jaws, trying to shake me loose of its invisible hold. Thunder rumbles as he casts Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz with scrabbling paws, and hailstones the size of golf balls hurtle from the sky, striking the imps that nip at his sides.

It’s a valiant attempt, but pointless. With a forceful flick, the demon tree flings him away as if he was a Chihuahua, not a massive hound. He only narrowly misses hitting Bailey as she and Wes finally catch up to him. Instead, he collides with a thick tree trunk with a thud and a high-pitched yelp that makes me wince even in my state.

Ollie rises, naked and blinking in confusion, as Bailey rushes to help him up. Wes and Bailey follow his eyeline, freezing when they see me—

My heart clenches in fear; I can see it in front of me. They shouldn’t be here; why did they come?

What is this?

I get a moment of physical reprieve as the demon pauses. The creatures in the trees settle, all twisting to face them. I take them in too. The horror on their faces, but also the relief. And on Wes, the slightest tinge of gratification. As if he knew he wouldn’t find me by its side. There’s a whoosh as all the imps inhale as one, scenting the air. Then the silence is filled with a cacophony of noise, frantic chattering, cooing, chirping.

It turns its attention back to me.

You have been keeping secrets.

Tendrils of power catch hold of them, so when Ollie tries to charge again, his torso lurches, but his legs stay rooted in place.

Bailey manages to open her mouth, a song belting out, loud and brave and off-key.

“If I could turn back ti—”

Her voice catches, and her hands grab at her throat.

Silence.

It paralyzes her vocal cords. But those five lyrics are enough. We’ve all ridden that wave; we know it well. There’s a tickle in my veins, Wes’s magic pressing at the blockage in our connection, demanding entrance. I release my still-held Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa, welcoming him in. My Wes, whose spell in my blood still burns so bright. I don’t have much left in me, but I’d die content knowing my magic was taken by Wes, not the demon.

Our molten lava mixes with the cool stream that is Ollie and Bailey, and I let it flow through me like a drug in my veins. If this is the end, at least I’ll be euphoric.

Time slows. Or at least—the tugging on my heart does. We’re still not strong enough, or smart enough, to truly turn back time. But we can undo something that’s been done.

If I could really turn back time, how far would I go? Back to the old house. I’d tell them about the imps, that the demon’s finally come for us. I’d throw myself at their feet and confess to everything. I’d let them bind me if they wanted to, rather than let it have our magic.

Would I go back further? Back before me, as I understand myself? Back to Calliope. To Lizzie and Tripp. Would I let Calliope wither away on her own, or would I go even further?

Would I end it all, so Wes could have parents, and the grandparents he’d lost? I would hope so. But I don’t know—because who would I be?

I am still being pulled taut, but at a significantly slower rate. And then—not at all, as my coven uses the spell to piece me back together. I’m still suspended in the air, but at least my heart is back in my chest and my ribs are only protruding from my tattered skin a little.

There’s a roar and the spell is broken—its anger rips through our minds, dissipating the intention—all we can focus on is keeping it out.

I feel its rage at being thwarted, even temporarily, its fury at even the small success of our defiance. It homes in on Bailey, who dared open her mouth against it.

Her.

I want her.

Don’t they all?

Give her to me and the rest can go free.

“She’s not part of the deal.”

I can barely choke my words out, drowning in a mouthful of blood.

Then I will destroy you all.

It’s lying. I saw Calliope’s memories. It can drain me because I’m bound to it, but not the others. It needs me to reach them. In some distant past lifetime, it taught Cat how to pull on those strings. And, to push that magic back out across any distance—to feed it.

“I remember what you taught me. You can’t take them without me.”

In my head, it laughs.

I need you to consume their magic.

But I can deliver death alone.

I gasp, gurgling on thick liquid in my throat, a viscous mix of blood and mucus. Everything I did, everyone I hurt, has all been for nothing. It would rather waste their power and kill them than let me die in peace knowing Wes is safe. That’s my punishment for our betrayal. For letting them try to save me.

It laps at my magic, slowly obliterating me. Taking its time, showing how little of a threat it considers us. I can feel it so viscerally its tongue could be crawling over my flesh.

Then I feel the warm caress of Wes’s skin as his hand slips into mine. As the demon destroyed our spell, it also released its paralytic hold on the others. Ollie used that moment to try and bundle Bailey back to the relative safety of the tree line. But my brave witch stepped closer to danger when he should have been fleeing with them.

“Wes—”

I rasp his name, willing him to go. To leave me alone. It’s not too late. I could at least buy them some time to run.

Wes traces a shape onto my palm. Through his fingers the magic forms a rune, a timeworn casting. Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. Kenaz rises for him like an old friend, a glimmer of hope. It wraps around me, warming me. There’s that gentle tug, the familiar request. He needs me to imbue the rune for it to have any real effect; the casting in him has weakened with age.

I manage to swallow, borrowing the rune for vitality. Its intended use is futile.

“It won’t work. We’re not strong enough to defeat it.”

Wes looks at me with wide eyes. But it’s the truth, and I need the demon to hear me rebuff him. It would have felt Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. kenaz the moment the rune sparked and both our hearts—brains, guts, all of it—would be splattered across the ground before we made a flicker of a flame. But the rune has another meaning, clarity, and it’s kindled a new idea inside me. I square my shoulders, quashing the pain to put on a brave front.

“You win. Leave Wes, and I will drain my coven for you.”

I grip his fingers tightly, refusing to let him wrench his hand away, but I don’t look at him; I can’t bear to see his reaction. But he has to know, I’d do anything for him. Even the things he can’t.

It is too late for bargains.

“I’ll give you the rest of them too.”

That gives the demon pause, a spark of interest that I latch onto.

“The other familiars, from the original coven. They came back, like Ollie and I did. I’m still bound to them.”

They’re out there, somewhere. I felt their magic when I confronted the skunk—the demon—in the alleyway; I just didn’t know it at the time. Another binding whose echo survived death.

Ollie lets out a strangled cry. I think he might have started toward me, probably to kill me himself, but I can’t turn my head to look.

You can take them.

It regards me with hungry wooden eyes. And that’s when I know I have it.

“I can try. They’ll fight me.”

You will have my strength.

I feel Wes still beside me. I wonder if he’s connected the dots. I squeeze his hand.

“We need to take the deal. Or all of us will die.”

There was a time not long ago when Wes would have known what I was thinking with one look, and even if he wasn’t sure he would have followed me blindly into the dark. He would have trusted me to get us out of hell and never looked back. Now I hope he can believe in me enough, even though I haven’t given him any reason to. His gaze lowers to the gaping wound in my chest. Then he addresses the demon directly.

“If we agree to your terms, you’ll save Cleo? You’ll fix her? You’ll let her go?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bailey gasp with no sound, her voice still muted. Her eyes flood with betrayal. It’s just like Ollie feared from the beginning. Wes and I, against them. Together.

Witch,

With my power,

You will be strong enough to heal her yourself.

Wes turns to me. He puts a palm to my face to stroke my cheek.

“What a dreadful illness hunger is.”

He doesn’t know my plan—how could he? It’s barely formed in my own mind. But the firm line of his lips shows a grim determination that makes me think he might. I give him a dark smile.

One last game with my witch.

OLLIE

Everything seems to unfold in slow motion, but this time it’s adrenaline, not magic, altering my perception.

With Wes’s hand in hers, Cleo raises it to cast Nauthiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical stroke crossed near the center by a shorter diagonal line, representing need. nauthiz, needfire or, more appropriately, self-preservation. She uses the rune as a spark, lighting the way for her salvation.

I’m dragged forward as a huge surge of magic floods me. I can taste them as they burn through me, tainted with that same rot I smelled at Beltane, and at the old house earlier. With the demon’s borrowed magic, they blow through any defences I try to put up. Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. Thurisaz, the thorn, obstacles, protection, but it sits impotent in my curled fingers. I used my precious moments of freedom from the demon’s paralysis snatching my runes from Bailey, and now the tiles are scattered uselessly on the ground at my feet.

All the training I put Bailey through was worthless. We were ready to fight with fists, which now hang heavy at our sides.

Cleo sold us to the demon, just like before.

Cleo and Wes’s magic roars through my veins, seizing mine, dragging it out of me. They pull from us, sweep away everything we have, my magic leaving me faster than anything I’ve felt before. It’s all I can do not to drop to my knees as my life-force dwindles.

They somehow go even deeper, into recesses I didn’t know existed, so far they go through me. I jolt as someone else’s magic touches mine. The smell of clean straw and fresh linen permeates their power, before it’s joined by another scent, humid air and tropical fruit. Then another, and another. The other familiars. Connected like a circuit, and being drained like batteries.

The magic doesn’t stop with her. It flows out of her, and into… not the demon. Wes.

As our magic swells within him, I feel him casting. Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. Kenaz, the torch, cleansing fire, the rune that Calliope distorted on Beltane. He shouldn’t be able to use runes like this; it’s familiar magic.

But the magic gathers like a storm, swirling faster and faster, becoming more potent with each millisecond. With a jolt, I realize that he isn’t casting the rune. Cleo’s imbuing one that already exists. Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. Kenaz has been cast on him, like the wards we cast around the house, lying dormant, waiting to be called.

Then Cleo pushes out. Supercharging me, and Bailey, and the others. What she took from us she returns, but more. Double, maybe triple, magic stolen from the demon and his imps.

She glances over her shoulder, shooting me a small, smug smile. In draining us, she tricked the demon into simultaneously letting her drain it as well. She stares pointedly at the tiles I dropped on the ground, one in particular, Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz. It glows as she imbues it, using it.

The casting severs us, cutting us loose. Bailey and I stumble from the release. My skin prickles with static energy from all the raw power Cleo threw into me.

One binding remains. Cleo is still hovering, held aloft by the demon. As I see the first sparks in the air, I suddenly know exactly what they’re planning:

They’re going to burn the demon back to hell, and themselves with it.

I act almost without thinking, ducking to the ground and grabbing every rune I can reach. I slam them into Cleo’s shoulder, throwing everything I have at them. Whatever strength she just gave me, I give to this. Uruz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling an inverted U with slanted sides, representing an ox. Uruz – power – Tiwaz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical line topped by two upward diagonal strokes forming an arrow or spear shape, representing a spear. tiwaz – victory – Thurisaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a triangular projection extending from a vertical line, representing a thorn. thurisaz – protection – Eihwaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular zigzag symbol with opposing hooked ends connected diagonally, representing yew. eihwaz – protection – Algiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical symbol with two upward diagonal branches resembling raised antlers, representing a stag. algiz – protection – I hope it’s enough.

Cleo and Wes release their Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. kenaz, and deep molten flames shoot from Wes, to Cleo, to the demon; the strings of magic that held her light up like Christmas bulbs, before they crumble to ash as the fire meets its target.

There’s a blinding white light. All the colour in the world seems to fade, and invert, like a photograph’s negative, or an atomic bomb. For a second, there’s total silence.

The quiet gives way to a shrill ringing in my ears, making me dizzy. As I stare up at the demon, I realize it isn’t tinnitus from the explosion. Implosion?

It’s screams.

The demon howls as it burns, from the inside out. The sound is deafening.

The imps cry out too, bound to their master, fizzling and popping as they melt, splattering their flaming guts across the forest. The dry tinder of the barren trees starts to ignite.

But we’re alive. We’re all within my wards.

Cleo drops from the air, her body heavy, Wes catching her before she fully hits the ground. She’s unconscious. He wraps his jacket around her and heaves her into his arms.

“Holy fuck, we did it,” he mutters. “It’s dead—right?”

He pauses, looking at me for confirmation. I nod mutely.

“We have to get out of here,” Bailey gasps out as the fire roars around us. She tosses me my joggers and shoes from her pack, then scoops up my rune pouch from the ground while I dress. I can’t run through the woods naked and barefoot, but I can’t be much help with Cleo in my dog form.

Wes forges ahead with her but only gets a few steps before she spasms. He staggers as she shifts, then just as quickly shifts back. I rush forward and put my hand on his shoulder. “Let me take her.”

“No.” He grips her tighter. “I’m okay. I’ve got her.”

He squares his shoulders and strides forward, bracing himself in case Cleo shifts again. I take the lead, clearing the way for them.

The wind changes, and I feel the heat at my back as the fire jumps ahead. We’ve been lucky so far, the woods are damp enough from the snow that the fire hasn’t spread too quickly, but it’ll catch up with us eventually.

I look back and find Wes at least ten steps behind. “If we keep going at this pace we’ll die. Give her to me.”

Even with my injuries, I’m stronger than he is. And for now the adrenaline is holding the pain off.

His back stiffens, and his fingers tighten around her. I reach my arms out anyway. “I’ll take care of her.”

His scowl softens as he relents, gently transferring Cleo into my arms.

“You guys have to go ahead, get the car as close as you can.” He starts to protest, but I add in a low voice, so only he can hear, “I need you to get Bailey out of here. Please.”

He jerks his head in a sharp nod. Louder this time, so Bailey can hear me too, I call out, “If you smell burning rubber, that’s the tires melting. If that happens, you leave. You don’t wait. Understand?”

Bailey shakes her head. “We won’t leave you.”

“You promised me. Run.”

Wes takes her hand. “I need Ollie to focus on Cleo. If the fire catches up, I need him to use his magic to protect her. It’ll spread him too thin if he needs to cover us too…”

I close my eyes in relief, thankful for his pragmatism. Finally, Bailey nods. “We’ll see you at the car.”

Her eyes burn into mine. It’s not a question; it’s a command.

Then Cleo shifts to Cat, and I start to sprint, praying she won’t shift back until I’ve made some headway.

CAT

The air smells of smoke and magic.

There is pain everywhere, but most of all our chest. We wheeze when we breathe.

Our body is being rocked like we are on a ship.

Please don’t shift, please don’t shift, please don’t shift—

Oliver repeats his words like a mantra as he runs.

There is pain, but there is also peace. Our head is quiet. The voices are silent.

Please don’t shift, please don’t shift, please don’t shift—

We try to hold on, to help Oliver, but the pain drags through our body, wrestling with our control—

OLLIE

I grunt as Cat shifts back to Cleo. “Shit.”

I adjust to cradle her body better, to protect her legs and more importantly her head. Moving at an angle, I lead with my shoulder, letting my arm take the brunt of the scratchy brush along the path in front of us. It’s hard to run like this, but I do my best, ignoring the ache in my side where I hit the tree. I breathe in through my nose, and out of my mouth. My lungs are burning from the effort, and my throat from the soot in the air. The fire’s almost on us now, and I won’t be able to keep this up for long.

I’m also tracing Berkana Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two triangular sections attached to a vertical stem, representing birch. berkana on her arm where my fingers meet her flesh. I picture the runestone, wherever it is. Either on the ground in the clearing or still in Bailey’s bag, who knows how far ahead of me. The birch, the healer. I should probably save my magic to shield us, in case the flames creeping through the branches come crashing down on us from above. But all this will have been for nothing if she dies anyway.

Honk honk. Ahead, somewhere, the car horn beeps persistently. Wes and Bailey. I’m close. Thank God.

Then, finally, a break in the trees. A service road that cuts through the reserve. And the Jeep.

Wes swings the back door open and I slide in next to him with Cleo, supporting her body. Her breathing is raspy, but that she’s breathing at all is nothing short of a miracle.

The door is barely shut before Bailey takes off at full speed, back to town. Wes grabs one of the blankets from the boot and I help him tuck it around Cleo’s legs and up to her midriff, her head cradled in his lap. We leave her wound uncovered. The demon let her heal a little, stabilised her condition, but not nearly enough. Two of her bones are still protruding from her skin.

I slap Cleo’s cheek lightly, trying to get her to stay awake. That might only be for concussions, but I’m sure it can’t hurt here either. “Eyes open, Cleo.”

“God, what?” she slurs. I can’t help but smile at her irritated growl. She’s alive.

Then she coughs up a thick red blood clot. My eyes widen. “Uh, a little faster there, B?”

Bailey turns back to look at Cleo, her mouth forming a little o. “I don’t even know where I’m going! Do we take her to a hospital? A vet? She won’t stop shifting!”

“Gilly…” Cleo coughs.

Wes is already dialing. Bless her, Gilly picks up quickly. “Gilly, are you at work? Can you come out back in… four minutes? It’s an emergency.”

As Bailey steers us to the animal clinic, sirens blare. Four red fire engines barrel past us, towards the black plumes of smoke we left behind. We didn’t even think to call the fire brigade; I’m glad someone else did.

When we peel into the back alley behind the vet’s, Gilly is waiting, blowing on her hands to keep them warm. She walks over to the car, and Wes winds down his window.

“We need your help,” Wes says, Cleo bleeding out in his arms.

Gilly gapes. “Oh my God! Cleo! What happened? Why did you bring her here? She needs to go to the ER!”

Wes shakes his head gravely. “We can’t go to the hospital.”

“Did she tell you that? Is it the money? We get insurance through school, and I can help, and I mean, no offense, but you’re freakin’ rich, Wes –”

“It’s not the money…”

“Then why the hell—”

Cleo chooses that moment to shift.

“Holy shit!” Gilly stares. “Is that… Cat?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Cleo’s different from most people…”

“Yeah no shit, I can fuckin’ see that.”

“Guys?” I interrupt as Cat shifts back to Cleo, her legs landing heavily on mine as she spasms into form. “She’s running out of time.”

“I’m sorry, Gilly,” Wes says helplessly. “We didn’t know where else to go.”

“What do you want me to do?” Gilly asks, wringing her hands. “I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a vet. I’m a receptionist.”

“I know,” Wes says gently. “But she asked for you.”

Gilly takes in a deep shuddering breath. I think she’s counting in her head.

“Okay. Okay. See the blue door?” She nods to the back of the building. Almost completely concealed by junk is the small half staircase that leads down to the tiny landing with a door, painted cobalt blue. I know it well.

“That’s the basement… I can work there.”

Gilly goes back in to unlock the door from inside, while Wes and I carry Cleo, doing our best not to jostle her as we descend the icy steps. We wait for what seems like an eternity but is probably not more than three minutes before Gilly’s face finally appears behind the glass pane. She opens the door wide and we push in.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I told the tech I would finish the paperwork and close up so he could leave early. He should be gone soon.” She looks at Cleo uneasily. “Just in case, you know… we can’t keep her quiet.”

“Good thinking,” Bailey says, giving Gilly a reassuring smile. They clear a steel table and unfold a blue paper sheet over it. It’s a small, narrow room, and feels even smaller with the wire mesh shelves bursting with excess supplies. The long fluorescent tube lights cast an eerie yellow-green glow over us that makes Cleo look even worse than she did in the car.

“Are those…” Gilly trails off, staring at Cleo’s wound.

“Her ribs. Yeah.”

“So, Cleo is Cat, she’s a person and a cat?” She gently brushes Cleo’s red curls out of her face. I see her steady herself, accept the leap of logic for now at least, and focus on her patient. “How should I treat her? I think I should give her a sedative, but a cat dose won’t do much for a person, but a human dose on a cat…”

“Give her the full dose,” I say as Cleo groans in pain. “She’ll metabolise it.”

Gilly readies an injection, then slides the needle into the flesh inside Cleo’s elbow. Cleo’s so pale her veins are visible through her skin. She gives a little sigh as the drugs start to take effect, gently shifting into Cat.

Gilly steps back, biting her lip, not taking her eyes off the tear in Cat’s flesh. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this. Normally you let ribs heal on their own, but this… I mean, this is impossible… it looks like her ribs were pushed outwards? Like, from inside her?”

“They were,” Wes says, grim.

“I don’t…,” Gilly starts. She stops, then tries again. “I’m not sure how to pull them back in.”

“We have to do something…” Wes stares at the rib bones protruding from Cat’s chest, then physically turns as if that’s the only way to rip his gaze away. “We need a spell. Right? If magic did this, it should be able to undo it.”

Bailey nods. “A healing spell. A strong one.”

“Did they say a spell?” Gilly whispers to me.

“Bailey and Wes are witches.” I grimace. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Her eyes widen. “And you’re not?”

“Uh no… I’m like Cleo. I’m Bailey’s familiar.”

“Like Cleo . . as in you can turn into a cat?”

“A dog.”

Gilly nods, going quiet. All things considered, she’s handling everything remarkably well.

“What song? What do we use?” Wes’s eyes are desperate, pleading. I suspect he’s in shock. If he were more himself, he’d have something on the tip of his tongue. It might not be his body split open on the table, but it is his heart.

“What about your song?” Bailey says. “ ‘Cricket.’ ”

Wes shakes his head. “It’s not about healing… not even close. ‘They’re all dead; I’m dead also’? There’s gotta be something better…”

“I know… but Cleo’s always saying the words don’t matter. You wrote it for her, didn’t you?” We all look down at Cat; her eyes are closed, her breath uneven and wet. “It might be the thing that calls her home…”

“It’s a really great song,” Gilly says quietly, almost to herself. “She loves it.”

Wes runs his tongue over his teeth as he thinks. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Do we need an element? A mirror?” Bailey starts to look around.

“I think her blood will work,” I say, my voice grim. I’ve never used blood magic before. It feels especially macabre, but so does the situation.

Wes stands on Cat’s left, his index finger stroking the pads of her paw. Bailey nods in agreement, moving to stand opposite him. “After we make sure her heart is okay, let’s focus on her ribs. Those are the most important parts…”

She doesn’t need to finish her thought. If we can’t continue the spell. We’re all exhausted, worn down.

“If you can get her ribs back…,” Gilly starts, “I think I can stitch her wound closed. I’ve done it before… on smaller injuries.”

I take my place next to Bailey, taking a deep breath. This spell has to work. We need it to work.

Wes starts to sing.

“The little philosopher

Who lives in my head

She lives in my bed…”

Bailey and I sing with him. We’ve sat through enough band rehearsals at this point that even I know all the words.

“She’s lived in this room

A hundred years

Or more…”

Nothing happens. We get through a whole verse without feeling one drop of magic. But we don’t stop. I hear Gilly’s voice behind me, soft and sweet as she sings along with us. She doesn’t have magic to contribute to the spell, but her support strengthens us all the same.

“I have a heart of wood

It can’t be pierced”

Wes glares at the wound. I feel a tickle in my veins as the tiniest dribble of magic leaks from him, calling out for ours.

CAT

The song wraps around me like a burial shroud, soft and comforting. But instead of soothing our journey to the next life, this magic holds fast and begs us to stay.

OLLIE

The spell starts to form, faintly. I clench my muscles to keep the magic flowing. We haven’t had to fight this hard for a spell since we met Wes and Cleo, or maybe ever. My body aches from the effort, and the dizziness makes it hard to keep the intention. But the blood helps. It demands our attention, and our presence.

“What the fuck…,” Gilly murmurs behind me as the first rib starts to slowly bend back into Cat’s flesh, disappearing from our view. We loop back around on the song again, but I can feel the spell waning. We’re running on fumes. The scent of Wes and Cleo’s magic is so faint I can barely smell it.

My shoulders jerk involuntarily as the solution becomes clear. We need help, and Cleo showed me where to find it.

I sniff out the magic. It’s not easy to chase the scent from so far away, but I catch the faint trace of someone familiar; the cool side of a pillow, the yeasty smell of fresh bread. I think it’s Ruth. The longing that fills me when I find her aches like the worst kind of homesickness. We were close, before. We were partners. She was Nina’s familiar, when I was with Michael.

Following the barest thread of our old binding, I stretch out to her, hoping that she recognises my magic, and sees this as a desperate plea, not an attack. Finally, there’s a tickle of a reply. Ruth’s magic brushes mine. It’s not the roaring wave that Cleo was able to demand, but it’s something. It makes all the difference.

Cat’s other rib cracks back down into place. The wound on her chest is still open, and it’s bleeding again, a bright red stream down her side turning the blue paper sheet maroon. But it has to be enough. The spell is completely dry now, with nothing left in us to power it.

“Alright, Gilly. You’re up.” I let go of Bailey’s hand to make room for Gilly to come forward, surgical needle and thread at the ready.

Gilly cries out in panic and frustration as Cat shifts again, Cleo’s larger body ripping the line of thread from her flesh. “I can’t… she keeps tearing the stitches. It’s fraying her skin; this is making it worse…”

Her gloved hands are covered in blood, and trembling. This is at least the third time it’s happened. She’s been at it too long. The skin around the wound is shredded from multiple attempts, which have so far only made it worse. Gilly can’t do anything if Cleo won’t stop shifting.

“I could use isa again,” I say. “It froze her form before. It would stop her from shifting.”

“No,” Wes responds immediately. “She’d hate that.”

“So, she’ll be angry. Better than dead.”

“I don’t care if she’s pissed at us; I’m pissed at her! She’s pretty much been lying to me the entire time I’ve known her,” Gilly huffs, brushing a stray hair out of her face with the back of her hand. It leaves a smudge of blood on her skin. “If there’s something you can do, we need to try it.”

Wes crouches by Cleo, strokes her cheek. He knows we’re right. “I’m so sorry.”

Bailey hands me my sack of runestones as I stuff the rest of the granola bar I had been eating in my mouth. We raided the little office kitchenette after the spell. It’s hard to keep anything down with the gore in front of us, but we need our bodies strong. Cleo needs our magic.

Wes moves so he’s not shielding her anymore, allowing me access. As if sensing an impending attack, Cleo’s eyes flutter open for a second. Her face twists in terror when she sees the runes in my hand. “Ollie… no… please…”

“Shh,” I say. “It’s okay.”

She weeps. “No, Ollie… I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry; I didn’t know; I didn’t mean to do it…”

“I know,” I say, my voice gruff. I push through the guilt. She might be scared, she might even hate me when she wakes up, but it’s the best chance we have.

I call them both, Hagalaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two vertical strokes connected by a diagonal crossbar, representing hail. hagalaz to change her, and Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa to freeze her. And Berkana Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two triangular sections attached to a vertical stem, representing birch. berkana, over and over again. I’ll carve it into her skin if that’s what it takes.

Her body jerks as she shifts to Cat. And then, she’s finally still.

OLLIEDOG

Cleocat sleeps. she is healing

she is very small and orange. she smells like pain and blood but she does not smell like death she smells like deep dreams and memories. but not like rot

we sleep with bailey in a new bed. we wake up early. but we do not wake her up

we take cats patrols. but cannot reach the top of the trees. or the roof. we can smell them

there are birds and eggs and squirrels. but they are just birds and eggs and squirrels

they cheep and squawk but they do not talk

cleocat still sleeps

CAT

We sleep a long sleep.

The Dog understands. He brings his runes—peace, rest, health. He touches his nose to them every night, and every morning, to keep the magic alive.

Sometimes he is Oliver.

I’m sorry. I should have known something was wrong. I should have asked you, believed you.

I know you’re not Calliope. I know it wasn’t you.

My Lizzie took Her Tripp’s hand and led him to the back of the garden, amongst the shrubbery, out of sight.

They left the baby with me. He sat up on the picnic blanket, legs crooked in front of him. He leaned on one arm to support himself. I settled in the diamond between his legs and raised my paw—

I dug my claw into the skin of his ankle. A small bead of blood bubbled to the surface.

He did not cry. He stared, eyes set with determination.

Good.

I dragged the pointed tip through his flesh, then again, imbuing him with my magic. The scratches formed Kenaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling a left-facing open angle or less-than sign, representing a torch. kenaz, the torch. Phoenix fire, for our new beginning.

To inspire him, and to light his way.

I licked the wound clean, healing him.

They sing so many songs. Their magic swells inside me, repairing my torn flesh and soothing my aching bones.

The Witch Girl brings herbs and flowers, woven into wreaths that she hangs above the bed. Plants for healing—roses and carnations. Amaranth, thyme, and comfrey.

Please don’t die. He won’t survive without you.

CLEO

I am unbelievably and unbearably itchy. Like a thousand red ants are crawling over my skin, the kind that bite. I’m desperate to scratch or at least swat them away. But my hand is too heavy to lift. So are my eyelids.

The last thing I remember is my heart visible in front of me, beating in midair. Wes’s hand in mine, the fire, the screaming imps. Lying in the back seat of the car knowing beyond doubt that I was dying. Gilly crying as she tried to patch me up.

When I do finally pry open my eyes, I’m in our room, lying in our bed under Wes’s starchy white comforter. Very much alive. Maybe it was all a bad dream.

But the evidence surrounds me. Wes’s junk has been cleared off the desk, replaced by medical supplies—bandages, gauze, rubbing alcohol, bottles of pills. And then there’s the signs of magical curatives: wreaths of flowers and herbs, and the runes—so many runes, all around me. Dagaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular hourglass-like symbol with vertical sides and crossing diagonal strokes, representing dawn. Dagaz for safety and security; Algiz Elder Futhark rune, a vertical symbol with two upward diagonal branches resembling raised antlers, representing a stag. algiz for protection and defense; Berkana Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two triangular sections attached to a vertical stem, representing birch. berkana for healing, drawn all over the headboard.

The tattered black desk chair is currently occupied—by Gilly. She’s watching something on her phone, her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth and her legs curled under her on the seat. She changed her hair since I last saw her, a long black bob with choppy bangs. It looks cool.

I try to sit up, but the best I can manage is to shimmy a couple of inches further up the pillow. The small movement is enough to get her attention.

“You’re awake!”

I blink slowly, my eyes still adjusting.

“Have I been here the whole time?”

The words feel funny on my tongue. Not the words specifically. It’s speaking that feels weird. My mouth is sticky, my voice scratchy from disuse.

“Yeah, none of us felt great leaving you to recuperate alone in that glorified doghouse—cat house, sorry.”

Gilly gestures to the corner where a deflated air mattress has been haphazardly folded up.

“Wes has been sleeping on the floor. Well, only since yesterday, after Ollie um, scrubbed the… rune? Isa? And you… shifted? Back to… you. Before that we had you in a cat bed on the dresser.”

She uses the witchy terms hesitantly but willingly, like they’re technical jargon from our biochem textbook.

“I thought your injuries were healed enough that it would be okay. Are you? Okay?”

I roll my shoulders back, turn my head left, then right. Take a deep breath in, then exhale, taking measure of the pain. I put my hand to my chest, then jerk my fingers away at the sting. Gilly nods.

“I think at least four of your ribs were cracked. The swelling and bruising was… pretty bad. It’s mostly gone now.”

‘Pretty bad’ must be the understatement of the year based on how my chest is still so mottled with green and yellow splotches there’s barely a sign of my normally pale skin. The bruises go all the way up to my throat. If I was a different girl—a regular, non-magical, non-cat-turning girl—I would be dead, without a doubt.

I wonder how long it took me to recover even this much. Weeks, at least. Maybe months. I look up at the windows at the bright light that streams in, even through the closed blinds. Birds are chirping outside. The air smells fresh and damp, and a little grassy, unlike the crispness of winter.

“It’s spring.”

“No, not yet. It’s just a nice day.”

She’s been here every day, the whole time I was sleeping, which was a little over a month. She informs me of this as she helps me adjust my pillows so I can sit up, and holds a water bottle up for me while I drink from its straw.

“I can’t believe you never told me you could turn into a freakin’ cat.”

I cringe.

“I’m sorry—it’s not that I don’t trust you; I do. I’ve never told anyone before.”

I still haven’t. Not one person who knows about me knows by my choosing. I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish I had at least gotten to tell Gilly.

“It’s okay. You’re private, and I respect that. I never pried, even though I really wanted to. It’s weird to have never seen your best friend’s bedroom. But like, no wonder you never let me come over! I would have freaked out and made you get an actual apartment. At least something with running water?”

She smiles, just for a second.

“I get the whole thing with Ollie now too—it must have been nice to meet someone else, like you. Plus, he’s like… really cute.”

I shake my head.

“No. That wasn’t it. I thought I wanted to hurt Wes before he could hurt me… but it was more like I wanted to be in control of how much he hated me.”

Because hating me was inevitable. Gilly’s eyes soften, sympathetic.

“Ollie filled me in a little. For the record, he’s still really cute.”

“Yeah… if you like dog guys.”

Which she does. I arch a brow at her.

“You know, if you wanted… I wouldn’t mind. He’s a great guy. For someone who isn’t me.”

“While I appreciate the gesture, ew. I don’t think I could date someone you already slept with. That would be so weird. Plus, uh, I have a boyfriend. Elliott?”

“Wow, he’s still around? Nothing’s changed, huh?”

She looks down, busying herself fussing over the bedsheets that are fine as they are.

“There was one thing… I switched majors—to business.”

“What? Why? You’ve wanted to be a doctor, like, forever.”

“Did I? Or did I think that would make my parents happy? Anyway, it turns out, I don’t like blood. At all.”

My heart sinks. I knew I was ruining my own life, but it didn’t occur to me how thoroughly I was destroying Gilly’s too.

“Don’t make that face. It’s a good thing. I literally saved my best friend’s life; if that didn’t inspire me to want to stick with medicine, I don’t know what would.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Her alarm starts to ring, and she wrinkles her nose.

“I gotta head out to work. We’ve been short-staffed since your ‘car accident.’ That’s what we told the clinic, and school, by the way. No one questioned it. Ollie said he thought they wouldn’t, which is kinda weird? Anyway, one of the others will check on you.”

I wince, pressing my palms into my cheeks, covering my eyes.

“Would you mind… not telling them I’m awake yet? I just need some time, before I see them.”

The one nice thing about being near death and unconscious was that it gave me a get out of jail free card from facing the consequences of my actions.

“You have to talk to them eventually. And I don’t think it’s going to be as bad as you think.”

She leans forward to give me the lightest of hugs, careful not to put any pressure on me.

“There are some bandages in case the wound opens for any reason, but you shouldn’t need them—they’ve been off for a while. Your ribs and the bruising need to heal on their own, but you know this stuff… There are some painkillers here… Wes got hold of some oxy, but you should be careful with those. They’re for your physical pain, not emotional.”

She gives me a pointed look.

“Thanks, Gilly.”

“No problem. I’m really happy you’re not dead.”

I stay in bed until the sun goes down, and hours past it. I hear the guys get back, one by one. Doors slamming, the microwave beeping, water running, beers cracking. The little sounds of home. Even Elliott’s loud recounting of some inane and not funny joke he made in class fills my chest with a weird contentment.

Despite my boredom, I don’t fall asleep—like my body’s decided that a full month of rest is where we max out. I don’t get up either. If I do, they’ll know. Everyone I’ve wronged will be coming to collect.

When the door handle starts to turn, I screw my eyes shut. I relax my features, schooling my face into an impersonation of sleep.

I listen as he moves about the room, emptying his pockets, opening drawers. I hear the whirr of a motor as he turns on the inflatable mattress’s pump. Then I feel the bed dip near my hip as he sits on the edge.

“I’m mad at you.”

I almost choke in horror, but he keeps talking, and I remember that as far as he knows, I can’t hear him. Because I’m supposedly unconscious.

“You probably think I shouldn’t be, given everything. But it’s fucked up that you didn’t tell me about the dreams. The past lives. About my parents.”

I count the rhythm of my breath, to keep it steady. In two three four, out two three four, again and again. It should be meditative, should calm me, but it doesn’t.

“I know you did eventually. But only because you thought you had to. And it’s fucked up that you didn’t stay after we saw it all, explain your side. You should have told us about the imps, and the demon. You assumed we wouldn’t listen. Which I get with Ollie and Bailey, but me? It sucks you couldn’t trust me to understand. And yeah, I know you couldn’t let us bind you because you needed your magic to fight. But you just tried to give yourself up. That was really fucked.”

I wonder if he does the same thing every night, has the same back-and-forth argument with my sleeping body. His version of my side is spot-on.

“You probably think nearly dying was penance. But that was the most fucked-up part of all. I was so fucking scared; you have no idea. I know, it was a demon—maybe even the demon? It would be insane not to be scared. And yeah, facing it was terrifying, but it wasn’t as bad as afterwards. Watching Gilly trying to sew you up while you were turning… Not being able to do anything to help you… I thought you were going to die.”

He sniffs, and I hear the soft sound of fabric on skin that I know without seeing is him wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“So what, you’re not going to say anything?”

Shit.

I crack one eye open.

“Did Gilly tell you?”

“Yeah.”

Bitch.

“But I would have known anyway. Your tempo is all wrong. Your breathing doesn’t usually follow common time.”

There’s so much to say I don’t even know where to start. Except—

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what I’m apologizing for specifically; the laundry list is endless. Sorry I cheated on you, sorry I lied to you, oh yeah, definitely sorry a past version of me killed your parents and I let that same demon almost kill you too.

“It’s not good enough.”

“I know.”

I want to touch him, hold his hand, stroke his hair. Comfort him. Let him comfort me. But—

“You’re too far away.”

He pauses for a second, considering. Is this a good idea? Can we be any closer without imploding? He must decide we can, because he slips off his shoes and leans down so his body is in line with mine. He puts his arm under my neck, careful not to jostle me. I lean into him so I’m tucked against his side and rest my hand on his chest, over his heart so I can feel the rise and fall with every breath. It hurts a little, sharp stings where there’s pressure on my bruises, but it’s worth it to be near him.

“I have to leave.”

He takes a deep breath but doesn’t reply. He knew this was inevitable.

“Don’t worry about your magic—you’re strong, even on your own, and I think with the binding…”

He scowls, his hands fisting in the quilt.

“Fuck the magic. The magic is what fucked everything up. I wish I could take back Halloween—I wish we had never done that spell.”

Is that where he’d go, if he could turn back time? Back to when I was just the naked girl he found in his bed, and his cat.

“Don’t blame the magic. It just does what it’s told.”

We lay together for a while, not speaking. It’s the busiest silence, full of questions about the future, and us, if there even is an us anymore, but of course there’ll always be an us. His hand hovers absently over mine, over his heart.

“When my mother said she was hurting without Calliope… I felt that in my bones.”

I felt it too, both before and this time. How similar had Wes and I been to Lizzie and Calliope? How close to repeating history? And… are we in the clear now?

“Do you remember her?”

I sift through what I can of Calliope’s memories. I don’t have them all—and that’s normal; who remembers everything that ever happened to them? I have what’s important. Every sweet smile, every warm hug. All the good.

“Lizzie was the best. She was so beautiful—like, more than pretty—she had this wild energy that drew everyone to her. Little kids. Animals. A couple of senators. Literally everyone. You just wanted to be near her. Bask in her aura. And she knew it too.”

“But she hurt you. Her. Calliope.”

“They hurt each other.”

Calliope and Lizzie were trapped together in a cage of guilt that could only ever have festered into resentment.

“Is that what we’re doing?”

He looks so sad, and so serious. I pat his hand.

“Not anymore.”

He nods at that. It’s a promise, more than a fact.

“Can we try something?”

He asks the question tentatively, already prepared for me to shoot him down. It makes my skin prickle knowing that I made him live on edge like this, all the time.

“If it’s a threesome, I think you know that would be a very bad idea. But the answer would otherwise be yes.”

He smirks, and my heart aches in the nicest way, the best it’s felt since before it was ripped out of my chest. I love that smirk. I love being the cause of that smirk.

“That wasn’t it, but I’ll be filing that away.”

He taps his forehead. Then his face turns serious.

“Can we say… from now on… no secrets?”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I consider him.

“I don’t know about that; I don’t think you want to know everything…”

“Fine, not everything. But no big secrets. No small ones either, if there’s a chance they could get big.”

“Okay. No secrets, even if they might hurt. Especially if they might hurt, I guess.”

He chews on his lip.

“If we’re saying that… this isn’t a secret, but… me and Bailey…”

“It’s going well?”

I try to keep my voice positive, or at the very least neutral. It only sort of works, but I think he appreciates the effort.

“Not really. It’s been weird. But I like her. I really like her. I want to see where things go…”

I roll onto my back and hold my breath, waiting for the flames from the pit of my stomach to overwhelm me with anger and jealousy, so I can squash them back down. I’m pleasantly surprised when they don’t come. I ache, yes, but only a little. Nothing unbearable. Finally, I nod.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

He snorts.

“Thanks, that’s really helpful advice.”

“I’m your ex, not your therapist.”

He frowns at the label, ex. How can two little letters be all we are, after everything we were?

“That, and your familiar, I guess. I’ll always be your familiar.”

Familiar, spirit animal, companion, soulmate. I’m still all those things.

“You’re more, and you know it.”

This time, he’s the one who turns so he’s lying on his side, facing me. I meet him halfway, and shift to my side as well, so we’re face-to-face.

“You’re also my aunt.”

He doesn’t even try to hide his grin as I grimace.

“Ew! What the hell, take that back.”

I shove at his chest as he cackles.

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“You’re disgusting. Aunt fucker.”

I huff, rolling onto my back, scowling at the ceiling. He noses my ear.

“You’re my best friend.”

We’re quiet for a minute. It’s okay. This is okay. I look at the beautiful work of art that is his face and give him a sad smile.

“Do you think if I hadn’t pushed you away, we would have worked out?”

I dread his answer; it’ll break my heart all over again, either way. Either I ruined what we had for nothing, or he would have.

“I don’t know…”

His eyes are lowered, his sad half smile apologetic.

“But sometimes you know me better than I know myself.”

I sigh. I guess we’ll never know, now. I took that away from us. I killed Schrödinger’s cat before we got a chance to open the box. So now I have to be satisfied with my new lot in his life. I can still be his conscience, his philosopher cricket. The voice in his head, if not in his bed.

“Real advice? Peace doesn’t mean boring. Peace is good.”

OLLIE

I give Cleo a night and most of the next day to text me before I turn up uninvited. She looks both surprised but resigned to see me. I take a seat in Wes’s desk chair and budge it closer to the bed.

Almost out of habit, I reach over her head and trace the Berkana Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with two triangular sections attached to a vertical stem, representing birch. berkana I left on the headboard, imbuing it. The runes seem to be helping; her bruises have already healed a lot since I scrubbed the Isa Elder Futhark rune, a simple symbol consisting of a single straight vertical stroke, representing ice. isa that was holding her as Cat. I let my elbows rest heavily on my knees as I lean towards her.

“I’m really sorry, Cleo.”

She lets out a shocked laugh. “Why are you apologising to me? The isa? I forgive you, obviously; it was literally life-or-death…”

“Not that…” I trail off, distracted by the gruesome memory of the stitches in her chest tearing themselves open as she shifted. “I knew you were going through something, but I didn’t do anything about it. I could have helped.”

“You tried. I wouldn’t let you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Not really. Those… imps. And that thing. They got to you.”

“No. I mean, yes, they did. But I let them. I think I always knew, at least subconsciously, that I had done something really bad in the past. That’s why I always avoided it. Until I couldn’t anymore.” Her eyes start to water. I reach over to squeeze her hand, my palm big enough to engulf hers in its entirety. “You must hate me.”

“How can I blame you for something you didn’t even know about?” I rub my free hand over my scalp, drag it down my eyes. “I thought about it a lot, while you were… asleep. It’s not like I remembered what had happened either. I’ve tried to get into my old memories, and it’s not easy. Oliver isn’t me. Just like Calliope isn’t you.”

I can see the fear in her eyes, that she could still be like Calliope. “She’s part of me.”

“But you—Cleo—chose differently. You chose us. You went to the demon to sacrifice yourself, to save us. As much as I hate that you did that… I probably would have done the same. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to get hurt. I would have died to save our coven.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Why do you always have to be so goddamned sympathetic and understanding? It’s weird.”

“You want me to be angry at you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I still used and lied to you. That was me.”

I shrug. “I had a month to get over it. You know I can’t hold on to things for that long. And I enjoyed the sex part.”

“Yeah, you did,” she snorts as I wink.

She considers me. “What?” I ask.

“I think you know, the raven wasn’t a manifestation of a spell. It was Bertram scrying for me. I need to find him.” She tells me her plan. Drive across the country, slowly. Letting his magic guide her to him. “You could come with me.”

It’s tempting. Me and Cleo, the great American Road Trip.

But the idea of standing over the Grand Canyon without Bailey leaves me feeling heavy. I’d spend the whole time thinking of how much she’d love the view. And I’d want to hike to the bottom, which Bailey would jump at, but I can’t imagine Cleo entertaining even the suggestion of a hike.

“Bailey and I, we’re different from you and Wes. I don’t think we’ve been apart for more than a day since she found me.”

“One might argue that’s exactly why you could benefit from some time away from each other.”

“Yeah… and if she ever asked for it, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I won’t leave her if she doesn’t want me to.”

The truth is, I’d miss her too much. I’d miss watching crap TV together. I’d miss her finding new vegan recipes for me, and the look she gives me over my mum’s head when she says something ridiculous. I’d miss her head scratches, in both forms. I’d miss her smell.

Cleo nods. Leaving Wes must be tearing her apart inside, but it’s the right thing to do… for them.

We sit in companionable silence for a while, the quiet between us peaceful in a way that it never was before, because Cleo is relaxed. Before her body was always tensed, her eyes always darting to dark corners. Her attention would shift suddenly away from me, to what I now know was the imps, and then the demon.

“Did you ever hear them?” she asks, as if she was on the same train of thought.

“Yeah. I was pretty good at blocking them out, though.”

“What did they tell you?”

“That I’m an afterthought. Expendable.” That’s the shorthand version, at least.

“That sucks,” she says. But she doesn’t dispute it.

I take the long route back to our new place, jogging along the water, unnecessarily criss-crossing the bridges as I reach them. With the Christmas holidays over and Wes’s housemates back, we rented a flat a little further away from the university, where the rooms are cheaper. The guys said we were still welcome to the sofas, but Bailey insisted that we need our own space, even if it is burning through our savings.

I feel invincible, the best I’ve felt in ages, mostly thanks to these nights of dreamless sleep. But also because Cleo’s awake, getting better, and she doesn’t hate me. I don’t take it lightly that she invited me on her journey, even if I turned it down. It doesn’t hurt that the weather is nice too.

When I get back in, Bailey is sitting on the sofa in her pajamas, in the exact same spot I left her in. “You saw Cleo?”

“Yeah,” I say as I fill a glass with water from the tap. “You should have come with me.”

It makes me uneasy seeing her like this. All our lives, I’ve never known her to be lethargic.

“Wouldn’t want to intrude,” she says darkly. “Are you going to start sleeping over in the shed again?”

“If I was, that wouldn’t be any of your business.” This feels like the kind of conversation that begs for a cuppa, so I pick up the kettle and fill that too, then set it on the hob to heat up. There’s a weird lack of electric kettles in America. “What? Because things aren’t good with you and Wes anymore, I can’t see her either?”

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt by her. Again.”

“I appreciate that you’re worried about me, but that’s my decision to make.” While I wait for the water, I take out two mugs and drop a teabag in each. “What’s really wrong?”

“Nothing,” she insists, although her eyes flick guiltily to mine.

The water finally starts to boil and I pour it into the mugs, dunking the bags a few times for good measure. I feel the silence between us like a knife in the gut.

“Hey. You can still talk to me, you know?”

I wonder if I was too hasty in telling Cleo I wouldn’t go with her. Maybe she was right. Bailey and I need some space from each other.

“I know… It’s… well… Cleo’s awake—and I’m happy! Relieved even.”

Or maybe I was right. Bailey and I aren’t like Cleo and Wes. If I push Bailey, she won’t pull away.

“But?”

“But I can’t help feeling that I don’t have anything left,” she finally admits in a rush of words that leaves her breathless.

I stare at her in shock. “How can you say that?”

“It’s true, isn’t it? I’ve been looking for answers for as long as I can remember; it’s what’s been driving me. It was my… what’s that French thing? Wes would know… my raison d’être. I don’t have a dream job I’ve been working towards; I don’t have any plans for the future. All I wanted was the truth.”

“And now you have it.”

I pull the teabags and add a splash of milk to each cup to make them the perfect shade of toffee brown. I hand Bailey hers, and she wraps her long fingers around it.

“I found out what happened to my parents; we know what your nightmares are about. What do I do now?” She flops over, burying her face in a cushion and groaning. “Oh God, listen to me. I’m awful. I don’t know why you put up with me.”

“It’s okay. You’re in mourning. We all are.” Mourning the people we lost, and who we were. Figuratively, but for me and Cleo, also literally.

“Sometimes I don’t even recognise myself anymore.” She wraps her arms around her torso, squeezing herself in a hug. “It’s like I’m missing a part of me.”

I know then, unequivocally, that I made the right choice by staying.

“Then we’ll just have to find your missing piece and bring it back.”

CLEO

Once I’m awake, the rest of my healing progresses remarkably fast, although I get winded quickly and still spend most of my time horizontal. As soon as I’m able, I relocate to my shed. Wes gives me shit about it at first, but how are we supposed to work on being comfortable apart when I’m sleeping in his bed? Even if he is on the floor. Gilly offers to let me crash with her, but all I really want is somewhere to be alone and lick my wounds.

It isn’t hard to convince the college admissions office that I need more time off ‘for my health.’ The scar on my chest is a jagged red bolt that runs from the top of my sternum to the bottom of my ribs. The woman handling my case can’t stop her eyes from drifting to where it peeks out the collar of my shirt. I already missed so much of the semester I end up withdrawing. They say they’ll hold my place for when I come back in the fall.

If I come back.

The last person to visit me in my convalescence is Bailey. I’m surprised at how long it takes her to work up to it. Like Ollie, she isn’t one to let unfinished business fester.

She knocks softly on the door and I call for her to come in. She perches on the end of the cot, so that she doesn’t have to look directly at me. I look at her, though.

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

I’m proud of myself for how easy it is to say. I guess I’ve had a lot of practice apologizing over the last couple of days. She takes a deep breath, and I get the sense I’m about to be on the receiving end of a tidal wave of pent-up feelings.

“I feel like you stole my chance to be angry. We found out about Calliope and how she killed our parents, then you went and got hurt—for us—and now what? How miserable a person do I have to be to still hold it against you when you were going to sacrifice yourself to save me?”

Her skin glows, hot with passion. She looks so conflicted, and beautiful. Her shoulders slump, but only slightly—her posture is still perfect.

“Ollie keeps telling me that it was Calliope, and that she wasn’t you, but it was, sort of. Or… at the very least, you’re all that’s left of her that I can blame.”

I nod. That’s fair. I’m not Calliope now, but she is everything I almost was, and could still be. The worst of me, as if I’m not already bad enough. In her I can see how easy it would be to twist me, to hurt the person—people—I love. How close I was to doing the same thing.

She chews on her lower lip, as if she regrets what she wants to say but also knows it needs to be said.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you. At least not yet. Maybe not ever.”

I’ve never felt more connected to her than in her bitterness. Who better than me to understand the need to hold on to hate? But Bailey isn’t like me. She isn’t spiteful, but she’s honest. I admire that she isn’t willing to pretend she’s been able to move on. And isn’t anger preferable to apathy? I lean forward, closer to her.

“I think you probably will, eventually. Because you’re a compassionate person. But if the answer really is never… I get it.”

She finally turns and meets my eye.

“I am sorry for my part in it all. I know that us coming here… disrupted things.”

The biggest understatement. Before they got here, I was just Cleo, and sometimes Cat. Wes was just Wes. There were no spells, or demons, and we were protected by the shield of our ignorance. I shrug.

“I’m not.”

The truth was a tumor. It needed to come out.

She fidgets.

“It probably doesn’t look like it, but I am still planning on holding up my end of our bargain. You did the spell, I give up Wes. I’ve been keeping him at a distance, I promise, I just didn’t want to leave until we knew that you were okay, but now…”

“I don’t want that.”

I’m surprised to find I’m not lying. I don’t want Bailey to give Wes up because of some dumb deal we made when I was heavily under the influence of a demonic horde. If they don’t work out, I want it to be because they fucked it up themselves.

I guess I’m still working on my generosity of spirit.

“No, I promised. That means something to me.”

I watch her as I consider all the terms of our agreement. Maybe this is about more than her and Wes.

“Do you still want me to leave Ollie alone?”

She looks guilty and torn.

“No. That wasn’t fair of me. It wasn’t my place to ask. He’s his own person. If he wants to do… whatever it is you guys were doing… that’s his choice.”

I nod, my decision made.

“Bailey, I release you from our bargain. Consider it null and void. I didn’t really hold up my side anyhow. Ollie pulled me back into the spell. I wasn’t going to finish it. So… if you and Wes want to pursue something, you have my blessing. Not that you need it.”

She takes a deep, cleansing breath. In through her nose, out through her mouth, like they teach you at yoga.

“Thank you. But I think I’m still going to go home.”

She waves her hand over herself, shaking her head.

“This isn’t me. I don’t whine over guys—especially ones who aren’t even emotionally available. Frankly, I don’t know that I like who I am right now. When we met you guys it was like our whole lives compacted in. Our magic, of course, but you’re also the only people we know here… you and Wes were our whole world. It’s not healthy.”

I totally get it.

“And Wes needs time too. If something did happen between us… I would want it to be because he actually likes me. I wouldn’t want to be a rebound.”

My battered heart gives a painful little squeeze, but maybe the fact that it can feel anything at all is making me generous.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you would be.”

She stands to leave. Everyone keeps coming in here and saying these deep and important things, and then leaving me to wallow in them. No one ever just hangs out anymore. Not that I can really blame them.

“Hey, Bailey? Happy birthday. Sorry, I think I’m a couple of days late. February first, right?”

She looks surprised. She never told me her birthday, but I know it. Cat knows it. Exactly nine months after the Beltane before the Beltane. Imbolc, the midpoint between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. It’s supposed to be a celebration of hope—pretty fitting for Bailey.

“Did you guys celebrate? Have a party? Do a spell?”

She shakes her head, her fingers absently peeling at the paper covering the windows. I don’t mind. I won’t be here much longer.

“Not really… no one was in the mood.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“Sorry. Add it to my tab, I guess. I hope you got to make a birthday wish, at least.”

She smiles at that, a small, pleased curve of her lips that makes her cheeks dimple, and I know she got what she asked for. A wish is a spell, for a witch, or at least an intention.

“I did, actually.”

CAT

The house is safe. There have been no more Nots, and the wards are strong. There is a moth that floats through the living room. I catch it for sport, crushing it between my jaws. If the Nots return, we will be ready.

He sleeps alone. He leaves the door open for us, so we can come and go as we please. We do not lie on his pillow, but we watch him from our new place on the dresser.

We are not his lover, and we are not his sister. Not his aunt. We will be his friend.

But there is still something between us. One more story to learn. We begin…

We awoke in a damp pile of ash and rubble.

He opens one eye.

What?

We used Perthro Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol with a vertical stem and outward-pointing upper and lower sections, representing a cauldron. perthro to cloak ourselves, and began the long journey home.

Can you shut up? It’s like three a.m.

We found the house in mourning, from gardens to gables.

Our story falls on deaf ears. He sighs as he stands, and scoops us into his arms. He squeezes us in his arms under the covers.

Shhh…

CLEO

One nice thing about my shed life is that it has readily prepared me for van life. I already have minimal belongings, so all my stuff fits in the limited storage space, and with its own bathroom and mini-kitchen, the van is possibly even an upgrade. I had hoped to find one of those cool little refurbished VW buses, but in the end I land on a plain white Sprinter, mostly because it’s the cheapest thing I could find readily available to rent.

“Oh, we gotta get you one of these…”

Wes pats the display model of a two-hundred-dollar speaker and starts scanning the shelves for it. He insisted on this shopping spree as a van-warming gift, to make sure I have everything I need. Frying pans, jumper cables, pepper spray, that kind of stuff. I was going to turn him down, but as Gilly pointed out, Wes is stupid rich, so if he wants to burn his money on me, I should let him.

“I already have a portable speaker.”

“That piece of crap you got free from the student center on move-in day two years ago? The sound quality is so shitty on that thing you might as well use a plastic cup.”

“Fine. But let the record show, I think my speaker is fine.”

“Fine, but the record also shows you’re wrong.”

He spots the box on the top shelf. As he reaches up to grab it, his shirt lifts, flashing bright orange on the skin over the waistband of his pants. I narrow my eyes.

“What the fuck is that?”

He follows my accusing stare, confused, then grins.

“Oh. Yeah. New ink.”

He turns his back to me and lifts his shirt to show it off. A tiger snarls from its perch over his liver, surrounded by swirls of flame and smoke. It’s different from his other pieces; the lines are thicker, the colors more bold, almost cartoonish—or they will be once it’s completely healed. I blink.

“Is that a Huion?”

“Yeah. It was the weirdest thing. She reached out to confirm my appointment, only I don’t remember making one. And it was already paid for.”

He looks over his shoulder at me, his mouth twisting to one side. I meet his knowing look with a shrug.

“That is weird. Maybe the black mold is back?”

On closer inspection, it isn’t truly a tiger—its stripes aren’t black, they’re other shades of orange, its ears are pointy, and its eyes are green. As he turns away to put the speaker in our cart, I allow myself a small smile. He catches me.

“I like knowing she’s always got my back, ya know?”

I sigh.

“Speaking of. I need you to write me a spell.”

“What kind?”

He doesn’t try to hide his curiosity, nor does he ask why I don’t find an existing song like we usually do. I easily could, but I think something from Wes would be more potent.

“Another memory.”

He looks pained.

“Aren’t we done with that?”

“Almost.”

For our last spell before we leave, we go back to the old house. The trees outside are starting to sprout their new leaves, although we can see where the woods transition to where the fire raged. The burnt trunks jut straight up from the ground like spent matchsticks. It didn’t cover enough ground to reach anything residential; the fire department got it under control before any of the fancy mansions that border the park were damaged, I’m relieved to hear. I feel guilty enough about the ecological harm we caused. As usual, I wasn’t considering the wider repercussions when we decided to burn it all back to hell. Although this time, even Ollie said he didn’t think we had a better choice.

This spell is different from the ones we’ve done before—since Wes wrote the song, he’s the only one who knows it. The rest of us have to trust that he’ll direct our magic in good faith. Ollie gnaws on his knuckles when we tell them.

“Are the words pretty direct? Will it be obvious what the intention is?”

Bailey puts a reassuring hand on his arm. She’s curious about this new way of doing magic. She looks more peaceful than when I last saw her, but she’s still missing that little spark I used to find so annoying.

“It’s a memory spell. Someone’s been keeping secrets.”

Ollie’s mouth drops as my eyebrow quirks at him.

“Me?!”

The remnants of our last memory spell are still on the floor in the ruins of the living room, covered in a thin layer of damp ash. We sweep everything into black garbage bags that we leave on the curb before we take our places. We don’t bother with a fire, or water, or a mirror this time. We don’t even use salt. The magic will be content to do what we ask without them. We don’t hold hands either, since Wes’s are occupied with his guitar. He starts picking out a simple melody.

“When my father went to the castle,

He took my mother with him.

When my father went to the fire,

They left me alone behind.”

This song isn’t like his usual work; it’s nothing like “Cricket,” that’s for sure. There’s no growling, no angst. There isn’t even much subtext or metaphor; he keeps the lyrics simple.

“When my mother went to the castle,

She took something with her.”

It’s folksy and nostalgic and sweet. It’s them. It’s not a love song, exactly, but it’s not not a love song. And even though it isn’t about us, he wrote it sprawled on the floor of the shed, while Cat slept on his back.

“When my mother went to the fire,

She left something behind.”

The magic finds us quickly, eagerly.

“You’re sure you won’t want it this weekend?” Michael asked, back hunched to fit into the tiny space. I stayed on my haunches, the fresh straw tickling my ankles.

“No,” Nina said firmly, kissing the top of Bailey’s head. She inhaled deeply in the baby’s hair, getting her fix of that addictive smell. “The book belongs at home.”

Ruth put the book carefully in the hollow space, and motioned for me to replace the floorboard. Over the wood she drew Dagaz Elder Futhark rune, an angular hourglass-like symbol with vertical sides and crossing diagonal strokes, representing dawn. dagaz for safety and security. As if anyone would think to rob the chicken coop.

“You can never be too careful,” she clucked.

The spell releases as quickly as it took us in, but we’ve seen all we need to.

“That was my mother’s spell book. The one we’ve been trying to put back together.”

Bailey’s voice is breathless, and I note the way her fingers grip Ollie’s, her eyes alight with hope. Wes grins, pure pleasure from seeing her happy. His smile’s not for me, but I love it just the same.

“Cleo had a hunch Oliver might have known where it was.”

Ollie’s brow crinkles with a frown.

“But your house doesn’t have a chicken coop.”

“Maybe we used to?”

She clicks her tongue unconsciously as she ponders. Her eyes land on me.

“You think the book survived?”

I shrug, feigning indifference. Don’t let anyone say I never did anything for anyone.

Later that evening, while Bailey and Ollie are back at their Airbnb packing, Wes and I sit on the front porch in the dark. We sit on opposite sides of the step, four feet of emptiness between us. I have a beer and he has his guitar, but even though he holds it in place he doesn’t play anything.

“Do you think it’s me?”

“Is what you?”

“Everyone’s leaving. It’s hard not to take that a little personally.”

He injects some irony in his tone, but it does little to mask his vulnerability. Not long ago, if he had asked me to stay, I would have without question, even though it would be the wrong choice. He knows it too, so he won’t ask. That’s different, as well. I take a sip of my beer.

“You’re a force. I don’t mean it in a bad way. But it’s hard not to get swept away in you. We need to learn to anchor ourselves. And then… maybe we can come back.”

He nods, accepting my answer, and goes back to his guitar, humming softly to himself as he picks at the strings. I watch him—I would say I’m memorizing him: the calluses on his long fingers, the tilt of his head, the way his T-shirt hangs between his shoulder blades, but I don’t need to. In a hundred lifetimes I don’t think I could forget him.

“What will you do?”

“I think I’m going to write more.”

“Music?”

“Spells.”

A small swell of gratitude rises in my throat, enough to still my breath but not enough to choke me. He doesn’t really hate the magic, not like Lizzie did in the end. He’s still his father’s son, and I can see now that he has the very best parts of Tripp. He’s patient, determined, and unquenchably drawn to exploring and discovering.

I start murmuring the words along with him without noticing. I feel a pang when I recognize what we’re singing. It’s not one of his, but it’s one we both know well. There’s power behind the words, and I wonder if every song will call like a spell from now on; will I ever be able to listen to music without my magic rising in response?

‘Moon River.’

For someone else, it would have been a binding spell, tying us together, like what the old coven did at the beginning of their Beltane rite. But my soul is already so inextricably tangled in Wes, it’s more of a promise. A vow to always come back to each other. In whatever form that means.

“Hello, Trouble.”

Ollie leans in the open doorway of the van, hanging from an arm propped on the top of the frame. Even though he’s ducking slightly, the top of his hair still grazes the ceiling.

I probably shouldn’t have left the door open at this time of night, but I was trying to air out the smell of bleach I used to scour every solid surface earlier. Plus, it’s a pretty night; it seems like a shame to waste it.

“I went by the shed, but you weren’t there.”

“All my stuff was already loaded up, figured I might as well try out the new digs.”

Ollie’s either polite or smart enough not to ask why I don’t just sleep in the house. Even as Cat, we haven’t since we released Bailey from our deal. Since we gave Wes back to her.

“Wanted to give you these.”

He hands me a long yellow fabric pouch. The brown logo is so faded it’s almost difficult to read, but I’d know Bananagrams anywhere. He winks at me.

“Don’t mind the bag; I nicked it from the Airbnb.”

Its contents clack in my hands as I turn it over. I unzip it and shake some wooden tiles into my hand, runes carefully carved into their surfaces. Appropriately, the first one I turn over is Raido Elder Futhark rune, an angular symbol resembling an R with a triangular upper section and diagonal leg, representing a wheel. raido, the wheel—journey. The corner of my mouth twitches up against my will.

“My very own set of runes?”

“I carved them while you were recovering. Gave me something to focus on.”

The tiles are lighter in color than Ollie’s set, less yellow. I sniff the one in my hand, woodsy and sweet. Maple, probably from the tree in the backyard.

I nod to where my laptop sits on the counter, angled at the bed, waiting for me to press play.

“Want to watch a movie?”

The bed is raised over a bunch of storage, so I usually have to hop to get up there. That’s not a problem for Ollie, who sprawls out lazily. He pats the empty space in front of him for me. I cross my arms.

“That wasn’t an invitation to cuddle.”

“Well, I don’t know how else you think we’re going to both fit. And here was me thinking the shed was small…”

He has a point, although I’d never admit it. I slide the door shut and grudgingly crawl onto the mattress next to him, laying my head on his extended arm. He slings his other arm over my waist so he’s spooning me, both of us facing the computer screen.

To his credit, he waits at least eight minutes before he starts feeling me up. I ignore his fingers as they slip under my T-shirt, dipping into the waistband of my shorts at my hips. They skate across the skin of my belly, up past my ribs. He draws in a sharp breath when he discovers I’m not wearing a bra, his fingers now wholly fixated on circling my nipple. He presses his hard-on into the backs of my thighs.

“I’m sorry; is this piece of classic American cinema boring you?”

“That’s okay. I’m keeping myself well enough entertained.”

He turns his attention to my ear and my neck, kissing and licking at my skin. The arm I’m lying on somehow snakes its way into the neck of my shirt so that one hand can focus on my breast while the other returns to my waistband.

I continue to pretend to give a fuck about what’s happening on-screen while Ollie’s fingers stay respectfully on the outside of my underwear, tracing along the seam. But I can’t help but grind against him when they slip under the fabric, finding my slick flesh. He groans, and I resist crying out in protest when his fingers leave, especially since it’s only to pull down my shorts and thong.

“Don’t think you need these anymore, hmm?”

“I might.”

I definitely don’t. He drags them over my legs past my feet, dropping them somewhere on the floor in front of us. When his hand returns, he hooks my knee over his leg, opening me up for deeper exploration.

I finally give in and lean back into him, twisting my neck so my lips meet his. He slips a finger into me, his thumb circling over my clit, and I reach my arm behind me, between us. He helps me pull his basketball shorts down so I can wrap my fist around his dick. It’s a sensory overload everywhere I’m being touched and touching, so when he uses two fingers to trace Ingwaz Elder Futhark rune, a compact diamond-like symbol formed by intersecting angular strokes, representing an egg. ingwaz right around my clit the casting flares like fireworks between us. He chuckles and I snarl at him.

“Don’t be smug.”

“No, it’s just… they always say to make letters with your tongue, you know? Never occurred to me to use runes till you showed me.”

“That’s why I’m the brains of the operation.”

It’s hard to sound superior while writhing and panting, but I give it my all. Heat washes over my whole body as I start to cum. He waits for my moans to quiet a little before he takes his hand away so he can put on a condom, returning to the same position with us on our sides as he enters me from behind.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m going to finish fast, but I bought a three-pack, so give me fifteen minutes and we’ll go a little slower.”

I laugh, more of a gasping hiccup since I’m still very much enjoying my orgasm, prolonged by his thrusts.

It’s nice that it can be like this between us—no ulterior motives, or distracting him from digging, or distracting myself from thinking about someone else. Just friendly and fun and satisfying. It gives me the tiniest modicum of hope for the future.

“So, you’re going to text me every night when you stop. And in the morning—”

As Ollie lectures me, he piles their bags into the aisle of the van, between my bench seat and the counter. He snuck out at dawn to check out of their place, since Bailey was still sequestered away with Wes. I tried not to think about that. It wasn’t like I was alone either.

I offered Ollie and Bailey a ride to the airport. It’s part of my shiny new good attitude. They got rid of their rental car over a month ago, right after New Year’s. They got charged a cleaning fee for the pet hair, and the smell of smoke that no amount of air freshener could mask. It could have been worse; at least the upholstery was black, so the agent couldn’t see the extent of the bloodstains in the back seat.

“Yes, I know, and all of you have my location so you can stalk me like the weirdos you are.”

As if Gilly hadn’t already read me the riot act about what would happen if I failed to check in with her daily. It’s kind of nice, knowing that someone out there gives a damn if I live or die.

The front door of the house opens and Wes emerges, Bailey trailing morosely after him. He pauses and turns back to her. The pads of his thumbs trace her jaw as they kiss, him memorizing her face with his hands. I try not to watch. In the back seat, Ollie is doing the same. But his face doesn’t have the guarded expression he used to get when he was pretending not to have feelings for Bailey. I give him a wry smile.

“You could still come with me. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

He shakes his head.

“No. She needs me, especially now that you’ve got her on this new mission to find the grimoire. And anyway, there isn’t enough room. We’d probably last all of two days before you got annoyed and kicked me out of the van, and then where would I be? Hitchhiking along Route 66 and getting murdered, no doubt.”

“I would murder you myself, and it would be way before we got to Route 66.”

His eyes darken.

“It wouldn’t be the first time…”

I snort with laughter. Who knew the dog and I would have a similar sense of humor?

In the mirror we watch as Wes and Bailey finally separate, Bailey swiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie. Taking her hand, he walks her over to where I’m parked on the street. From the back of the van, he looks at me. I give him a small smile.

“Bye.”

I hold my hand up in farewell from where I stand, half in and half out of the driver’s seat. His brow furrows at me.

“No. Fuck that.”

He strides over to me and pulls me into the tightest hug. My arms come up to wrap around him automatically, and I bury my face in his chest. I take one last deep breath of the smell of matches and tobacco that will forever remind me of home.

That’s all I allow myself. I don’t let my fingers graze the skin beneath his shirt, or my lips touch his. I don’t even try for a peck on the cheek. That privilege belongs to someone else now.

And she’s currently buckling herself into the passenger seat. He releases me to go back to her, for one last kiss good-bye. I focus on making sure my phone is hooked up and my playlist is loaded. I check my mirrors, and as I adjust the rearview, I catch Ollie’s gaze in the reflection. He’s also politely trying to give them privacy. Wes closes the door for Bailey and slaps the roof with his palm, telling me it’s safe to drive away. As if I don’t know.

I watch him in the mirror as I pull the van forward. He stands in the middle of the street, waving until we’re out of view. There’s a soft sigh, and for a second I think it’s me, but Bailey is leaning out the window, looking back at him. I feel a squeeze on my hand and look down to find her fingers wrapped around my own, desperate to connect with the only person in the world who can understand exactly how she’s feeling right now. Even if she hates me.

There’s a familiar tug at my heart, but my old friend envy has faded into something less vivid. It’s a different kind of potent, a mix of nostalgia and yearning with the shadow of grief.

I reach forward to turn the volume up and blast the first song I’ve chosen for the ride. As Taylor Swift demands firmly and repeatedly that we ‘shake it off,’ Ollie claps his hand on my shoulder, lightly.

“You’re alright, Cleo.”

Bailey laughs, a short bark of pleasure despite her sadness, and my lips curl in satisfaction as warmth fills my chest.

CAT

On the first night, we curl up on the cushioned driver’s seat of the parked van. We are not used to our new bed yet.

When we close our eyes, we dream of the Raven.

Bertram.

His wings flap over deserts, freeways, oceans. They beat the currents of air like war drums.

Tonight, we do not fight. We welcome him.

His beady black eyes contain a furious gleam when they find us.

I see you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is my baby, and (as I’m sure you’ve heard) it takes a village to raise a child. My village is a whole city.

My editor Hydia Scott-Riley, thank you for taking a chance on me and for loving these characters as much as I do. The rest of the team at Emily Bestler Books/Atria who brought this book to life: Emily Bestler, Libby McGuire, Dana Trocker, Karlyn Hixon, Sierra Swanson, Aleaha Reneé, Jimmy Iacobelli, Amanda Hudson, Paige Lytle, Shelby Pumphrey, Annette Sweeney, and Barbara Wild.

My agent (and friend) Emma Kapson, who fights all my battles, especially my internal ones. No one rides for Cleo the way you do. The rest of my team: Sukee Chew, Manal Hamad, Michael Chung, Jillian Holch, Annie Lee, Sara Nestor. The real unsung heroes: all the assistants who field calls and find scripts and have to follow up about meetings because I forget to reply. Richard Arcus, for your work on my British-isms and for interrogating your young neighbor on my behalf. My sweet beta readers: Christian Pittman, Sarah Stein, Quinn Madden, Ora Damelin, Emma Patz, Noa Weiner. Shazdeh Hussein, and Jessica Malanaphy—you know why.

Liz Kerin, thank you for changing my life. For telling me this was worth writing when I was barely past the midpoint. For reading multiple versions, for your notes, for talking out other people’s notes, for replying to random non-sequitur texts and emails, for introducing me to your agents and friends, for being the best hype woman. And also, thank you for the knife. Rebekah Faubion, for immediately taking me under your wing and helping me navigate this amazing but strange process.

Getting to write as a day job is such a privilege, and doing it with people I actually like is an unbelievable gift. The DET Writing Program team, especially Liz Kelly and the class of ’23. My Tracker family, both current and previous. River Greenlee, for the inspiration for Elliott’s nun poster and for answering random questions about what cool kids do from your mom’s weird work friend. My work-wife Jai Franklin Sarki, for lending me your son. Valerie Chu, who will always answer yes to “should we go to London?” We’re a published author! Although nothing will be as cool as that time we (you) won an Emmy.

Connor Barry, my forever literary other half. Gensho Tasaka, fellow code-switcher and my official resource for cool music. Luke Wang, the only person I speak to on the phone with any regularity. Adam Mortimer, who was the beginning of this if not the end. The Venn diagram of the boys who have been shitty to me, and the boys I’ve been shitty to.

The purest relationship in this book is between Cleo and Gilly, and that couldn’t exist without my love for and from these girls: Adelle Ho, Beverly Fong, Rachana Seelam, Rekha Krishnasarma, Rona Hightower, Shannon Dodani, Sonia Alwani, Su Ling Goh. The group chat: Lena Volodarsky, Melissa Tsoi, Michelle Lee, who will find some familiar moments in this book, and who get texts at all kinds of inconvenient times with questions like “do Americans say prise?” (no) and “do we think people still use the word horny?” (yes?). Nicole Flores, who brought me to Boston to make a movie while I licked my wounds.

My extended family, in all its forms. The Stones +, Rachel, Tom, Andrew, Sarah, Zack; thank you for all your love and support. The Mortlocks, especially the Plymouth lot (who are not all legally Mortlocks, but emotionally): Aunty Belinda, Debbie, Tabitha, Harry. If you got this far it’s too late now, but I hope you skipped the pages I (hopefully) told you to.

The Wee Clan: thank you for my love of books and your love of me. Alex, Mel, Aunty Carol, and sweet baby Soph, the only person who thinks I’m cool. Uncle John and Aunty Cyn who took me to Borders as a child and when I was deliberating between which book in a stack to choose said, “Why? Just get them all,” and then bought me all. You started my best bad habit.

My brother Dom, the ultimate dog boy, who used to be the youngest person I know but is now pretty old. Thanks for your knowledge of pot. Mum, who always reads in bed and has kept everything I have ever created and forces guests to watch my episodes of TV when they come over. Dad, who was the best storyteller. I’m so sad we never got to have the conversation where I banned you from reading the sex scenes.

Last but most, Will Stone: husband, dog dad, graphic designer, content creator, and everything in-between. Thank you for being my number one cheerleader, even when I ruin every holiday to follow my dream of writing. And for loving me best.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

© WILL STONE

AMANDA MORTLOCK is an author and screenwriter from the UK and Singapore. Deciding she was only really interested in reading books and watching TV, Amanda went to college in Los Angeles, where she still lives with her husband, two bad dogs, and COVID-era sourdough starter. Besides novels, she also writes for the hit CBS series Tracker.

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Interior design by Janet Evans-Scanlon

Cover design by Amanda Hudson

Cover images by Adobe Stock, Getty Images, Pexels, and Shutterstock

Library of Congress Control Number: 2026943986

ISBN 978-1-6682-0577-8 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6682-0578-5 (ebook)