Closing my eyes, I call back the memory of the owl, the hot swirl of it in my chest, the powerful feel of wings unfurling from my body. I feel the wind in my face as we soared through the sky, the desert floor rising up to meet us.
I open my eyes and hold up my hands and try to call it up again, even just a flicker of that intense white light.
But it’s truly gone.
Five
STEVIE
The wind kicks up, the clouds I escaped on the Grande now drenching Guadalupe Street. From my seat at the counter, I watch out the window as Luke’s mother Rita scurries from Bruno’s Bagel Shack into her adjacent pottery studio, losing her newspaper in the process. It catches on the current and flaps down the street like a drunken bird.
There’s a quick flash in the distance, followed by an ominous rumble. The brunt of the storm hasn’t hit this part of town yet, but it’s coming.
“Just checked the news.” Jessa’s back, handing me a mug of soothing blackberry vanilla tea. “Storm’s supposed to blow right by.”
“And take Rita with it, apparently.” I watch as the woman runs back outside for her newspaper. Now she’s a drunken bird, too—arms flapping, obnoxious turquoise hair streaming out behind her, red dress billowing.
“Is Luke with her?”
“He’s probably stuck on the rock, at least until the storm breaks.” I sip my tea, grateful for the warmth. “Rita might not even know he’s in town. Judging from his clothes, he was basically plucked off the beach and deposited in that cave.”
“Dark mage possessions. Owl spirits. Flying.” Jessa slumps onto the adjacent stool and blows out a breath. “That’s one hell of a magickal morning for a girl who doesn’t even dabble.”
Silence descends, the rain pattering the windows. No hail here yet—maybe that’s a good sign.
Absently I run my hand over Mom’s grimoire, still sitting on the counter. Jessa follows my gaze, her brow furrowed. She’s worried about me—I can feel it in her energy. The questions are already percolating in her mind.
But the words don’t come.
I’ve known Jessa since Kindergarten, right after her family emigrated to Tres Búhos. She’s not a witch, but her adoptive parents are. So when we were kids, she got all the bullying and fear-mongering that comes with being part of a witch family, but none of the magick. I had the magick, but wasn’t allowed to learn about it, talk about it, or use it. The two of us bonded hard and fast, and we’ve been inseparable ever since; even when her parents decided to move back to Mexico our senior year, Jessa stayed here, moving in with my family so we could keep working at the café together until graduation, when we were supposed to figure out college stuff.
Plans changed when my parents died. I deferred enrollment at Arizona State—no way was I shuttering Kettle Black, my parents’ lifelong dream. And Jessa? Well, she stuck by my side, through all of it. Still does.
In all the ways that count, she’s my sister, and has been since the first day we met. We don’t keep secrets between us—not on purpose.
But there’s one thing we’ve simply never talked about.
My mother’s magickal history.
It was always a forbidden topic of conversation in our house, and after my parents died, it felt wrong to open up the floodgates on our endless speculation. I was supposed to be forgetting about it, just like my parents wanted, and Jessa wanted to help me in whatever way she could.
But since those early days, she’s seen me with the grimoire, sitting at the plastic patio table behind our estate, paging through it with a pen and journal at the ready as if deciphering my mother’s cryptic words might bring her back to us.
She’s always had the grace to keep quiet about it, let me figure it out on my own.
But apparently, dark mage possessions, owl spirits, and flying changes all that.
“Stevie,” she finally says, “you can’t keep doing this.”
“It’s the only connection I have to that part of her, Jess. I can’t let it go.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Youcan’tlet it go. Youshouldn’tlet it go. You’re a full-blooded, natural-born witch. And you’ve never gotten the opportunity to explore your powers, be around other witches, or even learn about magick.”
“My parents—”
“Your parents aregone.” Jessa stands from her stool, pacing the café floor. “Stevie, I’m sorry, but it has to be said. I understand you’re trying to honor their memory, but all you’re doing is living in the past.”
“That’s not true! I’m trying—”
