Sammy, in Sammy’s kitchen.
They’d been bugging her for months to join them to meet their
coven. Usually, Sunday didn’t flinch when her friends talked shop.
She let them go on to their hearts’ content, grinning, nodding, and
staying mum while they talked. To Kayla and Sammy, Sunday’s
nonchalance meant only one thing: she was a potential recruit for
their coven. At first, the invitations to join them for esbat, or
coven reunions, were gentle nudges. Months later, their requests
had grown more blatant. In the last week, they’d become
relentless.
Silently grinning and bearing it was
Sunday’s usual go-to avoidance tactic, but that method had lost its
effectiveness. At this point, she was well past tiptoeing around
their invitations. Explaining to her friends why she couldn’t join some stupid, probably lame, and innocuous
coven was the last thing Sunday wanted to do. As her friends’
involvement with their coven increased, rejecting them outright
meant threatening their friendship.
For Sunday, witchcraft wasn’t something that
quiet, happy mundanes engaged in while someone else baked scones.
Witchcraft was something real and potentially extremely dangerous.
Sunday was the Incarnate, a purported god-kind and preternatural
conduit of magical and mystical forces. It was the bane of her
existence, and for years, since breaking from the servitude of the
most powerful witch in the United States, Sunday had run free and
clear of all Fate’s designs for her. She’d been running non-stop
for six years when she landed in Columbia. There, she found the
only thing she’d ever wanted for herself: the chance to live a
normal life, a life of being something other than the
Incarnate.
Of course, her normal life with her normal
friends was turning out to be anything but. As Kayla and Sammy
flipped their twin golden ponytails and sipped from their
mid-morning coffees, they stared at her with expectant eyes and
eager smiles.
“You really need to come with, Sunday,”
Kayla said. “It’s not what you think. It’s less ‘Satan’ and more
‘knitting circle’, except with no knitting and more chanting.”
Kayla and Sammy shared knowing smiles,
pleased with the former’s description of their coven. Placing her
coffee mug on the table, Kayla leaned onto her elbows and twirled a
long strand of hair around her finger. Brows pinched and eyes
narrowed, Kayla searched Sunday’s expression as she considered ways
to make her offer more enticing. Sunday was sure that if she stared
into Kayla’s eyes, she would see the wheels spinning.
“It’s like…” Kayla’s voice stalled as she
came up empty-handed. She quickly looked to Sammy with a silent
plea for help.
“It’s like magic,” Sammy continued. When she
said magic , Sammy raised her hands and wiggled her fingers,
miming butterflies fluttering away. As trite as the gesture was,
Sammy’s lips fixed into a tight line and her jaw set tight.
Magic. Sunday forced a grin as she
gulped hard. Could she have expected any different? No matter how
far she ran or how hard she tried to escape it, Fate nipped at her
heels. If Kayla and Sammy weren’t her only friends, perhaps Sunday
would have packed up her things and left Columbia the minute they
confided in her for the first time. “You’ll probably think we’re
flakes, but we’re Wiccan.”
“I just don’t think there’s any point to my
going along. It’s really not my thing,” Sunday mumbled. She dug her
fingers in her hair and looked up at her friends with pleading in
her eyes.
“You don’t know if it’s your thing—”
Kayla started with a smile.
“ Yet .” Sammy beamed, her eyes wide
and sparkling, and a broad, bright smile painted across her
face.
“It’s white magic, not black
magic ,” Kayla explained for the umpteenth time in the last
year. She tried to place her hand on Sunday’s for encouragement,
but Sunday quickly pulled away and dropped her hands to her
lap.
Since Sunday was sorely out of
They’d been bugging her for months to join them to meet their
coven. Usually, Sunday didn’t flinch when her friends talked shop.
She let them go on to their hearts’ content, grinning, nodding, and
staying mum while they talked. To Kayla and Sammy, Sunday’s
nonchalance meant only one thing: she was a potential recruit for
their coven. At first, the invitations to join them for esbat, or
coven reunions, were gentle nudges. Months later, their requests
had grown more blatant. In the last week, they’d become
relentless.
Silently grinning and bearing it was
Sunday’s usual go-to avoidance tactic, but that method had lost its
effectiveness. At this point, she was well past tiptoeing around
their invitations. Explaining to her friends why she couldn’t join some stupid, probably lame, and innocuous
coven was the last thing Sunday wanted to do. As her friends’
involvement with their coven increased, rejecting them outright
meant threatening their friendship.
For Sunday, witchcraft wasn’t something that
quiet, happy mundanes engaged in while someone else baked scones.
Witchcraft was something real and potentially extremely dangerous.
Sunday was the Incarnate, a purported god-kind and preternatural
conduit of magical and mystical forces. It was the bane of her
existence, and for years, since breaking from the servitude of the
most powerful witch in the United States, Sunday had run free and
clear of all Fate’s designs for her. She’d been running non-stop
for six years when she landed in Columbia. There, she found the
only thing she’d ever wanted for herself: the chance to live a
normal life, a life of being something other than the
Incarnate.
Of course, her normal life with her normal
friends was turning out to be anything but. As Kayla and Sammy
flipped their twin golden ponytails and sipped from their
mid-morning coffees, they stared at her with expectant eyes and
eager smiles.
“You really need to come with, Sunday,”
Kayla said. “It’s not what you think. It’s less ‘Satan’ and more
‘knitting circle’, except with no knitting and more chanting.”
Kayla and Sammy shared knowing smiles,
pleased with the former’s description of their coven. Placing her
coffee mug on the table, Kayla leaned onto her elbows and twirled a
long strand of hair around her finger. Brows pinched and eyes
narrowed, Kayla searched Sunday’s expression as she considered ways
to make her offer more enticing. Sunday was sure that if she stared
into Kayla’s eyes, she would see the wheels spinning.
“It’s like…” Kayla’s voice stalled as she
came up empty-handed. She quickly looked to Sammy with a silent
plea for help.
“It’s like magic,” Sammy continued. When she
said magic , Sammy raised her hands and wiggled her fingers,
miming butterflies fluttering away. As trite as the gesture was,
Sammy’s lips fixed into a tight line and her jaw set tight.
Magic. Sunday forced a grin as she
gulped hard. Could she have expected any different? No matter how
far she ran or how hard she tried to escape it, Fate nipped at her
heels. If Kayla and Sammy weren’t her only friends, perhaps Sunday
would have packed up her things and left Columbia the minute they
confided in her for the first time. “You’ll probably think we’re
flakes, but we’re Wiccan.”
“I just don’t think there’s any point to my
going along. It’s really not my thing,” Sunday mumbled. She dug her
fingers in her hair and looked up at her friends with pleading in
her eyes.
“You don’t know if it’s your thing—”
Kayla started with a smile.
“ Yet .” Sammy beamed, her eyes wide
and sparkling, and a broad, bright smile painted across her
face.
“It’s white magic, not black
magic ,” Kayla explained for the umpteenth time in the last
year. She tried to place her hand on Sunday’s for encouragement,
but Sunday quickly pulled away and dropped her hands to her
lap.
Since Sunday was sorely out of
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