Tempting Fate

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After two long years, one more questionable decision stood between me and seeing my family again.

I wove my way between buildings, following my nose toward the stench of garbage and the absence of common sense. Outwardly, Docksiders was a pub for socializing and gambling that wouldn't close its doors even during an apocalypse. In actuality, it was a hive of debauchery and criminal exploits, somewhere you went if you were desperate, stupid, or looking for trouble.

Today, I was an equal split of all three.

Its wooden nameplate loomed ahead of me, sprinkled with signs of human savagery. Two patrons spilled out of the front entrance, caught in a brawl that ended with one of them cracking a bottle over the other's head.

No shred of decency left here, check yours at the door.

A raucous din joined with the aroma of sweetstalk nectar and smoke, drowning my senses as I stepped inside. People surrounded a makeshift pit made from tipped-over chairs near the back, shouting out bets while two men I could barely see beyond the crowd circled each other within it. A woman was moaning with exaggerated enthusiasm against a wall where her partner had her pinned. An extended table had been appropriated for a game of cards, angry fists slamming the surface when an unfavorable round ended. Above it all, I heard the screaming of a burly man arguing with the bartender.

Every sight, sound, and smell was so diverse and novel after so much time imprisoned in the Reformatory. Docksiders was clean and quaint by comparison. I tried and failed not to feel homesick.

Focus. Finish this task, then you can see your family again.

My gaze swept around, searching for my target.

Weaving through the tables, I found Yeshar near the back, studying a map of the island's perimeter while deep in discussion with a lanky man.

Yeshar was built like someone who preferred drinking to exercise, with small shifting eyes that hid cunning intelligence. Premature wrinkles from scowling framed them, despite his youth. The slight purple buttoning the edges of his lips revealed the truth to his untimely aging; he was partaking in the product he sold. As Nikolach's rival, his appearance fit his criminal lifestyle.

His true talent was in making others uncomfortable, and as usual, it was working.

Those meaty arms could squeeze the life out of someone, and would, without remorse.

Remember, this is the safest approach.

Except, nothing about this felt safe.

Don't draw unnecessary attention; act natural. It's not polite to stare.

Wariness prickled along the back of my neck.

Best to get this over quickly.

"Yeshar. Long time no see. How's life on the outside been treating you?" I grabbed an unoccupied nearby chair, pulling it up to the end of his table before landing in it.

He turned, looking me over as his complexion soured. He looked almost ten years my senior, though he wasn't even a year older. "Lisia," he greeted, rolling up the map and pushing it out of my view.

Yeshar's lanky associate spoke up, sounding disgruntled. "We haven't finished going over everything yet. If she overhea--". The man had a Skinscript glyph painted on his arm, and two missing fingers on his other hand. My knowledge of Skinscript was almost nonexistent, only that it was the one form of magic on the island that humans could wield. And that it marked him as a Voyager.

Yeshar made a slashing motion with his hand, shooting him a scowl. "Shut up, Diego. She's an old acquaintance from the Reformatory. We'll finish our business after I hear whatever news she has from the inside." He turned toward me, freeing a dagger from his belt and carving off a shard of mayapa fruit. "Out a few days early, aren't you?" He bit the fruit off the end of his blade.

Anxiety bubbled up in my chest, my heart hammering. He knew my birthday, and he knew it wasn't today. How much else did he know?

My pulse tasted sour on the back of my throat.

I couldn't afford to think about that right now. I had to stay calm. If Yeshar noticed I was nervous and discovered the reason why, I'd have two dangerous enemies instead of one. Preferably I'd have none–if my plan worked. It was a colossal if.

His eyes scrutinized my outfit as he chewed, and I regretted not going home to change before coming here.

Yellow had never been my color, it was too close to the honeyed hue of my hair, bringing out an almost sickly shade to my sun-kissed skin. But the latest in correctional chic still covered my slim build beneath the jacket I'd reclaimed upon my release from the Reformatory. I tugged at the flimsy armor, acutely aware of the ever-present humidity as it clung to me.

Yeshar's own outfit was the gray of oatmeal and lost dreams, but for someone trying not to draw attention to themselves, it worked.

I shifted in my seat, taking one slow breath in.

Be convincing and confident. I need him to trust me before I lie to him. What lesser truth can I give up that'll earn me credibility?

I let that same breath slowly filter out. "Yeah, I couldn't stand being stuck in the Reformatory one more minute. I'm practically twenty-one already, what's a few days difference? Just another Apostate entering my probationary period now. Like you." I gave a mock salute. "Ready for my assigned service."

I didn't feel ready at all.

Shrewd eyes took my measure as Yeshar sipped out of his cup, swallowing the last bite of mayapa down. His drink had to be sweetstalk nectar by the carmine color and heady odor. My gaze followed the cup, almost of its own accord. "It's always baffled me how someone so young gets imprisoned for overcrowding."

Hot guilt washed over me at the use of the word 'overcrowding', but I breathed past it and kept my expression blank. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I let my fingers wrap around the metal yo-yo inside. The smooth texture and faint weight brought me immediate comfort.

Commenting on my knowledge of Yeshar's own crimes involving dust distribution would decrease the odds of him believing me later. I kept my mouth stiffly shut.

Diego gave me a leering look. "When a pretty blonde like this one," he jerked his chin at me, "gets too wrapped up in a good time--"

"I'm perfectly aware of how reproduction works," Yeshar interrupted. "Please excuse him, he is quite crude."

Diego winked at me, gaze falling to my cleavage. "I'd get crude with you anytime."

No amount of nectar would lower my standards that far.

A server brought a fresh flagon of the nectar and a cup to the table before I could reply. Yeshar pushed the spare cup toward me, filling it to the brim. "Have a drink," he said.

Warning, danger ahead.

I needed all my wits for this conversation. "Oh, I'm fine," I nudged the cup away.

Yeshar pushed the cup back at me, tapping its side. "Everyone at my table drinks, or they don't keep their seat. Consider it a celebratory drink for your release."

It was an order and a test, one I was accustomed to from inside the Reformatory. I couldn't afford to expose any vulnerability here, or it would be noticed. And exploited.

Picking up the cup, I tipped back a swallow of the familiar oversweet contents. An intoxicating warmth surged through me. Sweetstalk nectar had always softened life into something less cutting, blunting any sticky emotions.

It was also a convenient contraception method, and liquid inhibition annihilator.

Drinking in front of Yeshar was a risk, but making him more comfortable would predispose him to trust me, making him easier to deal with. Easier to manipulate.

Yeshar peered at me as if trying to see through to my bones. "The Mistrun is tomorrow. Curious timing on your release." I swallowed what felt like a brick, cicadas of anxiety fluttering to life in my stomach as I offered him my best unreadable shrug.

It was all part of the plan. Leaving the Reformatory five days early meant I was out in time to participate in the annual Mistrun, a few days ahead of my birthday. I'd done shameful, terrible things to make sure my name was on today's list for release.

My odds of staying out of the Reformatory weren't good. But they were better than no odds at all. Nikolach had threatened to kill me, but he wouldn't cross the threshold into adulthood for several months yet, and he would stay imprisoned there until then. He didn't make idle threats.

Participating in the Mistrun to qualify as a Voyager, as daunting as it was, was safer than being trapped with Nikolach.

I sipped my drink. "I'd have preferred an earlier birthday and release. One with enough time to train before the Mistrun."

Like yours, ten months ago.

"You'll be entering the Mistrun, then?" Diego asked.

I nodded. "Yeshar will be too. It's required for all Apostates to become Voyagers, or return to the Reformatory."

Diego scratched at his Skinscript glyphs. "Oh I'm well aware he'll be participating. It's a rotten gig though, Voyager service. Collecting Starshells until the miasma or its inhabitants get you. Just last week we lost another of my crewmates."

It wasn't surprising, Voyager service was the deadliest of all services possible on Eldoria. Hearing it aloud from a seasoned Voyager was disquieting. I had no desire to become a Voyager, but the universe didn't care.

"That's news to me. Tell me what happened," Yeshar ordered.

Diego blew out a heavy breath. "It was Ander. He was fetching Starshells, just your everyday retrieval assignment. But he went too far past the tideline and didn't notice a Shredder." His maimed fist clenched, eyes hard. "Took his whole hand. Hate those fuckers." With a bang, he brought his fist down on the table for emphasis. "He panicked and ended up falling into the miasma. It cooked him into a puddle of mush before we could fish him out. Smelled something awful, didn't come out of my clothes for weeks."

I kept my eyes downcast as tightness squeezed between my shoulder blades. Miasma was a horrible way to die. One of countless unfortunate daily risks for Voyagers, who had to venture across the corrosive acid ocean surrounding Eldoria to obtain precious Starshells from the outer isles.

Shredders were the smallest creatures in the miasma, black fish with bladed teeth perilous enough that anytime they washed ashore it was an emergency for the outer perimeter patrol. The full gamut of lethal living nightmares thrived in the miasma, everything from leech-like larva to Leviathans and Krakens. And the largest creature that lived in it, the Devourer, was so massive that legend told its mere presence could create waves tall enough to drown all of Eldoria.

I downed the rest of the contents in my cup in one gulp.

"Carelessness claims another life," Yeshar said without sympathy. "Turning Apostates into Voyagers is a convenient way to execute us under the guise of honor," Yeshar tapped idly on the table. Diego looked as supremely uncomfortable as I felt.

"It's the most honorable service," Diego defended. "No one here could survive without Starshells."

"Honorable for those who choose it, perhaps," Yeshar said.

He made a valid point. We, as Apostates, had no say in our service.

My last two years had been spent completing the manual labor required of a prisoner. Mining out rocks to shore up the perimeter was back-breaking, soul-crushing work, but it did have a tendency to make you stronger. I could lift hundreds of rocks in a single day, not that it would guarantee my survival. I had to hope it would help my odds to at least qualify during the Mistrun. Whether anyone could ever be fully prepared to be a Voyager was another case entirely.

Voyager service fit me like a misshapen bed sheet. But what choice did I have?

Death by Voyager service, or death by Nikolach's hand. Hmm.

Potential death by Voyager service, I amended. At least as a Voyager, my demise wasn't guaranteed. With Nikolach, it was a certainty.

Thinking about him reminded me why I was at Docksiders in the first place. My gut gave a sick lurch. Too much sweetstalk nectar on an empty stomach, probably.

Or my gut was right, about how wrong I was about to be.

This was a half-crazy gambit, but if it worked it would be the ultimate ploy. Using one beast as a defense against another was risky, but turning Yeshar and Nikolach against each other would keep them both distracted by each other, leaving neither focused on me.

I set my empty cup down, facing Yeshar. "Speaking of choices, I came here to give you a friendly heads-up. It's been brought to my attention that some sensitive information about your dust operation has ended up in the wrong hands."

Beady eyes narrowed on me. "You're lying."

Time to double down on your performance.

"No, I'm doing you a favor. But if I'm going to share with you what I've heard from the inside, I need certain assurances that it's not going to get back to the source."

"Alright, you have them. Let's hear it."

"Your word isn't enough."

His word was worth about as much as a grain of sand on the beach. He'd lie out one side of his mouth while promising you the moon with the other.

"But I'm supposed to take you at your word, with no assurances of my own?" Yeshar scoffed. His eyes narrowed, calculating. "How about we make it a game?"

Apprehension lurched to life in my stomach. "What kind of game?"

Yeshar jostled the pitcher back and forth. "A game for truth. Nothing brings out honesty better than nectar. We will both drink four shots."

Getting drunk the day before Mistrun to earn Yeshar's trust was horrendously stupid. But I'd risk any level of stupid to keep breathing.

"Deal," I said, reaching for the flagon and refilling my cup.

He poured himself a glass, knocking it back. Then another, and another. I followed his example, the room taking on a warm fuzzy hue. My head felt lighter, my skin hotter.

Yeshar looked far too collected for having just taken four shots. He made the Holy circle of the Devourer with his hand, a sworn oath, and gestured for me to continue.

I frowned, considering making Diego join our game but Yeshar noticed my gaze and cut me off. "He works for me. He won't repeat anything I won't."

It would have to suffice. "Nikolaah," I paused, clearing my throat to try to keep from slurring. It would help if the walls would stop swaying. "Nikolach is talking. If I were you, I would take care of that problem. Soon."

I didn't know much about Yeshar's dust ring, but what little I did know had already been bartered away as part of my earlier-than-planned release. If he thought Nikolach had been the one to talk, it would protect me against Yeshar's retribution when his product's warehouse was inevitably raided.

It would be even better if he saw Nikolach as a liability.

Yeshar leaned back in his seat, perpetual scowl fixed firmly in place. "Why tell me this?"

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Some stones are best left unturned." Namely, this stone. The further he was from knowing my actual reasons the better. "I came straight here from the Reformatory to let you know, as a courtesy."

"Nikolach is a brainless thug. It would never occur to him without outside influence to use what he knows about me to his advantage," Yeshar said.

My stomach sank. "People change. The Reformatory changes everyone." It sounded lame even to my own ears.

"Swear it," Yeshar said, picking his dagger up from beside the mayapa core and extending the handle to me.

This was another test, and one I couldn't fail. Without hesitating, I took the dagger and sliced along the tip of my forefinger. Emotions weren't the only thing duller with nectar coursing through me, pain's bite was weaker. Blood slid down my finger, my engagement ring glinting in the dull light, mocking me as I held the hand up. "Devourer return me to the Great Tide if I'm lying."

Devourer, forgive me. I'm lying.

Before I could react, Yeshar grabbed my finger and squeezed it tightly. I winced at his stinging grip. "Again," he ordered.

"I swear it on the Devourer," I tried not to flinch away from the pain radiating down my palm.

Instead of releasing my hand, he pulled it toward him, laying it flat, face up on the table and pinning it with his other wrist.

It took my sweetstalk-addled mind precious seconds to catch up to what was happening. My frantic gaze darted to Diego's missing fingers. There was a clean cut across them, no welt indicative of miasma burn.

No.

I tugged, trying to free my hand from Yeshar's grip as panic set in. Pressure compressed me inwards from all angles, like I'd swum too deep into Lake Mirae. I couldn't pull in enough air.

Yeshar reached out with his other hand for something near me.

The dagger.

My heartbeat flailed against my ribs. Diego's bored expression didn't flicker as he watched Yeshar subdue me while drinking another glass of nectar.

No, no, no!

Docksider's other patrons were cheering behind me, loud and violent. They sounded bloodthirsty.

Yeshar's hand passed the dagger, instead picking up the pitcher of sweetstalk nectar. He tipped it over my hand and a small noise of pain escaped at the burning pain on my injury. "A bit of nectar keeps us honest, doesn't it?"

He's unhinged.

My breathing was unsteady, heartbeat racing with my fear.

I waited until he released my wrist before curling my arm back toward myself, cradling my hand to my chest. A sick shudder of revulsion went through me. "Yeah, honest," I finally said. My voice sounded too thin and too high. Sweat dampened my hairline.

Another roar of noise went up from the fighting ring. Dazed, I realized they weren't cheering for Yeshar to cut off my fingers, one of the combatants had won. I turned to see the victor.

Thick dark Skinscript curved up both of his muscular arms, raised in victory. Another Voyager. The curving edges jutted out above his neckline, all whirls and symbols that I didn't recognize. I had never seen anyone with so much of it on their body, he had more than four times as much as Diego. It was exotic, and given the quantity on him, he had to be powerful.

His dark skin was slick with sweat as he scanned the room with even darker eyes. He turned toward me and my breathing tripped over itself.

He was devastatingly handsome, painted in hard-lines and strong edges. His eyes reminded me of the ominous shapes that moved under the miasma, deep and treacherous. Forcing myself to blink, or at least breathe, was impossible; I was frozen. His gaze dropped in a slow dip as he took me in. The heat of it traveled over me like a literal touch.

His presence had a savage magnitude to it, an almost magnetic wildness. Maybe it was the influence of everyone cheering around him, or my inebriation.

My pain and fear was a distant afterthought.

Some primitive switch in my brain went from off to on.

My heart was stuttering from just looking at him. Alarm bells were going off in my head. This man was a threat with a capital T. This wasn't a safe place to be showing any reaction, and I was definitely reacting. I was in trouble. Blowing out the air I'd been holding, I took a deep calming breath and turned back to face Yeshar.

The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds.

Yeshar's scowl had shifted to a predator's focus. I shifted my expression back to carefully neutral. Maybe he hadn't noticed my reaction to the fighter.

Yeshar took a long drag from his cup. "You'll be close, either to me if you qualify after the Mistrun, or Nikolach if you don't." That was a chillingly accurate reality. Tearing my stare away from the cup, I studied the weeping wound on my finger, feigning boredom. "I keep an eye on interesting developments," he added.

This conversation was a tightrope walk on the edge between rational and foolhardy.

Don't look down.

"You'll be disappointed," I said. "I'm not all that interesting."

His unpleasant smile sharpened, teeth flashing like a blade. "We will see. For now, I have other business to finish."

It was a dismissal, and I had no desire to stick around. I hurried out of Docksiders and braced myself against the outer wall of the building.

That could have gone better.

My objective was completed, but if that could be considered a success I'd hate to experience a failure. Yeshar might have believed me about Nikolach talking, but his reminder that he'd be watching me closely if we both made it into Voyager training hadn't escaped me. My bloodied finger ached with the reminder that I'd overestimated myself, and likely made my life harder for attempting clever subterfuge.

Although, if Yeshar suspected I'd narced about his dust operation, taking a finger was better than killing me. It was preferable to what I expected from Nikolach.

Time wasn't on my side, and I still had to walk home. An hour had slipped by while I was inside.

Pushing away from the wall, I put one foot in front of the other, heading into the dense fronds of jungle that separated Docksiders from my family home.

A swarm of beetles larger than my fist chirped their wings, their iridescent shells making rainbows of light reflect onto the bark of the nearby teak trees and carnivorous flowers. The hum from the insects and rustling of leaves joined me on my journey, sandy dirt squishing beneath my boots.

I hoped I'd never have to come back here again.

A churning in my gut told me not to trust an emotion as fragile as hope.

How to Botch a Summoning

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The trouble started when we accidentally summoned a demon.

I'm fairly sure he was a demon given the melt-your-flesh look in his eyes and hair so dark it seemed to absorb the cheap fluorescent light of the apartment, but it's hard to be certain of that kind of thing when you've never seen a demon before. Beyond his striking coloration, he looked too unnaturally attractive to be fully human. There were no scars, moles, wrinkles, freckles or other blemishes on his skin. I couldn't see any pores. But it didn't give him the plastic sheen of a mannequin, it had an otherworldly quality about it, a smooth masculinity that made him arrestingly attractive. His jawline looked like it would cut through rebar, offset by high cheekbones and a straight nose.

He appeared too young to be wearing a perfectly-tailored Burberry suit that had to be more expensive than at least a quarter's worth of my college tuition. The dangerous glint in his eyes assured me he didn't just break hearts, he served them up on charcuterie boards.

This was a summoning spell, so it was possible, albeit unlikely, we'd summoned a male-model with obscenely good looks. With my luck though, he was a demon.

Goosebumps itched down my arms from his unblinking stare-- fixed on me. I couldn't tell if they were the good kind of goosebumps you get when you're out on a cold night with your first crush, or the kind you get right before you're mauled by a wild animal. One might wind up in sweaty sheets, the other in a bloody ending; and looking at him, both felt mutually true. I wanted to look away from his intense eye-contact, but even with enormous effort, couldn't. His eyes were disturbingly clear, like the surface of a lake at night when the water is too still. Something instinctive told me drowning in those eyes might end up being more than metaphorical. Another more binary instinct in me had flipped from off to on, and I didn't know how to turn it back off.

"How the fates mock me," he said, pulling a hand through his hair. His voice was low and smooth, and felt like fur on my skin. I unconsciously rubbed my arms after hearing it, more goose flesh rising. Having a voice that scandalous when he already had such an imposing physique, it was like dark chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles on top. Unfairly delicious. But to my relief, he was scanning the room now, and the staring contest was over. I flushed with embarrassment as he looked over the room, considering how it was littered with undisposed trash and haphazard clutter. I was an unrepentant slob. I nudged a discarded vodka bottle beside me closer to the trash can.

Splashed with secondhand furniture and accumulated knickknacks, the room itself was the default template for a broke college student. There was no discernible palette, no interior design finesse to salvage the squalor. Candy wrappers were strewn about like confetti on the floor. The desk was overburdened with notebooks, overturned writing utensils, and overused mugs with mystery liquids caked onto their sides. Butting up against the side of the desk, the bed's comforter was stained with spilled makeup and checkered with discarded jackets. My cheeks burned when I noticed the dirty pile of laundry at the foot of my bed. Why had we decided to perform this summoning in my bedroom of all places?

I tugged my pajama top's neckline closer, hoping the grisly band of scar tissue across my chest wasn't visible.

At least the demon spoke English, although maybe it was actually some demonic language and some sort of demon-magic translating it. Not that it mattered, I wasn't planning to strike up a conversation with him, although the idea of encouraging him to talk just so I could hear more of his voice was tempting. I didn't have to say a word though, because he spoke again.

"Are you a witch?" his gaze was back on me, and I felt small and transparent like he could see through to my bones. That voice again, this time with an undercurrent of threat in it, wrapped around me like a thick coat. I shivered.

I shook my head, not trusting my own voice, and he tilted his chin ever so slightly like he didn't believe me. I guess technically Claire was a trained witch, but I sure didn't think of myself as one, and I didn't like the idea of him knowing too much about either of us. I was just an unlucky recipient of some magic, which really was more of a cross to bear than a gift. Maybe it was a gag gift.

"Well, allow me to warn you then. This amateur spellwork--" I scowled at him, demon or not, there was no need to be rude, "--is reckless and dangerous. Your circle is misshapen." He gestured to an area where the salt circle we'd laid out was warped. "And there are those with all-consuming hungers, far more profound than mine, who could just as readily have answered this summoning as I, and--" The demon's face pinched in annoyance, "What is that noise?"

"Cute metal," Claire replied, unabashed. I had almost forgotten Claire was still in the room.

It's impressive how oblivious you can become to bizarre habits after enough time living with a roommate. I could hear a reedy soprano harmony on top of pounding metal beats leaking in through the gaps in the door from Jayda's room. She'd cranked the volume high enough that the floorboards were vibrating. After three quarters living with her, I was so accustomed to her taste in music that it didn't even register anymore. Now that he'd pointed it out, I couldn't help thinking it sounded like malware had been given sentience.

"Let's put this car in reverse, Eliza," Claire said, and her voice had the tightness of budding panic, despite her levity.

That edge of fear was enough to break me out of whatever stupor I'd fallen into and rifle through the spell-book looking for the words to reverse the summoning. We'd already gone through this many times, but I wasn't fluent in any atavistic languages, and my memory wasn't reliable enough to try and remember every word of a spell without reading it directly from the pages. The demon had shifted to look at Claire now, and by the look on his face I decided I should flip the pages faster.

My best friend and I were safe so long as the demon remained trapped in the circle of salt we'd charged for the spell, but who knew how powerful he might be and how long it might hold him. Plus, given our track record this evening, I wouldn't bet my lunch money that we'd drawn the circle strong enough for it to hold a rambunctious puppy. The lecture the demon had been winding up for also supported my theory.

"What's the rush?" The demon drawled, this time his voice sounding almost like a lover's purr. That voice should have been illegal. I found the page with the reversal spell and glanced up to see him studying the University of Denver store calendar pinned to my wall with an almost predatory smirk. "Blood or ash from something living would have been stronger," he mused, eyes flicking to the pattern of salt granules we'd used for the spell circle.

I fought back the urge to roll my eyes. Definitely time for him to exit stage left.

"What's this?" He picked up the metallic gadget we'd used for this summoning spell and twisted it around in his hands. Its gears whirred and ticked with mechanical clinks, polished exterior gleaming. "Ah, a Teslaen transporter. I haven't seen one of these in a while." He dropped it into his pocket.

Claire made a strangled wheezing noise.

I pushed the spell book so it lay between Claire and I, beginning the chant. She took my hands in hers, turning her face towards me and picking up the chant as well. The magic was stirring, I could feel it like sandpaper across my skin, and hear it in impossible wind stirring indoors. The bold scent of wax and smoke from the candles was making my nose itch, but I held back my sneeze.

The demon didn't seem bothered by the power building around him, leaning forward right up to the edge of the circle. His hair slid down over those bedroom eyes which were locked onto me again, and his lips twitched up, one of those smiles full of dark promises. "Until next time," he whispered.  

The reversal spell peaked and the comforting wash of magic sprawled out from my body when it did. There was always a delicious rush when I added my magic to a spell, like a deep breath before a descent. Knowing how volatile my magic could be, the duality of how wrong it was to use it and how right it felt, always left me feeling like I'd stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. Tonight was no exception. Glancing up, I confirmed to myself that the salt circle was now empty.

My skin felt clammy with sweat, and my heart was racing. I wasn't sure if it was from the spell's power or from my close-encounter with the demonic-kind. No, I definitely knew which one it was from, I just didn't want to admit it. I felt like an idiot, getting worked up over a demon. It was probably just a physical reaction to the demon's magic. I rubbed at my nose, finally sneezing.

Laying backwards on the floor with her melted raspberry ice cream hair spilling everywhere, Claire heaved out a breath. Claire was slim, and even collapsed on the floor she still looked delicate. She was built like a ballerina, slender and muscled, with pale skin that wouldn't be out of place in a white tutu performing the Nutcracker. But with the grace of a rhino, Claire limited herself to only dancing to club-beats. "Stick a fork in me, I'm done. I don't have enough juice left to try a seventh time tonight."

Not that we'd be able to perform it again without the transporter anyway.

Failing to work the same spell six times sucked. I would like to say that the accidental demonic summoning was just through mispronunciations, ignorance, or wrong ingredients, but that would be a lie. We'd only messed those up the first four times. Every single attempt of this spell had unfortunate results, the worst of which I think was the time we lit the carpet on fire. That attempt was going to cost my roommate and I our security deposit, for sure. This was actually the closest we'd come to success in all of our attempts; for what little that was worth. It had been entertaining when we'd summoned the python though, I'd never heard Claire shriek so loudly.

I closed the spell book with a dull thud, blowing out the candles that we'd placed around the circle of salt on the floor. I sneezed again; the room was drowning in smoke. Pressing my finger into the polyester carpet loops, I dragged it through the line of salt, breaking the circle's magical charge.

The magic dispersed, and some of it sunk into my skin with a palpable heat as it did. "I can't believe that last try didn't work, it felt like it would, you know? At least the last guy was hot," I offered, stretching my legs out for the first time in three hours. My muscles screamed at me, man I was stiff and sore. Next time we'd need intermission breaks.

"I've got blisters," she agreed. "Like burn my bacon, baby" she smirked, fanning herself for emphasis. "Not that I'd ever go for a demon. Or a thief." She blew out a breath. "Marjorie's going to have my hide for not returning the transporter tomorrow. There are only two on campus, and they both belong to the Vanderbilts."

I grimaced on her behalf. The Vanderbilts were old money, and they kept it that way by rationing out expensive magical tools like they were made of solid gold.

I rubbed at my sore thighs, wishing I had an ice pack. I leaned over to push open a window and let the night air in so the room could air out before we set off an alarm. "What kind of demon do you think he was?" Some dark part of my cave-woman brain suggested incubus.

"My kind, definitely my kind," Claire continued to mock-swoon. I barked a laugh, Claire had the perfect blend of low enough standards and good enough looks to leave a trail of broken hearts in her wake. She was an unapologetic party girl, and we both knew it. My days were downright boring by comparison. But even with my limited experience, I had a feeling that demon was likely to show up in my dreams.

"We'll have to figure out why it didn't work for next time," I said, already rolling the problem around in my head. I loved a challenge, especially if it came wrapped in a puzzle. Even if it involved using my magic.

Being born with magic was my own personal hell. It was hard to make friends when your magic made their makeup unexpectedly crawl off their faces, or turned their pool into a sinkhole. Unlike a normal witch's magic, chaotic was an understatement for mine. I never knew when it might start acting up, what it might do when it did, and for years I hadn't understood what was happening each time it flared. But it was all part of the package deal that is my life. And there was no refund, warranty, or return policy. I'd done fairly well so far at not losing too many marbles.

There was no cosmic battle between good and evil with magic, magic just was. It existed as an impartial facet of nature, like a rock that could be used to build a bridge or bludgeon someone to death. Like any neutral force, it could be used for positive means, or negative ends, all depending on who was using it. And my magic didn't care to play for either side.

Claire stretched out on the floor. "Next time? Yeah, that's happening. Oh, I forgot, I enjoy living." She must have seen my expression because her face softened. "You heard the demon, the salt probably wasn't enough to contain him, we were just lucky he wasn't hungry. You don't have any protection magic or warding charms," she idly touched her necklace. "Spells are going to pack more and more serious punch until the night of the blood moon. I mean, look at how extra this spell was. Besides, spells rarely work like you think they will. This one might never work, or we might not have enough magic--" or skill, I added mentally, "--to even pull it off. I don't think this spell is--" she paused, seeming to mentally edit herself. She bit her lip, and my eyes narrowed. As her best friend, I knew that meant there was something she wasn't telling me. "Look, just don't get your hopes up."

I kept my expression forcibly neutral while she spoke, nodding with a false smile. I hoped she would assume I was tired. I wasn't going to press her to find out what she was keeping from me, at least not tonight. The spell had been her idea, she'd been the one who found it and pushed me to try it with her, despite knowing how I avoided using my magic. She didn't need to know that my hopes were already bubbling up. Now that I knew there was even a remote possibility this spell could work, I would cling to that hope forever.

This spell had to work, or another like it. There was no other option. I would learn to use my insufferable magic, teach myself spells, fail over and over as long as necessary to make it happen. I needed this spell more than I needed my next breath. To see him, one last time.

But Claire clutched caution like it was a life jacket in all things magic. If I told her the depths of my desperation, it would only guarantee she'd stop helping me.

She leaned forward, searching my face. I didn't need a diagram to understand what she was looking for. "I wanted to ask how you're holding up. I know you're going to insist on meeting us at the costume party tomorrow instead of driving with us, but maybe Latia or Marjorie could be the designated driver if that would make you feel better." I was unsurprised she didn't offer herself as a volunteer to abstain.

I pursed my lips, my anxiety rising. "I don't think that would help. Brad's place isn't that far, you guys could come with me."

She ignored my suggestion. "We could take a taxi or a bus together or something, you know, like a professional driver," Claire offered, eyes still boring into me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, I knew Claire was only trying to help but I could feel fear tightening my airways. "I don't," I paused, swallowing again. "I don't think I can. Yet," I added. "It's too soon. You know I wasn't drinking either, when..." I twisted a strand of hair around my finger, worrying it into a knot. I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Of course I know that," Claire pulled my hand away from my hair, wrapping it between her own warm fingers. My hand was chilled. "I'm no good at this stuff. But even though I may not understand how you're feeling, it wasn't your fault." She squeezed my hand. "It was the other driver's fault, he was off his meds, everyone knows that. He's locked up now. Everybody else out there isn't like him. I mean sure there are a lot of people texting and eating while driving, but not like--" she cut herself off, taking a breath. "Nobody blames you, and you shouldn't blame yourself either. You can't just avoid cars forever. If you want to talk about it, I'll listen."

"I'm fine," I said, pulling my hand free, fingering the bracelet on my wrist. She was wrong, I was to blame. I may not have been drinking but it was still my fault. I couldn't even finish the thought. I should have noticed the van weaving in and out of its lane beside us. I should have reacted sooner. I didn't dare close my eyes for fear of seeing those horrible images again. "Don't worry about me." I forced a smile, swallowing past the knot in my throat.

If I never drove again it might be too soon.

Claire studied me, unconvinced. "Yeah, you're fine alright," she huffed, looking like she wanted to argue.

"I am," I insisted. "Good even. I couldn't have even done this spell with you six months ago."

"Yeah, because you'd be too weak from blood loss," Claire said.

I shrugged. "That was kinda the point."

Claire saw through my drooping smile in a heartbeat. "I'm not trying to be a wet blanket, it's great that you're finally using your magic. Donating blood to drain it every other week for the rest of your life was a ridiculous plan."

"Few extra bucks never hurt anyone," I muttered. Claire didn't know that I had no intention of stopping the donations, and was planning to volunteer again tomorrow. My magic had enough surplus supply that donating plasma alone was no longer enough to reduce its effect to reasonable levels.

"I think it's good that you're trying. Learning," she said, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder. I winched, she'd unintentionally squeezed the side with a still healing scar. "Listen, there's a campus coven meeting this week. It's all local witches, nobody sketchy. This coven welcomes all new members, and they only perform simple spells."

It stung my pride, even though I knew she hadn't meant it to.

"That might be nice," I replied. "Are you going?" When in doubt, straddle the fence without committing. The last coven meeting I'd agreed to attend had ended with Claire ditching me after the first five minutes. For the remainder of the hour, a doddering old witch had waxed on about the dangers of improperly trained witches using magic. We hadn't cast a single spell.

Claire flinched, if only for a moment. "Ah, no, probably not. Marjorie's coordinating it." Well, that filled in some blanks. Marjorie and Claire had the curse of being too similar, both powerful and skilled witches full of ambition. Unlike Claire, Marjorie's magic specialization had already manifested-- pyrokinesis. Claire was more than a little sore about it. They could barely stand each other. "And I made lunch plans with Evan and the coven's not really meant for..." she trailed off, shrugging.

I read between the lines. It was meant for new witches who barely knew the basics, like me. If I went to this meeting, I'd probably be the class dunce. Or at least, mixed in with every other dunce on campus.

Claire had taught me a few of the basics to using magic, presumably to keep me from blowing myself up, but I was still more than a decade behind her in magical education.

"But a lot of them are witches closer to our age. Three of them have classes with me," Claire hastened to add.

"Sounds informative," I offered, keeping my voice bland.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Since you're obviously trying to practice more, just go to the coven meeting," she rummaged around on my desk, snatching a pen and a post it note while trying to scribble on the pad. She tossed the pen into the trash when it proved empty, grabbing another and writing something down. "Here," she handed me the paper.

"Twelve thirty at the Chester M. Alter Arboretum," I said, only struggling to read Claire's handwriting for a moment.

"Maybe Marjorie will have an easier time teaching you."

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "Like I'm so difficult."

"Who was it again? Who mispronounced 'agnes' as 'ignis'?" Claire pointed at the burn mark on the carpet. Touche. "Just go at least. Check the vibes. My efforts aren't penetrating that thick skull of yours." She rapped her knuckle on my forehead for effect.

"It's like scar tissue, my skull gets tougher every time you wound me," I mocked. "One day it will be harder than rock if you keep it up."

"Your head was harder than a rock long before I met you," Claire countered. "And I don't know about you, but this close to finals I have no brain left for my skull to protect."

Finals were only a week away, and everyone had been cloistered off to study in preparation for them. Even stubborn sloths like me and habitual party girls like Claire. My brain was more sluggish than usual, but I knew I still had a lot of studying left to do. I couldn't resist the temptation to tease Claire though, with the opening she'd given me.

"Did you ever have a brain to protect in there?"

"That's it," Claire tried to grab the note out of hand, I yanked my hand back before she could. "Gimme that back, you don't deserve my generosity."

"Too late," I snapped a photo with my phone a few seconds before Claire managed to grab the paper and shred it.

"Whatever. I hope they charge you an entrance fee, raised to the power of every stupid question."

I smiled, climbing up onto my bed. Comparably she had the superior knowledge of magic, but I knew how to push her buttons too. "If there's an entry fee, how did you afford your way in? Did you steal some poor frat boy's wallet after a lousy lay?" She lobbed a throw pillow at my grinning face.

There was something comforting about bickering with Claire. It felt like fighting with my siblings, trading a series of glancing blows only to end up right where you started. Within minutes we were both laughing at ourselves.

I didn't know it at the time, but we were both clinging to the safety of each other like survivors of a terrible storm set adrift at sea.

And the storm had just begun.