42 Birdie
BIRDIE
I pace back and forth in this tiny kitchen, my mind spinning faster than a top.
No, a spinning top implies order and precision, a balanced center of gravity.
I’m more like a cow caught in a tornado.
All arms and legs, I’m twisting through air, dodging tractors and watching the ground get farther away.
Jasper Prescott is a witch. A real witch. He uses magic, and chants spells, and he’s in a fight to the death with another witch who wants to steal his coven’s grimoires. And he’s not alone. Apparently, this island is full of witches. Almost from the moment I arrived, I’ve been surrounded by them.
Mercy Bartlett, the antique shop owner. Ruby Dent and her family farm. Hazel Greenwood, owner of the island’s only grocery store. I can’t turn around but there’s another one, quietly going about their small island life, hiding in plain sight.
Witches are real. Knowing my brain, there’s only one direction this thought train can go . . . If witches are real, what else is real? Demons? Vampires? Werewolves?
God—I just can’t believe Phoebe didn’t tell me! She couldn’t have warned me? Dropped a hint? She dragged me out to this island, introduced me to her uncle, and urged me to get closer to him. She all but threw me into his freaking arms! Did she know what was happening?
I take a deep breath, letting it out.
Somehow, I just can’t believe that of my friend.
Phoebe Prescott is the type of person who traps spiders under cups and sets them free outside.
She always goes out of her way to help people.
She’d give you the shirt off her back, the money in her wallet.
If she thought I was in danger, I can only imagine she would storm her way here from Germany and drag me out.
Heck, she’d swim me back to the mainland.
I sigh, sinking down onto one of the rickety chairs at the kitchen table.
No, Phoebe couldn’t have known what was going on.
I can only conclude that she didn’t trust me to know the truth about her family.
And can I really blame her? It must be such a lonely way of living, holding that big of a secret for so long.
All your life, really. Only having a few people you can trust. Only a few people who get to really know you.
In a way, I can relate. Growing up, I had to wear a lot of masks too.
I couldn’t let my adoptive parents know the real me.
I certainly couldn’t connect with the other kids at my private Christian school.
I was all alone, dreaming of the day I could escape and finally start living life on my terms. Away from their religion, away from purity culture and all the oppressive rules, the suffocating doubt and shame.
But when I was deep in that world, you couldn’t have told me I wasn’t a Christian.
My mask was on too tight. And I was too scared.
I imagine that must be a little of what Phoebe and her coven feel.
They don’t blend in with the human world because they want to.
They blend in because when they don’t, bad things happen.
Be-Good and her sister witches are proof of that.
In four hundred years, not much seems to have changed.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I stare down at the time softly glowing on the lock screen. It’s late here, which means it’s early in Germany. Too early for a phone call, but it can’t be helped. This can’t wait. I dial and sit back in the chair. The call connects after the third ring.
“Birds?” Phoebe sounds tired and confused, like she’s still trying to wake up. “Hey, is everything okay?”
I’m relieved just to hear her voice. “No,” I say, my own voice trembling. “Everything is definitely not okay.”
This wakes her up. “Oh, Birdie, what happened? Wanna do a video call?”
Resting my phone on the table, I use the pepper grinder to prop it up and tap the little video button. In moments, the screen changes and Phoebe is there, her dark skin glowing in the light from the screen. She’s got a pink silk bonnet covering her hair. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
There’s a million ways I could probably do this better, but I just come right out and say it.
“Phoebe, why didn’t you tell me you were a witch?
Did you not trust me to hold the secret with you?
Did you think I wouldn’t understand? Or maybe you thought I’d judge you or walk away? I really need to know.”
She heaves a sigh, leaning back against the stark white pillows of her hotel bed. “I’m sorry, Birds. Carry a secret long enough and you sort of forget how to put it down, you know?”
“Yeah . . . I know.”
“What’s happening? Are you safe?”
A laugh escapes me. It’s not funny. None of this is funny.
I think it’s just a stress response. “Safe? Well, it’s an interesting question.
Your uncle is apparently in an epic battle with a witch who wants to steal your ancestors’ spell books.
He was attacked on Sunday night by Death.
Like, literal Death. Skeleton hands and dark hood and everything. ”
“Oh my god.” The phone jostles as she sits up. “He wouldn’t give me the details when I called earlier. Only that we’re all supposed to pretend he’s dead for a while.”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. He’s not dead. I saved him.”
She blinks. “Wait—you saved him? What does that mean? How—”
“I don’t know,” I say over her. “I was hoping maybe you would. Any reason why a lame-o human like me should be able to stop the choking hands of Death?”
“No. Or, well—I don’t know. I’m not all that plugged in with the coven, to be honest. Or to the supernatural world. I’m a bit . . . well, limited.”
“Limited? What does that mean?”
She winces, adjusting the front of her bonnet. “Uhh . . . well, it’s kind of awkward to talk about.”
“Pheebs, please. I have to know what I’m involved with here.”
She sighs. “Okay. So, you know witches all have elemental magic, right?”
“No . . .”
“Okay. Well, witches have elemental magic. You know—earth, wind, fire, water. It’s linked to the time of year we’re born.”
“Like the zodiac?”
“Yeah, exactly. So, a Taurus would control earth. As a Capricorn, that would be your element too.”
“You’re a Leo, right? Does that mean your element is fire?”
“Not exactly.”
I think back to the little magic trick Jasper did during our spicy time with the creeping vines. “Is Jasper’s element earth? I thought Hortie said he’s a Scorpio.”
“He is. Uncle Jas is sort of . . . unique.”
“Unique how?”
“It’s called Aberrance.”
“Aberrance?”
“Yeah, in witchy circles, sometimes a family bloodline is stronger than the zodiac you’re born under.
Prescott witches are typically always born under an earth sign.
Only Jasper was born in November, which makes him a Scorpio.
His element should be water. But the Prescott blood is pretty strong and, you know, a bit temperamental.
When he awoke at fifteen, his element was earth.
In witch terms, that makes him an Aberrant. ”
“Is that what happened with you too? You were supposed to be fire but instead you’re earth? Is that why you’re so good with plants?”
She smiles weakly. “No. I never awoke.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I turned fifteen and . . . nothing. Then sixteen. Then seventeen. My elemental magic never awoke. Without my element, all the other witchy stuff, like spellcasting and potion-making, it just never really worked for me. My intention is always there, and I follow the recipes, they just . . . don’t work.
I’m what my granny Esther lovingly called a magical dud. ”
“Bitch,” I mutter. “Who says that to their own grandkid?”
Phoebe just shrugs. “Eh, it was almost a decade ago. I’ve made my peace with it. Now I’m Phoebe Prescott, the Amazing Witch who Wasn’t.” She waves her fingers across the screen, giving me jazz hands.
Shielding our pain with humor is sort of our specialty. I know she needs me to laugh and shrug along. But in this moment, all I want to do is reach through the phone and hug her. “I’m sorry, Phoebe.”
Smile falling, she blinks back her tears. “It is what it is. All my prowess with plants is just me being a green thumb.”
“Maybe,” I say with a reassuring smile. “Or maybe you’re more magical than you think.”
She mirrors my smile. “Sounds like you are too. Who woulda thunk it, huh? I send you out there thinking you’re the most anti-witch, no-magic, science-loving researcher to ever crack a textbook. Now you’re calling me after five days to talk about my coven, saying you stopped Death in his tracks.”
This is all still so crazy. I mean, looming threat of possible death aside, I still really like it here.
That’s the craziest part: I don’t want to leave.
I like this quirky apartment. Glancing around, I take in the large basket of goodies I’ve only half unpacked.
The fridge is full of fresh produce, yummy soups, jam, fancy cheese.
The coven gave me all this stuff. They welcomed me here.
They want me here. Jasper’s new shop girl.
And I like the island. I like Main Street and the archives. Window shopping with the cat. Running the trail around Calumet Bay. Phoebe warned me about the pull of this place.
When you’re here, you’re home.
I’ve never really had a home. Never had a place I can belong. This can’t be my home, right? So, why do I feel this ache in my chest at the thought of leaving?
Phoebe flops down onto her stomach, holding the phone with one arm stretched out. “Was he cute at least?”
“Who?”
“Death. Did you get a good look at him?”
I groan. “Pheebs, only you could hear that your uncle was attacked by Death and still bother to ask if Death was cute.”
“Hey, a girl’s gotta keep her options open.”
“I thought you were living the dream with your DJ boyfriend?”
“Eh, I’m thinking of dumping him after this show in Hamburg.”