Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
EMBER
A wise witch conceals her gift. A wiser witch forgets she has one.
— Jaxan D’Oron, Echelon to the
School of Dark Magic
Isaw the black tactical vest and realized “police” was an understatement. This wasn’t the local officer who let it slide when the parking meter expired. This was the guy who knocked down your door and sent a K-9 in after.
Roughly the same age as Dad, but with none of his softness, his dark-brown hair was peppered with gray, and his matching mustache was neatly trimmed.
I guessed the Ford SUV with heavily tinted windows in my driveway was his.
It didn’t appear to be left running. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door softly behind me.
I still wore my sleep shorts and was barefoot, but instead of going back inside for shoes, I remained where I was, too afraid that opening the door would upset Dad. It had been a while since I asked what he was afraid of, since his eyes had glazed over and he’d answered: War.
The officer walked in a semicircle around me, staring through the skinny windows flanking our door. “I’m Agent Mertins with the Special Projects Division,” he said, his voice mumbly and with little inflection.
Special Projects Division was the delicate term for what he really was, a Witch Hunter, one of the federal agents tasked with making sure no unauthorized witches slipped through the portal.
And while someone at the top must have known I lived here in accordance with the treaty, that didn’t make low-level Witch Hunters any less dangerous, not when their stance on witches was presume guilt, then invoke the death penalty.
And I knew Everden wouldn’t intervene to help me.
“Mertins?” I asked politely, my fists scrunching nervously in my long sleeves as I wondered if he was trained to read into how badly my palms were sweating. “As in Miles Mertins?”
He nodded. “My son.”
“I went to high school with him,” I said, hoping this might help the situation. Of course, Miles Mertins was the golden boy football star, and we’d never spoken.
“Isn’t that something. Your parents home?”
Well, yes. One was. But he wasn’t coming.
“Just my dad.” I peeked back at the empty hallway through the glass window. “He won’t come, though. Not to the door.” I didn’t want to invite Agent Mertins inside, where he was sure to see the magical letterbox sitting on our countertop. “I’m eighteen, though,” I offered, “in case that matters.”
His brown eyes narrowed as it dawned on him.
“That’s right. You’re Henly Rose’s kid. Wish I could say that made things better for you, but .
. .” He scratched his jaw. “I was there the night of the accident. Terrible what happened to him. How he survived . . .” He shook his head like something else should have happened.
I folded my arms over my chest, squinting in the face of the bright beam of sunlight hitting our street. “Do you have a search warrant?” I wasn’t sure if it was right to ask. Ash would’ve known. Ash knew everything.
His mouth cocked in a half grin. “Smart kid.”
I didn’t take it as a compliment.
“No warrant. Just have a few questions for you.”
Questions.
I pinched my lips together, because questions weren’t better. Questions were going to be a problem. I scuffed my big toe on the brick pavers, stalling before I looked back up at him.
“Can I have a lawyer?”
He snorted a laugh.
So, no.
I’d made a vow to myself after Dad’s accident. No more lies. No more using my gift. No more letting people believe false information, taking away their power to make the right decision. Because there wouldn’t have been an accident if I hadn’t lied about going to Gray’s.
I hadn’t told a lie since, and I atoned for what I’d done by answering every single question asked of me. After what happened — what could’ve happened — even the act of evasiveness felt cheap.
If Agent Mertins asked the right question, I’d answer it. Honestly.
I squeezed my eyes tight, steeling myself for what I knew was about to come. Humans once burned witches, but that was a long time ago. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad when they caught me. Maybe now they had a quicker way.
“It’s only a few questions,” he said. “No big deal. Not here to arrest you or nothing.”
I nodded toward his SUV. “Should I wait for you to get a notebook?”
In response, he tapped his temple and said, “Steel trap.”
More likely, he was wired. I scoured his uniform — black from head to toe — for any sign of one when he hit me with the first question.
“You ever hear the rumors about you? They reach you back here?”
“Rumors?” I actually hadn’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
He shrugged, then took a step closer, leaning in to block my escape. He couldn’t have expected me to run. I had no shoes on. “Doesn’t matter.” He moved on. “I want to know if you’ve seen anything unusual around here lately.”
“Unusual?” I narrowed my eyes, genuinely thinking. There were those strange movements around the oak tree this morning, but I’d been sick, half dreaming. “Can you provide an example? I may have, but I don’t know if — I’m not sure what it was.”
Agent Mertins smiled like he’d found the smoking gun and held his smile through a long pause. I knew it was a tactic. Say nothing, stare, wait for me to spill. Ash had been great at it. I drew my arm across my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun and stared back at him.
“What’s unusual?” he repeated at last. “How about weird people in your yard or trees shapeshifting? You seen anything like that? Anything like witches?” As an afterthought, he added, “You’re not one of them, are you? You’re not a witch?”
Now it was over. This was it.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m a half witch.”
I raised my arm to point out the old oak, which I suspected was the source of the “shapeshifting.” It was an ordinary tree, insofar as it wasn’t magical, but it was big and shady, which made it as good a place as any to hide activities one might describe as unusual.
Agent Mertins only waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head as he grinned. “Ah, never mind. I didn’t think you were. I guess we’re done.” He gave a lazy wave as he began to turn away. “Sorry for bothering you.”
It was beyond the vow I made — I never vowed to repeat the truth. But I didn’t understand what was happening. If he was coming back with more agents, I wanted to know. Needed to know if I had to prepare Dad.
As Agent Mertins shuffled down the porch steps, I blurted, “That’s it? But I just told you what I was.”
He turned, shaking his head and wagging his finger like it was all a big joke.
“A witch doesn’t admit she is one.” He let out a small, wistful laugh.
“Miles tells the same kinds of jokes. I guess it’s funny when you’re young and haven’t spent your whole career learning about all the horrible things the witches did to us. ”
“But I’m — ”
Agent Mertins slammed the door closed on his SUV before I finished getting the words out. I went back inside, confused, and changed for a run.
* * *
Running was the only activity I’d participated in at school. I loved it more than I hated being on a team. I loved the way my calves ached, the wind in my hair, time sailing by on a breeze.
I ran a few miles around my neighborhood, not stopping until the sun beat a little heavier and my loose T-shirt clung to my two sweaty sports bras layered underneath. I slowed to a jog when I reached our well-shaded street and sighed, happy to be back under the thick awning of green summer leaves.
I was lucky to grow up here, in a tidy neighborhood where neighbors maintained their lawns, and the window shutters — all agreeable shades of red, blue, or black — were periodically repainted so they never looked worn or faded.
Everything was in perfect harmony, the two-story houses modeled in that symmetrical New England style that made each one look pleasingly similar to the next.
Most of my run I’d spent replaying my conversation with Agent Mertins and wondering about the “rumors” he’d referenced. I wondered if I was too reclusive. If that gave me away. If I should have tried harder to hang out with people my age. But I had tried, a long time ago, and no one was interested.
Nearly home, I rounded a final bend, my jogging pace petering out and slowing to a walk. I lifted the hem of my shirt and blotted my forehead with it, completely unprepared to be met by a laugh so hearty, it shook away every previous thought.
My stomach twisted with equal parts excitement and dread, the infectious sound of Gray’s big, joyous laughs nearly enough to make me forgive him.
I didn’t want to see him, not after the last time we slept together became the last time we talked.
But I might’ve wanted him to see me a little bit.
And I couldn’t avoid him. We were adults.
We lived on the same street. We were going to encounter each other.
I walked up to the sidewalk in front of my neighbor’s, where Gray was sitting, drawing with chalk with the little girl who lived there. She’d been going by the name “Lion” for the last week.
Gray wasn’t babysitting. He just did stuff like this.
He was kind to everyone, a postcard of the word “neighborly.” He rebuilt our mailbox after I backed my car into it.
He filled the little library in front of his house with brand new books.
And for our married neighbors, who were always fighting, he purchased flamingo lawn ornaments and planted them around their yard for them.
Angling my body slightly away from his, I focused on Lion, who sat with her legs crossed and smiled up at me. Her cropped light-brown hair fluttered in the breeze.
“Hey, Lion,” I said, pretending to be unaffected by Gray’s proximity.
“Hey,” she replied, equally coolly. Then she dug her bright pink chalk stick into the sidewalk. She made zesty strokes, darkening the lines as she went over them.
I stooped for a closer look at her picture.