Such a Witch

1.    WELCOME TO RAVEN’S HEAD SCHOOL FOR THE MAGICALLY GIFTED

WELCOME TO RAVEN’S HEAD SCHOOL FOR THE MAGICALLY GIFTED

CONSIDERING EVERYTHING, EMbrY WOODCROSS LIVED A VERY charmed life. She was a witch after all.

But she did have one very specific something that vexed her.

Someone. Repeatedly. Often. And right now.

Rye Knighton.

The boy next door. The brother figure she never wanted. The thorn currently embedded in her Raven’s Head School for the Magically Gifted track and field tank top.

“Didn’t I just help move you into a dorm room this weekend or was I hallucinating?” Rye knitted his brows as he made his way to the burbling espresso machine in her kitchen.

Rye had his own kitchen. His own house, actually. He didn’t even have to share it with anyone—not that she minded sharing with Daddy. Embry would never leave Daddy, even if she did technically live at Raven’s Head during the school year. Which was Rye’s point.

“I spelled my trunks up the stairs,” she reminded him, pointedly levitating the mug collecting gourmet Black Cat Coffee Shop espresso closer to the machine’s spout. “The only thing you moved was the door to hold it open.”

“Checks out—I’ve been known to be a very good human doorstop.

” Rye smirked, lowering the cup gently with magic of his own.

“Makes sense, too, I suppose, that you’d be standing in running clothes in your childhood kitchen an hour before first bell on the first day of the school you literally live at. ”

Out of habit, Embry slapped at Rye, making sloppy contact with the solid meat of his shoulder as he picked up the petite and brimming mug. He nearly spilled it and she nearly grinned, before deciding better of it and returning to her original purpose.

Because that was the thing. Rye knew exactly why she was here.

All summer she’d been running three miles every weekday morning with Daddy.

She was currently rocking fresh beads of sweat, hair in a ponytail, and sneakers on her feet.

One didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce exactly what was going on here.

Embry yanked open the fridge and inspected the perfectly straight row of lovingly prepared mason jars.

Daddy hadn’t touched them. With a sigh, Embry plucked up the first jar, plus a tub of washed berries, and got to work preparing the most appetizing presentation of chia pudding Lazarus Woodcross would ever see in his life.

“Woodcross, your father is fifty-five years old. The man can make his own breakfast.”

Tipping extra berries atop the gelatinous-but-healthy mass—vitamin C was a must, according to Daddy’s doctor—Embry did a few meditation breaths.

“Knighton, why are you in my kitchen at”—she checked the thin bangle of a watch on her wrist (vintage from her mother’s jewelry box)—“seven eighteen on a Monday morning? Don’t you have a busy day of brooding around your haunted mansion, mainlining sonnets, and draping yourself over various pieces of furniture? ”

Rye downed the espresso in one gulp, then stole a raspberry from the open container of washed fruit and popped it in his mouth, green eyes alight. “Is that what you think a gap year is for me? The male equivalent of eating bonbons and avoiding housework?”

“Come on, Rye, you’re more feminist than that.” Embry donkey-kicked backward just hard enough to jab his calf with her running shoe as he belatedly spun away. To his credit, he didn’t yelp. “And we both know you like a good brood.”

“I do,” he agreed, facing her after refilling his drained cup. “But I didn’t take a year off school to indulge.”

He downed the second cup and grinned at her, guileless.

She narrowed her eyes. “Says the man indulging in my espresso like it’s his own.”

“It’s my espresso, and we have more than enough.

” Lazarus Woodcross swept into the kitchen with a kiss for his daughter.

In the few minutes since they’d returned from their run, he’d showered, shaved, and dressed for the day in one of his many suits.

The man was nothing if not efficient. “And Rye is helping me this morning. Don’t scare him away.

You know very well how grateful the coven is to have a witch of Rye’s skill set to help modernize our systems.”

Embry read this as: Woodcross Coven of Ravenwood was getting a free (secure) website makeover for the low, low price of Rye’s deferral from the University of Maine.

Rye arched a brow as if he’d won this round. Embry rolled her eyes.

It wasn’t worth it to raise Daddy’s blood pressure over this. So, she agreed with him.

“I suppose tipping him in espresso for free labor is the least we could do.” Then Embry pointedly dipped a spoon into Lazarus’s bowl and handed it to him.

He accepted it with a grimace. “Well then, I’m off to school—happy modernizing.

I look forward to flashy, technical things at tomorrow’s big coven meeting. ”

Rye’s lips quirked. “I’ve got a massive hologram of old Hiram Woodcross ready to go. Very flashy and very technical.”

“Naturally,” Embry snarked as Lazarus attempted a confused “What” through a mouthful of berry and chia. “Don’t worry about it, Daddy. It’s a joke. There’s no hologram.”

Lazarus forced a swallow before hitting the brakes when he noticed the time. “You better get going, Em. Even head prefects can’t be late.”

“I never am.”

And with a farewell air-kiss to Daddy and a wave to Rye, she dashed out the door.

Because Raven’s Head School for the Magically Gifted was literally built upon land once owned by the Woodcross family, all Embry had to do was jog straight down the hill from the estate, through the gates of the Raven’s End Cemetery, and she was on school grounds before Daddy had finished his breakfast. Well, if he’d eaten the rest of it.

By ten minutes before first bell, Embry exited the dorm at Raven’s Head with her best friend and fellow senior prefect Amethyst Oberon in tow, showered and scrubbed to glowing, houndstooth blouse paired with her requisite school-branded vest and skirt.

Embry was not only on time; she was early.

But just as soon as the two witches stepped into the morning sunshine, Merlin, Headmaster Martinelli’s pet red-tailed hawk, swooped down from one of the quad’s many towering oaks and deposited an enchanted navy envelope into Embry’s hands.

“Please tell me Merlin didn’t just unload his leftovers,” Ames joked from over Embry’s shoulder.

The hawk was rather fond of dropping desiccated carcasses on anyone who could be overheard grousing about how they thought a raven might be a more appropriate companion to the headmaster of this particular school.

Embry waved the envelope. “All business today.”

Despite improvements to technology over the past century, Raven’s Head did not care to adopt a PA system of any kind to communicate with its students and faculty.

Too crass, impersonal, and, well, basic, for an institution of its caliber.

Magically augmented notes from Merlin were standard for communication.

Embry opened the missive, and Headmaster Martinelli’s voice shimmered up from the spelled ink, relaying the message in both visuals and audio.

“Head Prefect Embry Woodcross to administration.”

Ames checked the Old Main clocktower. “So close to first bell? That can’t be good.”

Embry straightened the cross-body satchel she wore—1999 Chanel once owned by her mother—and ensured her prefect pin was perfectly square. “Save me a seat in calc, will you?”

“Left-hand window side, second from the front?” Ames confirmed.

“Amethyst Oberon, you’re complete perfection.”

Ames fluffed the ends of her shiny black curls, teeth flashing white against her flawless dark brown skin. “I always am. I’ll also save your ass by explaining very nicely to Miss Hemlock that you’re on official prefect business and not simply arriving late for your grand entrance.”

Embry brushed it off. “She knows I’d never do such a thing. Real fashion doesn’t need tardiness to be noticed.”

And with a quick hug scented of rose water and high-end makeup, they parted ways, Ames to the STEM building, and Embry toward administration.

It was a brisk walk, seeing as the offices of the Raven’s Head elite were positioned within literal screaming distance of the dormitory in the event that the generational magical scrapping between the Witches, Bitches, Stitches, and Glitches went overboard.

It’s not as if anyone had ever died from a little magical misunderstanding, but some factions (cough, cough, Bitches) were mighty territorial by nature and, at least once a semester, there was a screamer. Or two.

At this moment in time, no one was screaming, but Headmaster Martinelli was bouncing on her heels, pantsuit utterly professional but the rest of her body waving like a giant balloon at a car dealership.

The hawk glided to the leather cuff on her arm, landed, and proceeded to bob and weave as the headmaster continued to wave.

As a demigoddess descended from the line of Freyja, one would think she’d be a little more glamorous and a lot less frazzled, but a hundred years in educational administration could change a person.

“Head Prefect Woodcross, there you are! Your haste is most appreciated.” Martinelli’s makeup-free face was stretched round, her severe bob seemingly straining to keep up. Embry wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the woman so pressed.

Embry schooled her face to be placid and helpful—exactly what Martinelli seemed to need right now—though she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that being addressed as “Head Prefect Woodcross” rather than “Miss Woodcross” would likely never get old. “What can I—”

“I need you to show the newest member of our senior class to her room and first period.” Her voice was businesslike despite her disheveled presentation. “Come, Miss Riddle, we have seven minutes to get you there. A detention warning would be a terrible way to start.”