Brittany Geragotelis - Life's a Witch

“Tomorrow,” I said. I was guesstimating how long it would take for Emory to make it back to Samuel and then for them to find the cabin. And though it was sooner than I’d have liked, we would be prepared. “The war starts tomorrow at dusk.”

Before I knew it, it was nightfall and the others started to filter in from outside, but the five of us remained in the room, memorizing spell after spell. There wasn’t enough time to practice, and besides, most of the ones we’d deemed useful for our impending battle weren’t exactly the kind of spells we wanted to try on each other. No one was volunteering themselves as guinea pigs, anyway. I’d have tested a few out on Asher, but I wasn’t ready to see him yet—besides, I had much worse things in store for him.

At one point in the evening, one of the younger girls brought up some sandwiches for us to eat. We didn’t bother stopping, just shoved the peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches into our mouths as we worked. There was a sort of rhythm to our flow of learning. One of us took the book, read the spell, wrote it down, and then passed it on. Then we’d commit it to memory during the time that it took for the volume to make its way back around again, when we’d choose yet another spell to master.

By 3 a.m., every one of us was falling asleep sitting up and it was clear that anything we were trying to memorize wasn’t going to stick. And if we were going to be fighting the Parrishables in the next twenty-four hours, we needed some rest. So we slept right there in our spots, giving way to all the wicked dreams our minds could come up with.

By now I knew mine weren’t just products of my imagination. It was a fact I’d started getting used to of late. Tonight, I almost welcomed it, because I felt there was something I was still missing, some piece of information that Bridget or Christian could give me that would pull everything together. I couldn’t imagine that the universe would bring me this far only to let us lose. No, there had to be something that I was missing.

So when my eyes itched with sleep and my lids grew heavy and threatened to drop, I lay down, snuggling into my covers next to Jazzy, and allowed my mind to be opened up to whatever wisdom the past had for me.

Before long, I was no longer in the cabin. I was standing on uneven ground and my feet were warm, as if they were wrapped in a heating blanket. The smell in the air was acrid, a mixture of smoke, ash, and the slightest bit of something foul. Like burning hair. Or flesh. The combination almost made me retch.

Fighting back the bile that threatened to come up, I realized exactly where I was. And then I saw it: I was standing on the site where the Parrishables had massacred the Cleri. My parents. My friends’ parents. All cut down because of an immortal man who was insane with power. A man who saw us as a threat and would stop at nothing to ensure that he stayed in control of the magic world.

As I took a step across the rubble, and then another, ash began to cling to my shoes and coat them like mud. But I couldn’t worry about my clothes right now, because I was brought here for a reason—though I still had no idea what it was.

Why was I here? To pick something up, perhaps? To learn something? No answers came to me, so I continued to walk across the still-burning ground.

I was alone in the makeshift graveyard, with only my thoughts to keep me company. This was a dark place to be. Especially when all I had on my mind was revenge. I wanted the ones who were responsible for this destruction to suffer. Horribly.

“You realize this couldn’t have been avoided.”

The voice came from behind me, in a space that had been deserted only a few seconds ago. The sound both startled and comforted me. I realized quickly that I’d been expecting it all along. I whipped around to find myself staring at someone I knew well. However, up until then, I’d never actually had a conversation with her. I’d only ever been a witness to her life, never an active participant.

Right there in front of me, looking stunning in a bloodred frock, was my long-lost ancestor, the infamous Bridget Bishop. She looked nothing like the woman I’d seen in jail on the day of her death; here she was cleaned up, immaculate even. Her hair fell in gentle waves around her face and shone a vibrant midnight black color. A slight smile played on her lips, giving the impression that she was hiding a secret or had just told a dirty joke. And knowing what I did about her, this very well could’ve been true.

I’d seen her at her worst: dirty, helpless, proud, and fearful, but today she was prettier than I’d ever imagined. I could see now why women worried about their men when Bridget was around. Then I wondered if I had inherited that particular gift, too.

Before I could say anything, she continued. “It was a tragedy, yes, but there was nothing you could have done, my dear girl,” she said, looking straight at me.

I didn’t want to be impolite and keep staring at her without responding, so I cleared my throat and took a step closer. The air around us was hushed but for the crackling of fires that hadn’t yet burned out. It almost seemed like there were little screams among the sounds, and I imagined everyone being caught in the flames.

“But I could have,” I said, almost pleadingly. “If I’d just tried harder, followed my mom when she got that call. Maybe then I could’ve gotten everyone out in time.”

She shook her head sadly. “The interesting thing about time is that it is fleeting. And it was their time to go. As it was mine long ago.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. I knew I sounded like a little kid, but I felt like throwing a tantrum at the injustice of it all. I restrained myself from stomping my foot, but I didn’t have as much control over my quivering lips and teary eyes. This poor woman, who’d suffered through more horror than most of us could imagine, didn’t need to see me have an emotional breakdown. Not with how brave she’d been that day in 1692. I couldn’t cry in front of her. It would be too embarrassing. So I changed the subject. “What about Samuel? He’s like four hundred years old and he’s still walking around like he owns the magic world. I think it’s far past his bedtime, don’t you?”

Bridget gave a chuckle. For a second I could imagine what things might’ve been like if I’d met her in her own day. Would I have liked her or would we have butted heads because we were so much alike? I wanted to believe that we would’ve been friends. We could’ve bonded over our mutual love of power and the color red.

“Samuel is a different matter entirely,” she said gently.

“But why? What makes him so different?”

“Well, for one, he chose darkness over the light of the universe. His heart is black. So is his soul, and when it is time for him to meet his maker—which I anticipate will happen soon—he will be punished for all he has done. The otherworld does not take kindly to those who defy its laws. Which is why we are always to be careful of where our alliances lie.”

Something Bridget had said stopped me. “Wait. So you think we actually have a chance of winning this thing? I mean, that’s what I’ve been telling everyone, but to be honest, I haven’t been so sure… .”

Standing among the ashes of my fallen coven members, I was finally able to admit it out loud: I thought there was a possibility we wouldn’t make it out of this fight alive. But here was the first person slain in Reverend Parris’s quest for total magic domination, and she was telling me there was a chance. We had a chance. Samuel’s reign of terror might be coming to an end.

“As I said, we must be careful with whom we align ourselves. If you ask the right people for help, you will triumph. But this is a decision you must make for yourself.”