trembling now, the other Elders nearly upon her. “It’s not too late. There’s still time to fix this. We can step out of the shadows. We shouldn’t have to hide from Regs.”
The Blood Witch Elder cuts the binding cord from Keating’s wrists and pulls one arm forward, forcing her palm up.
“No.” Keating tries to pull away, voice breaking. “Don’t do this. Please don’t do this. You know me, Christine. I’ve only ever wanted what was best for our Clans. We can still fix this.”
“You cannot replace the lives you took, Katherine.” The Blood Witch drags the blade smoothly across Keating’s palm, and there’s an edge to her voice. I think of the Blood Witch boy, who died in the hospital the day we burned Hall Pharmaceuticals to the ground. “And now, you’ll never hurt us again.” She presses her palm against Keating’s bleeding one.
Keating screams as Blood Magic tears through her system, and I force myself to watch as Elder Hudson steps forward with a potion clutched in his hand. He tips the vial against Keating’s lips, and the mixture of magics tears her power apart piece by piece.
Her agony, her grief, does little to numb the hurt she caused. Dad’s death. Sarah and Archer and Zoë and my grandparents and so many others without the magic they spent lives mastering. It’s fitting that she should lose her own magic now, too.
Yet no matter her crimes, it’s hard to watch the unmaking of a witch.
When the ritual is complete, when Keating collapses to the ground, shaking and shuddering, Council agents collect her. They give her another potion that will bind her from ever speaking about magic or the Clans again.
We talked at length about whether to take her memory but ultimately decided the more appropriate punishment was to let her live out her days knowing what she lost.
Though she will also spend those days locked up in a secure Council facility.
After she’s gone, there is no celebration. No laughter or overwhelming sense of victory. Instead, there’s pain. Lingering echoes of hurt and grief. There’s the remembrance of all we’ve lost. I text Zoë and tell her it’s over, that we did it. A few minutes later, she reminds me that it isn’t over. That we still need to find a way to restore the magic that was lost.
That the hard part—the after—has only just begun.
34
LIFE SETTLES INTO A new normal.
Mom has me on Operation Salvage Senior Year, which means I have zero social life until I’m caught up on all my missed assignments. My teachers are mostly accommodating given everything in the news about Benton and his parents, but that doesn’t lighten the workload.
Getting back on track is about more than school, though. I finally take Veronica’s advice and agree to let Mom find me a therapist. I’ve only been to a few sessions, but so far, so good. I always leave feeling lighter than when I arrive, but if I decide later that I want to talk to someone who understands everything I’ve been through, the Council says they can locate an Elemental qualified to help, even if it’s only over the phone.
On a Thursday night late in October, my old boss Lauren calls and asks if there’s any chance I could help cover a few shifts during the Halloween rush. Since I’m finally caught up on school—and since I blew through a good portion of my cash on new paint supplies—I agree.
Which is how I find myself spending the last Friday night in October at the Fly by Night Cauldron. The shop is packed with tourists. It’s all hands on deck, and between the tourists and the full staff of employees, there’s barely any room to maneuver. Quinn, a genderqueer first-year student at Salem State, helps me at the register. In the two months they’ve worked here, Quinn is already a faster cashier and bagger than I am, and I’ve worked at the Cauldron forever.
I ring up our current customer’s final item—an exceptionally creepy dried scorpion—and pass it to Quinn. They wrap it in protective paper before sliding the crunchy creature in the bag. “That’ll be sixty-two thirty-nine,” I say, and the young woman dressed in black and copious amounts of dark silver jewelry swipes her card.
“Thanks for shopping at the Fly by Night Cauldron,” Quinn says, flashing a bright smile that would make Lauren proud. “Come again soon!”
We continue to ring up the line, but one customer in particular keeps catching my attention. Detective Archer has been