This Coven Won't Break - Isabel Sterling Page 0,11

a tie around the end of the braid.

“About what?” She shifts back into the cushions now that her work is done.

“About how your magic works.” I perch on the edge of the couch beside her, weighing my words. I want so badly to know everything about her, want to understand why her magic affects mine, but I don’t want to hurt her by asking the wrong way. There’s still so much I don’t know about Blood Witches. And the stuff I do know? It’s hard to tell which parts are based on stereotypes and nothing more.

“What about it?” Morgan prompts when I’ve stayed quiet too long. Her expression is carefully neutral.

“Is it . . . instinctual? Like, do you hear my heartbeat whenever I’m close, or do you have to listen for it? And what about right now? Are you making me feel calm on purpose, or is it just . . . happening?”

Morgan drops her gaze. Her forehead creases. After a moment, the steady thrum of her magic disappears from inside me. A dull ache blooms in my ribs, and I hastily release my hold on the air. When I let my magic go, the pain goes with it.

“I guess it’s a bit of both,” Morgan says finally, looking at me again. “Sometimes I do it on purpose, like at school that first day when you were so stressed out after seeing Nolan. But I didn’t realize my magic was affecting you now. I can stop if you don’t like it.”

“No!” I say, probably a bit too fast. “You don’t have to stop. It’s . . .” The only thing that makes my magic work. “It’s nice.”

“You don’t think it’s creepy?”

I reach for her hand and thread her fingers between mine. “Of course not.”

We settle into the couch to watch the news. The meteorologist forecasts storms early next week, and Morgan leans close to rest her head on my shoulder. “I can’t hear your heartbeat, by the way. I feel it like a second pulse next to mine. Mostly in my wrists, and only when you’re close.” She turns and presses a kiss to my neck, giggling when she returns to using my shoulder like a pillow. “Your heart always skips when I do that.”

“Hey, that’s cheating.”

“What? You have more experience kissing girls than me. I’ll take any advantage I can get.”

I laugh and lean close to kiss her, but everything in me goes cold when Benton’s picture appears on the screen. Seeing his smiling senior portrait makes my entire body recoil. I should be used to it by now. They never show his mug shot. He’s always this clean-cut, grinning boy. This is why Mom tried to ban me from watching the news.

“Turn it up?” I point to the remote beside Morgan. She does.

“The court trial for local Salem High graduate Benton Hall is expected to begin with jury selection on September thirtieth,” the anchor continues. “He’s accused of the kidnapping and attempted murder of two local teens, fellow graduate Veronica Matthews and a current Salem High senior. Sources close to Hall indicate the young man intends to plead innocent to all charges. Jenny Cho has more of the story.”

The studio fades, replaced by a shot of the courthouse where Benton’s trial will take place. The image pans right, where the on-scene reporter waits with a microphone.

“Thank you, Shannon. In just a few short weeks, Salem’s district attorney, Natalie Flores, will begin prosecuting the town’s most unusual case since its seventeenth-century witch trials. Speculation has infiltrated legal and public circles alike, some referring to the defendant, Benton Hall, as a modern-day witch hunter.”

I stiffen even though this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this particular theory. It was popular online first—dozens of memes about burning witches filtered across my feed before Gemma blocked all the relevant terms. A few weeks ago, more legitimate news sources started pushing the theory, too.

Across the house, Mom’s bedroom door squeaks open and slams closed again. I turn off the news before she can catch me watching, but she doesn’t come to see us. Instead, pots and pans clang in the kitchen as she starts dinner. I’m about to ask Morgan if she wants to sneak into my room when something shatters.

“Mom?” I call from the couch. “Everything okay?” The doorbell rings, and I climb to my feet. “I’ll get it.” At the front door, I check the peephole before unlocking the deadbolt. “What are you two doing here?”

Detective Archer and Cal stand

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