Page 86 of Witchy Woman

Without a word, we file out to the backyard. To the bonfire piled high and leaking magic in each plume of smoke.

Mom will be resistant initially, I’m sure. But there’s no way she won’t want to take the opportunity to be free of Hell.

And of Draven.

Although I know we didn’t get the whole story when it comes to their relationship. And that’s more than a little unsettling.

“Hazel and I will be right here. We’ll each have a hand on your shoulders so you can pull from our magic,” Grandma explains. Her smile falters as her blue eyes scan me. She knows how risky this is, but she wants to try.

The conflict is clear in her growing tears.

I don’t tell her that I’ll be fine. I don’t tell her that she has nothing to worry about. I don’t tell her that this won’t be the last time she sees me with life in my eyes.

We both know they’d be empty promises that I can’t make. Shouldn’t make.

“Let’s get started,” I say instead. “Before we lose the sunrise.”

She nods and I circle the fire. My instincts tell me that where I stand is important—that every little decision needs to be correct or we’ll fail—and I follow them. I trust them.

I trust myself. Trust my magic.

I finally choose the place where the sun will hit last, the darkest part of the yard, and plant my feet.

Hazel takes my right shoulder first, clamping both hands on it in an almost too tight squeeze. Her nerves filter through the touch, but so does her determination. She’s not the woman she used to be. She’s not the scared-of-life hermit who didn’t believe in herself.

I’m proud of her. Of the woman she’s become despite losing Dad and enduring Mom.

Grandma takes my left shoulder a beat after, her touch lighter. More hesitant. It’s strange having Hazel be the confident one of the two. As much as Hazel has changed, so has Grandma. And not for the better. She still makes her sarcastic quips, but she doesn’t own them anymore.

She hides behind them.

I don’t know what she’ll do if we get Mom back. Worse, I’m not sure what she’ll do if we don’t.

Their magic flows through their touch, a cooling sensation against the heat of the flame. It’s grounding, a contrast that helps me focus. No more emotions, no more worrying. I can’t focus on anything but what’s in front of me. The fire.

Mom.

I stand close enough to let the heat lick up my skin. To just about risk burning my eyebrows off.

Even so, somewhere inside I know I won’t burn. Can’t burn.

I’m a dragon. And dragons don’t burn.

Closing my eyes, I open my mind. Clear the way for the voices to filter through. I don’t grab on to any, though, just let them pass by like snowflakes on the wind as I search for Mom.

Search for the voice of the woman I always wanted more than anything. The one who kept me at arm’s length for my entire life. I replay our happiest moments. I remember the scent of her perfume. I try to see her the way Dad did.

Time stops in my small bubble. As I use the fire almost as a looking glass. I’m not in Hell, but I can feel it through the haze. I can’t see whatever counts as ground and sky, but I can feel the heat and the souls.

I could be searching for five minutes or five hours, I have no ability to tell. I’m just sifting and flicking through.

Until I’m not.

Until I finally smell her perfume. Feel her sadness. Recognize her soul.

“Hi, Mom.” I don’t say it verbally, but I know she hears me. “It’s time to go now.”

“Laura—” she begins, unable to hide the weariness in her tone. She’s in my head.