Page 129 of Bound By Fury

“Hocus Pocus?” The irony of it is too good to pass up. “I fucking love Hocus Pocus!”

Daisy squeals.

“But I wasn’t planning on going to the dance,” I admit.

“WHAT?” Daisy stops in her tracks, grabbing on to Missy for support. “You have to go! Halloween is the fucking best! It’s the one school-sanctioned event that is actually, like, a lot of fun.” She turns to Missy and gives her arm a little shake. “Right, Missy? Tell her!”

Missy kisses her teeth. “Last year Robbie Macintosh threw up in the punch bowl and someone thought it was part of the décor.” She shrugs. “It was disgusting. But if you’re into that sort of thing…”

Daisy groans, pushing Missy off the sidewalk. “Shut up! If you have nothing helpful to say, don’t talk!”

“You asked!”

I have to do a double take when I see the barely visible lift in the corners of Missy’s mouth.

“That’s horrifying!” I deadpan. “Okay, fine, I’ll go.”

“I don’t do group costumes,” Missy cuts in.

Daisy stops walking, her hand curving her hip. “You’re doing the costume.”

Missy glares down at her. “No.”

They stand there, eyes locked, brows creased in frustration.

My gaze bounces between them, night and day, ice-blond hair and a black so deep, it shines purple in the light.

“Ugh, fine!” Missy grunts.

Daisy squeals, throwing her arms around Missy and me. “Okay, so Harper, you can be Winifred because she’s a boss-ass bitch, I’ll be Mary, and Missy, you should be Sarah! I wonder if Sam will want to be human or cat Binx.”

My project for history is dead. Now that I know about witches and that magic is real, writing about those women feels a lot like betrayal. Like I’d be desecrating some twisted, holy bond.

Still, admitting to Dr. Rogers that witches “never existed” in Earnest seems like accepting defeat. So I simply shot her a vague email about how there “wasn’t quite enough information to confirm or deny either way” and changed my topic to the Great Flood of 1916.

Besides, after everything I learned from Maureen, I’ve spent more time researching what she revealed than I have on my project, anyway.

Hunters hungry for our blood, syphons that steal powers, beasts that roam the Appalachian wood… where does it end? How much of the world have I been ignorant to? Unsurprisingly, the internet isn’t much help. Everything I read seems like an approximation of the truth, but there are no firsthand accounts, no credible sightings, no Zodiac Witch forums or private social media groups.

Every now and then I revisit Fiona’s blog. Reread the handful of posts. Try to put myself in her shoes. Understand what was going through her mind.

I wonder if the coven she was planning to meet with downriver is the same one Maureen is going to introduce me to.

I add that to the note in my phone with all the questions I plan to ask her next time we meet. At this point it’s close to overflowing. We were supposed to get together this week, but she called me yesterday and canceled. Said something about her gout acting up. When she suggested next weekend, I almost said yes before I remembered the Halloween dance, so we’re planning for the one after that. To be honest, I’d rather skip the dance to go see Maureen, but Daisy would be devastated, and I’ve been a crappy enough friend as it is.

Before we hung up, she promised she would reach out to the Asheville coven and set something up. She said we could meet with them together. I didn’t miss the layer of apprehension in her tone, though. Like there’s something she’s still not telling me.

So now I’m sitting in the back of Beantown, ten tabs deep into peer-reviewed articles about the recovery efforts of those trapped in the raging waters of the Swannanoa, when a shadow falls over my table. My eyes travel up the looming form and are met with the same piercing hazel stare that unsettled me that first day in the cafeteria.

“Missy,” I say around my dry throat, reaching for my now-empty London fog.

“Harper.” She gives me an appraising look. “We need to talk.”

Internally I groan.

I haven’t meant to continue pulling away from everyone, but after going to Maureen’s house and being run off the road, I barely have enough energy to make sure I’m brushing my teeth every day. The burst of fearless confidence I felt that night was short-lived. Since then, each fake smile, each I’m fine, has taken something from me. I know they’re worried. That they have been for a while.

And yet, I pull. I pull and pull and hope they remain tethered to me no matter how far from them I get.