Page 7 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

"I need to go."

Lisa studies my face. "You felt it, didn't you?"

I don't bother denying it. Storm witches share a connection with weather magic that's hard to explain to anyone who hasn't felt it. Most storms feel alive. This one feels hungry.

I grab my lantern and start down the cliff path. Lisa follows beside me quietly. The silence isn't uncomfortable. It's worried.

As we approach the harbor, more people appear along the shoreline, their expressions telling me everything I need to know. No one has found the missing boat.

The crowd parts when I reach the docks. Gideon stands near the water with several fishermen and notices me immediately. His shoulders tighten, and my heart sinks.

"What did you find?"

Gideon's gaze drifts toward the sea. "Debris."

The single word lands heavily. "Any survivors?"

"No." The answer arrives too quickly, as though he's already repeated it too many times.

Around us, worried voices fill the harbor—families standing near the shoreline, waiting for word that their loved ones are coming home. I know that look. I've seen it before, too many times.

Gideon turns to me. "The storm appeared out of nowhere."

I watch the horizon. The clouds have thickened, dark currents twisting through them, almost hidden from ordinary eyes. I see them clearly.

Magic.

The realization chills me. "I want a boat. I can ride the storm there but it can just make things worse,"

Gideon's expression hardens immediately. "The water isn't safe."

"I know."

"Reina."

"There are still people out there." The words leave before I can stop them.

Gideon exhales heavily. For a moment, I think he's going to argue. Instead, he nods. "Take Rowan's vessel. His crew just returned."

Relief flickers through me.

The boat waits when I reach the dock, fishermen untying the ropes without meeting my eyes. I pretend not to notice.

Soon the harbor disappears behind me. The farther I travel, the rougher the water becomes—waves striking the hull, wind tearing the surface, clouds swallowing the sky. I straighten my grip as the magic grows stronger, the sensation crawling beneath my skin. Cold. Sharp. Wrong.

This isn't natural weather. I was raised by real storms. This feels like something wearing one's face.

Lightning flashes across the horizon, and the sea answers with a violent surge. Then I see it. Fragments of wood floating between the waves.

The remains of a fishing vessel.

I cut the engine and move to the boat's edge, wind screaming around me, salt stinging my face. I kneel and lower my hand into the water. Magic flows through me. The ocean responds.

Storm witches cannot command the sea. Not truly. But we can listen, feel, sense.

I shut my eyes. The water rushes around my fingers, searching for traces of the missing crew. Anything. A heartbeat. A lingering presence. Hope.

For a moment, all I find is darkness, and I push deeper, startled. The sea answers with silence. Nothing. No survivors, no souls lingering, no sign anyone remains beneath these waters. The emptiness hurts more than confirmation could.