Page 8 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

Rain strikes my face, and the wind carries a faint scent. Not salt. Not seawater. Magic—dark, residual, lingering in the storm. The taste settles on my tongue—metallic, corrupted, unnatural.

Someone did this. The certainty arrives without hesitation. Storms don't leave traces like this. People do.

Another wave crashes against the boat. I force myself to stand. There's nothing more to find here, nothing more to save. The realization feels like failure anyway.

When I return to shore, the storm has weakened. The crowd remains near the harbor, hope disappearing from several faces the moment they see me arrive alone. The sight twists something in my chest. A woman breaks down sobbing against her husband's shoulder, a child begins crying, and I look away. Some grief deserves privacy.

Gideon approaches before I can leave the dock. "What happened?"

I hand him a piece of wood recovered from the water. "The vessel is gone."

His jaw tightens. "I figured."

I hesitate, lowering my voice. "There was magic."

His eyes sharpen. "What kind?"

"Not mine," the answer comes without hesitation. "It felt wrong."

Gideon studies me, and I can almost see the calculations behind his eyes. The problem is my certainty won't matter to everyone else.

Voices rise nearby. At first, I ignore them. Then familiar words reach my ears.

"Storm witch."

I freeze. The fisherman speaking doesn't notice, or perhaps he doesn't care.

"I heard the lightning was blue."

"My cousin saw it too," another man nods.

A third fisherman folds his arms. "Only storm witches can do something like that."

The words spread through the crowd with frightening speed, like sparks finding dry wood. I watch the grieving families, the fear growing behind every whispered conversation. The pattern is painfully familiar. Something terrible happens. People become afraid. Fear searches for a target. Eventually, it finds one.

Lisa appears beside me, her expression darkening as she overhears the discussion. "They don't know what they're talking about."

I manage a small smile. "It wouldn't be the first time."

The attempt at humor falls flat. We both know it.

Nearby, another conversation begins, less quiet than the last.

"I always said keeping a storm witch here was dangerous."

"We should have listened."

"What if this is only the beginning?"

I close my eyes briefly. The words shouldn't hurt anymore—I've spent years hearing them, years watching people accept my help while distrusting the hands offering it.

When I blink my eyes open, my expression is calm. Controlled and professional, just like how Gran Cora taught me . The same mask I've worn since I was old enough to understand why people looked at me differently.

Gideon notices, his gaze lingering for a moment. Perhaps he sees through it. Perhaps not. Either way, he doesn't mention it.

"I'm organizing another search tomorrow," he says. "If there's anything left to find, we'll find it."

"Let me know what you need," I nod.