If that were the case, my mother, Helen Blackburn, Echelon to the School of Mental Magic, would’ve prepared me the same way she’d prepared Ash.
Dad gazed out the French doors to the dark-green tree line of the forest. “What I meant was” — he cleared his throat — “I think you have to go foryou.”
“Dad.”
“Em-bear.” He’d been saying my name that way since I was a kid. “You can’t stay here. You’ve gotta go” — he waved a hand around in the air — “get a life, see the world.” Trying to be humorous, he added, “The other one.”
“I have a life. I run. I read. I take care of things — ”
“Of me, you mean. You take care of me. That’s not a life, kid.Not as long as you keep making it about me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he countered, “and it’s making you miserable. I know you like to think I’m not paying attention, but I see fine from my chair. You’ve got the blues. The same ones your mother had.”
“Dad.” My voice was sharp, agitated. “I’m not blue.” He meant well, but he was wrong. I was fine. I liked my life as much as the next person.
He laughed to himself, shaking his head like I wasn’t hearing him. “You’re as blue as they get.” Absentmindedly, he flicked through the television channels, eventually landing on some baseball highlights and turning up the volume. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he said, raising his voice so I could hear him over the TV. “You won’t be happy here. Your glow is gone, and it’s not coming back unless you go.”
I pretended not to hear his words over the crack of the baseball bat, the muffled cheers of the crowd, the commentators aghast as a home run replayed on the screen. I grabbed my lukewarm coffee and went to the fridge to add some ice to it — and jumped, splashing myself, at the sudden sound of fists pounding on our door.
“Open the door! Police! Open the door!”
CHAPTER
TWO
EMBER
A wise witch conceals her gift. A wiser witch forgets she has one.
— Jaxan D’Oron, Echelon to the
School of Dark Magic
Isaw the black tactical vest and realized “police” was an understatement. This wasn’t the local officer who let it slide when the parking meter expired. This was the guy who knocked down your door and sent a K-9 in after.
Roughly the same age as Dad, but with none of his softness, his dark-brown hair was peppered with gray, and his matching mustache was neatly trimmed. I guessed the Ford SUV with heavily tinted windows in my driveway was his. It didn’t appear to be left running. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door softly behind me.
I still wore my sleep shorts and was barefoot, but instead of going back inside for shoes, I remained where I was, too afraid that opening the door would upset Dad. It had been a while since I asked what he was afraid of, since his eyes had glazed over and he’d answered:War.
The officer walked in a semicircle around me, staring throughthe skinny windows flanking our door. “I’m Agent Mertins with the Special Projects Division,” he said, his voice mumbly and with little inflection.
Special Projects Division was the delicate term for what he really was, a Witch Hunter, one of the federal agents tasked with making sure no unauthorized witches slipped through the portal. And while someone at the top must have known I lived here in accordance with the treaty, that didn’t make low-level Witch Hunters any less dangerous, not when their stance on witches was presume guilt, then invoke the death penalty. And I knew Everden wouldn’t intervene to help me.
“Mertins?” I asked politely, my fists scrunching nervously in my long sleeves as I wondered if he was trained to read into how badly my palms were sweating. “As inMilesMertins?”
He nodded. “My son.”
“I went to high school with him,” I said, hoping this might help the situation. Of course, Miles Mertins was the golden boy football star, and we’d never spoken.
“Isn’t that something. Your parents home?”
Well, yes.One was. But he wasn’t coming.
“Just my dad.” I peeked back at the empty hallway through the glass window. “He won’t come, though. Not to the door.” I didn’t want to invite Agent Mertins inside, where he was sure to see the magical letterbox sitting on our countertop. “I’m eighteen, though,” I offered, “in case that matters.”
