He continues to swipe. “Which kind?”
I shake my head, pointing. “That one, I guess. But the tips had fur coming out.” His eyes brighten. “But notreally,” I cut in swiftly. “Because it wasn’t real.”
Morgan flattens the paper against my shoulder so that he can dash notes across it in pen. I stiffen, face warming. He is not touching me, hispenis touching me. Through layers of clothing.
But it doesn’t feel like that. With the press of his pen and his nearness, tall body covering mine from behind like the large wings of a divine being, I envision Morgan holding a tattoo pen, sinking his handwriting into my bare skin. “Resembles finger coral,” he mumbles to himself. “With fur on the tips.”
“It wasn’t real, though.” I’ve repeated this so many times, the words have lost meaning. I smooth my hands down my arms to shake off goose bumps.
“Or, you found a paranimal.”
In Black Bear Witch lore, paranimals are woodland creatures that the witch has enchanted for unknown reasons (the leading theory is that she likes to infuse the flavors of magic into animals before consuming them)—like turning a fox into a fox-bird hybrid with tree bark on its forelegs. Allegedly, only a rare few can see the enchanted form of a paranimal; to anybody else, they look like the normal creatures they were before the Black Bear Witch got a hold of them.
I give the sky an anguished look. “This town. You’ve allpoisoned yourselves with so many legends that you can’t tell what’s fiction anymore.”
Morgan opens his mouth to speak, but I jerk back as a small animal zips between us, right over Morgan’s shoes, scrabbling up the stone wall encasing Romina’s garden. It turns its head, staring at me with big orange eyes. Each one contains three black rings.
“Katrina,” I whisper.
Even as I say it, I know it isn’t her—the fur is more tan than gray, and it’s not as sleek and compact as she was.
“Who?” Morgan looks around.
“That’s my—that’s a huggle.” I can’t believe I’ve said the wordhuggleout loud, as a grown-up.
“What are you talking about?” He follows my line of sight. “The squirrel? Did you call it ahuggle?”
I glance at his face, taking in his confusion, and then look back at the…
Squirrel.
It flicks its bushy tail at us, then sprints across the garden wall toward Romina’s rooftop and disappears in a warren of pumpkin vines.
“Never mind.” I am never eating Luna’s sketchy jam again.
I pull away from Morgan, trying to cross the street. He yanks me back, the unexpected touch jolting through me like lightning; right as a shout leaps up my throat, a car honks and dirty water sprays up from a tire, splattering all across my legs.
“Rats.” I moan. “This is what I get for going outside.”
Morgan hesitates. “Zelda, do you think it’s possible that you saw a paranimal?”
I scowl at him. “No.”
“Because if you did,” he marches on, “then maybe one of them could lead me to the Black Bear Witch.”
“So that she can crack your head open like a nut?”
“So that she can give me some of her magic. Besides, she only cracks your head open like a nut if you’re driving forwards on Wiley Palmer Road.” He shrugs, like,I don’t make these rules.
The Black Bear Witch’s origins are unclear, and her traits vary from story to story, but it is agreed upon that she is centuries old. She hides somewhere within the town, and if you find her lair, she has to give you some of her magic before taking away your memory of ever finding it. The size of this gifted magic is quibbled over; some believe you’d come out of the situation with a small power or an enchanted object. Others believe you would become a god. There’s even a rhyme about it:
Open wide the witch’s door
and burn with magic evermore.
But to gain, you must surrender
remembrance of the witch forever.
