Most of us associate this folklore with zozzled teenagers throwing parties in the woods. That’s where all the “Nah, man, I saw her for real!” stories stem from: people blabbering about bears they saw walking around on two legs, acting suspicious, while under the influence of King Cobra (the partiers were under the influence, not the bear. Or possibly the bear joined in, I don’t know).
I stare at him. He stares back, not an ounce of shame to be found on his features.
“You sure moved from plan A to plan B fast.”
He fidgets. “Youwere plan B, actually. Plan A was a spell that didn’t work. So technically, going the Black Bear Witch route is plan C, but I would be more than amenable to changing that if you would like to go out with me again—”
I’m already sailing past him. “Get lost.”
I grumble my way into The Magick Happens, up to my attic, and fall into a chair at my writing desk. My mind is a whirlwind of sailor-worthy curses.
On the opposite side of the road, colors smeared by rain and shadow, Morgan’s lounging in his own desk chair like an indolent prince: back slouched, knees apart. Eyebrows ever so slightly knit. His hands are laced together, resting on his stomach. My chest rises and falls with shallow, indignant breaths. My body clenches. What is he thinking, staring at me like that?
Probably, he is scheming more skullduggery. Congratulating himself for incapacitating my ability to think. Thinking is my favorite thing to do. How extremely dare he.
He is doing this on purpose. It pleases him to see me affected, so unable to escape the heavy, pressing weight of his gaze that has me feeling all tangled up and contradictory, with my muscles rigid and my bones loose.
He taps a long finger against his chin, watching. A ghost of a smirk hovers at his lips, and I hate him. Oh, I hate him.
Thump, thump, thump, thumpgoes my wild little heart.
I am furious with myself for not hating him. For wishing he were genuinely interested in me, when wishing is pointless.
But it’s those eyes. It’s that mouth.
It’s a combustion reaction. He’s a flash of white heat in the pulse beating at my throat, the tips of my breasts, between my legs, smoking out to my fingertips. I raise them in the shadows to inspect, thinking their color must have changed, so much do they feel like glowing coals.
As if he can sense the direction of my thoughts, the heat of my body, his jaw has slackened, lips parted. His cheeks are flagged with red. I have never seen that expression on him before, and it seals my airways.
He leans forward, just an inch. Eyes on me. Daring me to do something.
But what, exactly?
He wants a push to his pull. He wants retaliation and the unexpected. This man should learn now that he will not get anything he wants from me.
I close my curtains.
Twelve
The Bone Dragon: The skeleton of an enormous beast lies buried beneath the trees of Falling Rock Forest. If its horn is dug up and oxygenated, it will return to life and escape, and the entire forest will die, as it grew from the magic that leached from its body. If it ever absorbs its magic back, there will be nothing left of southern Moonville.
Local Legends and Superstitions,
Tempest Family Grimoire
The following morning,Romina drags Luna and me out to the courtyard to gaze with wonder at her kingcup flowers, which are in such exuberant bloom that they’re growing straight up the siding of The Magick Happens, a vertical field of yellow flowers. Several seem to be attempting to push open a window on the second floor. “Isn’t it incredible?” Romina gushes.
I shade my eyes with my hand against the sun. “Is that going to damage the brick?”
“First, my garden grows back twice as fast as it ought to,” she tells us, ignoring my question. “Second, the pumpkins swell up basically overnight—”
“I thought you said you planted them a couple weeks ago.”
Her jaw sets. “A couple weeks is practically overnight for the life cycle of pumpkins.”
“This started right after you and Alex saidI love you, right?” Luna says, steepling her hands beneath her chin. “I think love magic might be amplifying your powers. You’re a green witch, you’re in love, it all makes sense.”
“Look at this, though.” I show them my phone, pulled up to a picture of round zucchini. “They look like pumpkins and they mature in forty-five days.” I smile, satisfied with the neat bow I’ve tied around this mystery.
