The Ravens

by Danielle Paige

  Every witch was born with her own magic: Cups, the Water sign; Pentacles, the Earth sign; Swords, the Air sign; and Wands, the Fire sign. Each sign was aligned with a suit in the tarot cards, which always amused Scarlett. Naysayers dismissed tarot as the tool of charlatans and fakes, but, really, they had no idea how close to the truth tarot came.

  Scarlett was a Cups, which meant she was strongest working with water elements. She’d learned from Minnie that if she held the right symbol and said the right words, she could perform magic that made the world a bigger and brighter place.

  Minnie hadn’t been a Raven herself; her family had come to witchcraft on its own, with secrets and spells passed down through the generations. But she’d known the Winters her entire life and she understood the pressure Scarlett’s family put on Scarlett better than anyone did. Minnie was the one who had always believed in her—who’d reassured her when she felt her mother’s disappointment or Eugenie’s disdain. Minnie was the one who told Scarlett she could be the most powerful witch in the world if she believed in herself and trusted the magic.

  When Minnie died of old age last spring, Scarlett had cried so hard that all around her, it began to rain. She still felt an emptiness in her heart when she thought of Minnie, but Scarlett knew that what Minnie wanted more than anything was for Scarlett to be happy, which was why Scarlett was more determined than ever to prove to her family—and all the Ravens—that she was powerful enough to be the sorority’s next president.

  Failure was not an option.

  Marjorie pulled up in front of Kappa House, and Scarlett’s heart skipped a beat. The sorority house was a beautiful, dove-gray French revival, complete with wrought-iron balconies on every level and a widow’s walk on the roof where the sisters sometimes did their spellcasting. Sisters were streaming into the house, carrying suitcases and lamps and hugging each other after a long summer away. There was Hazel Kim, a sophomore who was a star on the school’s track team; Juliet Simms, a senior who was a brilliant chemist and potion-maker; and Mei Okada, a fellow junior who could change her looks as easily as she could change her outfits.

  Marjorie turned off the engine and surveyed the scene like a commanding officer might survey a battlefield. “Where’s Mason? I wanted to hear all about his travels.”

  “He’s not getting in until tomorrow,” Scarlett said, trying to contain her giddy smile.

  She hadn’t seen Mason in almost two months. It was the longest they’d been apart since they’d started dating two years ago. On a whim, Mason had decided to backpack through Europe after attending a family friend’s wedding in Italy. He’d skipped out on his internship at his father’s law firm—and all the plans Scarlett had made for them. While Scarlett interned at her mother’s firm, toiling over briefs and planning the Ravens’ social calendar with her sorority sisters, she’d waited for his short, sporadic texts and pictures filling her in on his travels—Just swam in Lake Como—wish you were here; You have to see the water in Capri—I’m taking you here after you graduate. It wasn’t like Mason to shirk his family duties or keep her waiting all summer to see him. As a general rule, Scarlett didn’t wait for anything or anyone, but Mason was worth it.

  “Bring him by the house as soon as you can,” Marjorie urged, her voice as warm as it ever got. Eugenie shifted in her seat and began to aggressively scroll through her work emails.

  Scarlett hid a smug smile. Mason was the one place Scarlett had Eugenie beat. Mason was a complement. That was the word the sisters used to describe those worthy of a Raven. And there was an incredibly high bar for who qualified as a complementary. Only the best would do, and Mason was the best. He not only had the right past—he was the son of Georgia’s second-most-prominent lawyer, after Marjorie, of course, and the president of their brother frat—he also had a future. He was at the top of his class, athletic, dead sexy—and all hers. The icing on top: her mother absolutely loved him.

  “Thanks for the ride, Mama,” Scarlett said, her hand on the door of the car.

  “Oh, here,” her mother said as if she were remembering something suddenly. She handed a wrapped box over the back seat.

  Scarlett felt herself brighten as she took the box—she didn’t remember her mother giving Eugenie a back-to-school present on her first day of junior year—and she had to stop herself from ripping the paper as she opened it.

  It was a deck of tarot cards, beautifully rendered. A woman with a knowing smile wearing a dress made of feathers practically winked out at her on the back of each card.

  “Were these yours?” Scarlett asked, wondering if these were the cards her mother and Eugenie had used when they’d been voted in as president and, if so, touched to be included in the family tradition.

  “They’re brand-new. I ordered them from a powerful Cups who is very high up in the Senate. She painted them herself,” she boasted.

  Disappointment tightened Scarlett’s chest. As much as Scarlett loved political royalty, how could her mother give her these now? “These are lovely, Mama, but I already have Minnie’s cards.” Scarlett didn’t understand how her mother could know so little about her. She would never replace Minnie’s deck with a shiny new set of cards.

  “New year, new start,” her mother said. “I know Minnie meant the world to you; she meant the world to me, too. But I can see that you’re still grieving, and Minnie wouldn’t want you carrying that sadness into the new year. You being a Raven—you becoming president—that meant the world to her.”

  You mean it means the world to you. Scarlett pocketed the cards, bent over the seat, and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “Of course, Mama. Thank you,” she murmured, though she had no intention of ever using them.

  After a dutiful kiss for Eugenie and another for her mother, Scarlett popped the trunk and grabbed her two bags, which she’d spelled earlier to feel light as air. She waved, watching until the car disappeared down the street. When she took a step back onto the sidewalk, she collided with a solid, muscular body. “Hey. Watch it!” she huffed.

  An indignant voice sounded behind her. “You’re the one who ran into me.”

  Scarlett turned to see Jackson Carter, who’d been in her philosophy class last year, slightly out of breath and wearing jogging shorts and headphones. Sweat beaded on his dark brown skin, and a soaked shirt stuck to his muscular frame. His lips turned down in a frown. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You Kappas act like you own this place.”

  “We do own it,” Scarlett said without missing a beat. This was their first exchange that had nothing to do with dead philosophers and it seemed like downright bad manners for him to begin the conversation with an insult. “You’re standing in front of our house.”

  Jackson wasn’t from Savannah. Not even close. She could tell by his lack of manners and basic lack of deference—not to mention his lack of a drawl. His consonants just sat there stubbornly, unlike hers, which she stretched out for effect. A gentleman would offer to take the suitcases from her. Then again, a gentleman wouldn’t have reprimanded her for standing on her own sidewalk in the first place.

  Jackson leaned closer to her. “So, do Kappas lose their souls a little bit at a time or does it happen all at once, like ripping off a Band-Aid?”

  Scarlett’s hackles rose. She knew how he saw her, and she knew why. There were a million movies that depicted sorority girls as vapid, exclusive witches, and she didn’t mean the magical kind. And unfortunately, there were way too many real videos and stories that backed up that image. Scarlett cringed thinking about a YouTube video that had recently gone viral about a sorority girl who wrote an open letter to her sisters detailing every single thing she hated about them. But Scarlett was sure that for every one of those awful stories, there were dozens more about sorority girls who were there for good reasons, who were in it for the sisterhood. And Kappa offered more than just sisterhood; the house provided protection, a safe place where the coven could learn and practice their magic. Not that she could explain that to Jackson.
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  “All at once,” Scarlett said. “I’m surprised that you couldn’t see that from your position looking down at us poor, morally bereft sorority girls.”

  “At least we agree on one thing.” Jackson crossed his arms, his brown eyes flashing.

  “If you have such a problem with us,” Scarlett said, picking up steam, “maybe you should be a little more careful where you go running.”

  “Is that a threat?” He arched a single eyebrow, seeming to consider her anew. “Because from what I hear—”

  Suddenly, his gaze went fuzzy and blank, and his eyes fixed on something slightly above her. It was like she’d just vanished from his world. His head snapped to the side, and without another word, he resumed his jog.

  Scarlett turned toward Kappa. Coming down the front walk of the house were Dahlia Everly, the Kappa president, and Tiffany Beckett, Scarlett’s best friend. They walked arm in arm, Dahlia’s blond ponytail a shade darker than Tiffany’s platinum one. Dahlia winked, making it clear who had just enchanted the boy.

  “Thanks for that.” Scarlett dropped her suitcases and shot one last glare at Jackson’s retreating form. She had no idea what was wrong with him or why he seemed to hate Kappas so much. A sister had probably rejected him last spring. Some guys could be so fragile and petty.

  “What’s with the drama? You looked like you were this close to whipping up a category three,” Dahlia said.

  “Hardly. A boy like that certainly isn’t worth getting soaked over.”

  “Why were you even talking to him in the first place?” Dahlia’s nose wrinkled. Dahlia was the consummate imperious sorority president; anyone who wasn’t part of the Greek system wasn’t worth her time.

  “I wasn’t. He ran into me—literally.”

  Tiffany just laughed and held out her arms.

  Scarlett sank into her best friend’s hug, squeezing her hard—though not hard enough to wrinkle the silk blouse Tiff was wearing. “I missed you.”

  “Same.” Tiffany turned to give her a peck on the cheek. Her dark red lipstick didn’t leave a single mark. Ravens’ makeup never smudged.

  “How’s your mom?” Scarlett asked.

  A shadow crossed Tiffany’s face. Dahlia shifted uncomfortably. “We’re trying a new treatment. We’ll know more soon.”

  Scarlett gave Tiffany another hug. Her friend had spent the summer in Charleston with her mom, who was battling cancer. Last year Tiffany had asked Dahlia to do an all-hands healing spell for her mom; every Raven was a witch in her own right, but together, the coven was far stronger than any individual. As president, Dahlia chose what spells the group would take on, a role she unabashedly relished. A Houston debutante, Dahlia loved being in charge, being the one whom all the other sisters looked to. Her confidence made her a great president, but there were times that Scarlett felt Dahlia prioritized her authority or her legacy over the needs of other girls in the house. And according to Dahlia, Kappa’s history was riddled with failed healing rituals of this magnitude. “Some things just aren’t within our power,” Dahlia had said.

  Tiffany had never forgiven Dahlia for shutting her down, suspecting that Dahlia was more worried about the optics of such a spell and its possible risks than about Tiffany’s mom. Scarlett, who’d seen the fear in her usually fearless bestie’s blue eyes, wasn’t satisfied with Dahlia’s ruling either and had asked Minnie about it. What Scarlett didn’t know at the time was that Minnie was close to death herself.

  “If there were a cure for dying, we wouldn’t be witches—we’d be immortal . . . The only spells that touch death touch back in equal measure,” Minnie had warned with a sad smile.

  Now Tiffany pulled back from the hug with a bright smile Scarlett knew was fake. She blinked fast, clearly willing away the tears Scarlett sensed were always just beneath the surface, even though Tiffany was a Swords, not a Cups.

  “How are preparations for rush going?” Scarlett pivoted, letting Tiffany off the emotional hook and looking up at the house.

  “Hazel and Jess are glamouring the house right now,” Tiffany said, clearly grateful to have all eyes off her.

  Scarlett nodded. Tradition dictated that the sophomore sisters decorated the house for recruitment. This year was speakeasy-themed; she couldn’t wait to see what her sisters had come up with.

  “Did you bring the sparklers?” Dahlia asked.

  “They’re right here,” Scarlett said, tapping one of her suitcases. “I enchanted them last night.”

  Minnie always said that the magic did the real choosing, and she was right—mostly. All girls grew up with magic in them whether they knew it or not. The strength of the magic was what mattered. While magic was only a whisper in some, barely present, others could summon winds with the force of a tornado. The sparklers the Kappas gave out at their recruitment party showed who had the baseline of power required to be a Raven. But it wasn’t just about ability. The Ravens had to be exemplary. It was about personality, pedigree, intelligence, and sophistication. And above all, it was about being a good sister.

  “I can’t wait to meet our latest round of potentials,” Tiffany said, tapping her fingers together with a smile.

  “Only the best will do, of course,” Scarlett said. Finding powerful witches among Westerly’s froshlings was like searching for diamonds in a sea of cubic zirconias. She didn’t want an unruly sophomore crop when she became president.

  “Of course,” Dahlia echoed, a frown marring her perfect features. “We have to protect Kappa. The last thing we want is another Harper situation.”

  Scarlett’s stomach twisted and she carefully avoided Tiffany’s eyes. Another Harper situation. Something dark and unspoken passed between Scarlett and Tiffany. Something Scarlett never let herself think about.

  Something that could ruin everything she’d worked so hard to get.

  Chapter Three

  Vivi

  Vivi adjusted the strap of her backpack, wincing slightly as the edge of a hardcover book dug into her spine. Once she’d walked through the wrought-iron gate, Vivi let go of her larger suitcase and flexed her cramping fingers. The bus station was less than a mile from Westerly College, but lugging her bulging bags from there had taken nearly an hour and left her palms smarting. Yet, as Vivi took a deep breath of surprisingly fragrant air, a tingle of excitement chased away the fatigue. She’d made it. After eighteen exhausting hours—hell, after eighteen exhausting years—she was finally on her own, free to make her own choices and start her real life.

  She paused to glance at the map on her phone, then up at the grass-filled quad ahead. On the far side was an ivy-covered stone building with a WELCOME, NEW STUDENTS banner hanging from the second-floor bay windows. Almost there, she told herself as she trudged forward, ignoring the pain in her shoulders. But as her eyes fell on the crowd of students and parents, Vivi’s stomach twisted slightly. She was hardly a stranger to new situations. Having attended four elementary schools, two middle schools, and three high schools, Vivi had been the new girl for most of her life.

  But now everything was different. Vivi was going to be at Westerly for four whole years, longer than she’d ever stayed anywhere before. She wouldn’t automatically be the strange new girl. She could be anyone she wanted.

  She just needed to figure out exactly who that was.

  Vivi dragged her bags up to the folding table where volunteers were handing out orientation packets. “Welcome!” a white girl with long, straight red hair chirped as Vivi approached. “What’s your last name?”

  “Devereaux,” Vivi said, taking in the girl’s crisp pink blouse and expertly applied eyeliner. Normally, this kind of elegance struck Vivi as a rare gift, something to be admired but not necessarily envied, like the ability to touch your nose with your tongue or walk on your hands. But a glance around the quad quickly established this level of grooming as the norm. Vivi had never seen so many manicured hands or pastel shirts in her entire life, and for the first time, she began to wonder if perhaps her mother was right ab
out this place. Maybe this wasn’t the right school for Vivi after all.

  “Devereaux,” the red-haired girl repeated, flipping through the thick packet in front of her. “You’re in Simmons Hall, room three-oh-five. Simmons is this building right here. Here’s your orientation folder . . . and your ID card. It’s also your key, so don’t lose it.”

  “Thanks.” Vivi reached out to take the folder. But the girl didn’t let go. She was frozen in place, staring over Vivi’s shoulder.

  When Vivi glanced around, she realized everyone was looking in the same direction. The air in the courtyard shifted subtly, like the prickle of electricity before a storm.

  Vivi turned and followed everyone’s gaze. Three girls were crossing the velvety green lawn at the heart of the quad. Even from a distance, it was clear that they weren’t newly arrived freshmen. It was partly their clothes; the black girl in the middle wore a mint-green sundress with a flared skirt that swirled around her long, ballerina-esque legs, and her friends—both of them white and blond—wore nearly matching tweed skirts and the type of cream-colored silk tops that, until now, Vivi had seen only on rich women in movies. But even if they’d been in ratty sweatpants, the girls would’ve caught her eye. They moved with languorous assurance, as if confident in their right to go wherever they wanted at whatever speed they chose. As though they weren’t afraid of taking up space in the world. For someone like Vivi, who’d spent most of her life trying to blend in, there was something intoxicating about seeing girls so clearly at ease with standing out.

  She watched the trio approach a red-brick building with a crowd of students waiting to get in. The moment the girls reached the building, the crowd parted; every person stood aside without protest to let the girls in.