B*witch

by Paige McKenzie

  Aysha’s hand snaked up to Joel’s collar, and she pulled him toward her. His body peeled away from Jennifer’s, propelled toward Aysha’s as though magnetized. Jennifer’s jaw dropped. Mira watched, smirking.

  “Hey, Aysh. How’s it going?” Joel said dreamily.

  “Better now that you’re here, baby,” Aysha cooed.

  “Ex-cuse me!” Jennifer put her hands on her hips. “Aysha, what do you think you’re doing? Joel, get away from her!”

  “But she’s way hotter than you,” Joel pointed out matter-of-factly.

  Jennifer’s chin quivered. She looked as though she were about to burst into tears. “H-how can you say that? W-why are you being so m-mean?”

  “I’m not being mean, I’m just being honest.”

  Jennifer gasped and folded her arms across her chest. She started to say something, then ran off, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  Aysha and Mira cracked up as they watched Jennifer flee. “Come here, princess,” Joel murmured to Aysha, leaning in for a kiss.

  Aysha put her hand on his chest and pushed him lightly. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening. You’re kind of a loser.”

  “Uh…”

  Joel wandered off with a dazed expression. Binx rolled her eyes; this was classic Triad nonsense. Where had they learned how to do that, anyway? She didn’t remember any unshipping spells in C-Squared’s book.

  For a second, Binx toyed with the idea of trying a counterspell on JennJo (they might be the poster couple for obnoxious PDA, but they didn’t deserve this), then changed her mind; she had important business to attend to, and besides, she didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks (unlike the bagel, which had been very necessary).

  Binx caught Mira’s and Aysha’s attention and motioned them into a nearby alcove. The alcove contained a single vending machine with a handwritten out of order sign on it (unoccupied, good). She cast a quick calumnia spell.

  “Calumnia mode,” Binx announced. “Wow. That was super-mature of you.”

  Aysha smirked at Binx, taking in her yellow outfit. “Says the girl who’s dressed like a Minion. Or is it SpongeBob SquarePants? You’re really pushing the fashion envelope today, Beatrix Kato.”

  Binx fake-smiled so hard that her teeth hurt. Aysha knew better than to call her by her full name, which she loathed (seriously, why should she suffer because of her father’s obsession with an olden-day bunny-ologist?). But Binx herself knew better than to act like she cared, especially around the Triad, especially around Aysha, who took no prisoners.

  “Yeah, I was going for Bart Simpson, actually. We need to discuss that shadow message you guys wrote.”

  Mira wrinkled her nose. “What shadow message?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Seriously, I don’t!”

  “Is this a joke? Are you messing with us?” Aysha asked Binx suspiciously.

  Binx hesitated. Mira and Aysha both seemed legit confused. Or were they just legit lying? Knowing them, likely the latter.

  Her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced at it quickly. It was a message from Ridley:

  Where are you?

  Binx wrote back:

  Vending machine room near the cafeteria. With the Triad minus D.

  Ridley and Greta appeared seconds later.

  “Calumnia?” Greta whispered to Binx, who nodded in response.

  “Yeah, so, they’re claiming they didn’t write the shadow message,” Binx explained to her coven-mates.

  “We didn’t!” Mira insisted. “What is this shadow message, anyway?”

  Greta reached into her backpack and pulled out the clear bag that contained the note plus a sprig of rosemary. Ridley cast an anxious glance into the hallway, then positioned herself next to and slightly behind Greta, to block the view of the shadow message from any passersby.

  Aysha and Mira checked it out.

  “That’s not from us,” Aysha said immediately. Mira nodded in agreement.

  “Liars. That’s your handwriting, Mira!” Binx exclaimed.

  “That is not my handwriting. I always do my Ys with those cute little loops,” Mira said, tracing the shape in the air.

  “Look, we know you wrote this, so you’d better just—”

  Binx stopped. Something was climbing onto her shoulders. No, not climbing… slithering.

  It was a snake. A big, long, white snake. It wrapped itself around Binx’s neck until its silver eyes were just inches from her brown ones. It flicked its tongue and made a hissing noise.

  Binx knotted her fists to keep from screaming. Her skin grew icy cold—with fear? Or had the creature already injected her with poison, and she was about to die? Or…

  “Guys? A little help?” she whimpered to Greta and Ridley.

  “Help with what?” Ridley asked, confused.

  “Um, the giant deadly reptile?”

  “They can’t see it, Beatrix. At the moment, only you and I have that pleasure.”

  Div sauntered up to their group, leaned against the vending machine, and smiled. Or sneered. Or a little of both. With her all-white outfit, long platinum hair, and ghostly pale complexion, she matched her familiar’s albino palette. Binx barely registered Div’s use of her full name; at the moment, she was too terrified about her impending demise.

  “Why are you bothering my girls?” Div asked Binx. Her voice, as always, was deceptively soft and silky.

  “I’m not! They’re the ones who started it! With the stupid shadow thing!” Binx protested.

  “Div, what are you doing to Binx? You’re not using Prada against her, are you?” Greta demanded.

  Sighing, Div reached out, patted the snake, and whispered to it in some foreign language… or maybe it was a spell? The terrible creature loosened its grip on Binx and slithered onto Div’s arm, then settled contentedly around her shoulders before becoming invisible again, or invisible to Binx, anyway, since no one else had been privy to its appearance, apparently.

  “Seriously?” Binx gasped as she rubbed her neck.

  “Div, that’s not cool,” Greta said angrily.

  Div turned to Greta and cocked her head. “Greta. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? I can see it in your face. The puffiness, the black circles. I’ll text you a recipe for my new relaxation tea. It’s quite… powerful.”

  “Your last ‘recipe’”—Greta made air quotes—“turned my skin blue and it took three days to wear off. So, no thank you! Binx, are you okay?”

  “No, I am not okay. I was just trying to get to the bottom of the note drama, and—”

  Div plucked the bag from Greta. Her snakelike green eyes fixed on the shadow message inside.

  Then she pulled something out of her white leather backpack and held it up for the other girls to see.

  It was the exact same shadow message. Even the handwriting was identical.

  “Wait, what?” Binx exclaimed.

  “I found this in my locker just now,” Div explained. “It looks like you and I have a common enemy, Greta.”

  “Can you guys put those away?” Ridley said nervously. “Calumnia only works on what we’re saying, remember?”

  “Yes, thanks for the reminder,” Greta said, complying.

  Div rolled her eyes but complied as well.

  “Now do you believe me?” Mira said to Binx.

  “Not particularly,” Binx shot back. “You still could have written the shadow message. Shadow messages, plural. You know, as some sort of super-prank 2.0?”

  “You could have done that, too, Kato,” Aysha accused.

  “Can we please consider for a second that it wasn’t any of us?” Greta pointed out.

  “Maybe we should try some scrying spells,” Div suggested.

  “Maybe we should just burn them,” Ridley said.

  “What about—”

  “You girls are blocking the vending machine,” a voice interrupted.

  The six witches spun around. A guy stood nearby. A junior… Brandon something.
He gestured impatiently at the vending machine.

  Then Binx’s gaze landed on his black T-shirt.

  An Antima shoulder patch.

  Whoa.

  Had the calumnia spell held, or had it automatically cut out when Brandon showed up? Had he seen the shadow messages before Greta and Div hid them out of sight?

  Before anyone could say anything, Div coughed into the crook of her arm and at the same time whispered: “Praetereo.”

  A memory-erase spell.

  Brandon blinked and frowned. His brown eyes looked muddled. “Did I… Are you all in line for the vending machine?” he asked, confused.

  “We were, except that it’s out of order. Isn’t it so annoying when that happens?” Div sidled up to him and slipped her arm through his. “I think they put in a new vending machine by the salad bar, though. Here, let me show you.”

  Smiling, she steered him out of the alcove, chatting lightly about sports drinks versus sodas.

  Binx’s gaze moved from Ridley (who looked totally freaked out) to Greta (ditto) to Mira (ditto) to Aysha (ditto, although she was trying her best to hide it).

  Binx was right there with them.

  So there really were Antima at the school now.

  Which meant that the shadow messages might not be a Triad super-prank, after all.

  Which was not good.

  7

  CHOICE OF EVILS

  Magic is a choice between the Light and the Dark. The choice is ultimately yours.

  (FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)

  Div sat at the pearl-colored vanity table in her room and scrutinized the three jars in front of her. Each one contained a different lock of hair.

  She’d come home early from school, skipping the last two periods, to study her copy of the shadow message and determine its true origin. (She’d faked a fever, which was perfectly easy to do with a calor spell—also, Nurse Jacinta was beyond gullible). She had the big house to herself—Uncle Paul was at his law office, and Aunt Marta was doing a three-hour Pamper Yourself package at the spa, as she did every Wednesday—which meant that Div could practice magic openly and also let Prada roam freely. No doubt her familiar was slithering around the kitchen, searching for something small and wriggly to squeeze to death; she was overdue for a meal.

  Aunt Marta had been talking about getting a little purse dog, which would not be a good idea… at least not for the dog.

  The jars. Div considered them for a moment, then rearranged the order from left to right, based on priority. Now the jar containing Binx’s hair (from her cyan phase last spring) was on the left; the one containing Greta’s curly auburn hair was in the middle; and the one containing Ridley’s coily black hair was on the right. Div had been collecting these samples secretly for the past year or so, with a tiny pair of cuticle-trimming scissors and some distraction spells. (She had hair samples from other people, too, stowed away in the back of her closet in neatly labeled jars. Who knew when they might come in handy?)

  She set the shadow message on top of Binx’s jar. She needed to rule out the possibility that someone in Greta’s coven had authored it. If that were the case, Binx would be the most likely culprit, given her personality and her predilection for childish stunts.

  Also, to be honest, Binx had skills. Even though Greta was the self-appointed leader of their coven, Div sometimes wondered if Binx might not be the superior witch—or at least the more creative witch, willing (like Div herself) to experiment with and expand on the limited teachings in Crowe’s book. (In fact, Div had tried to poach Binx from Greta over the summer, but to no avail. The girl had actually laughed in her face—so obnoxious.)

  Div hadn’t let on to the others at lunchtime, but she’d been greatly unnerved by the double shadow messages and the vending machine interloper with the shoulder patch (she’d learned that his name was Brandon Fiske, and that he was a junior). She was aware, of course, of the Antima’s activities around the country, the escalating violence and virulence of their methods. For months, she’d been following a number of different Antima subgroups on social media (they all had stupid, self-important names like the Truth Bearers and the Guardians of Light and the Sons of Maximus), for strategy purposes. She wanted to understand the enemy. Their beliefs… their goals… what they meant when they called witches like her “abominations of nature” and “threats to society”… why they considered themselves “heroes” and “patriots.” (Some Antima, though, apparently didn’t have an online presence, and organized and communicated in some other way—Div wasn’t sure how.) She wondered if Brandon was the only Antima at their school, or if there were others.

  She wondered, too, if the Antima were driven by sexism and misogyny (which was one theory). Although from what she could tell, there were female Antima members. But why would they join a cause that was anti-women? Of course, they could be doing this for protection, to make sure the Antima didn’t turn against them.

  And did the Antima have an extra layer of animus against queer women? She and Aysha were both bi; so was Greta.

  She touched Binx’s jar. Hopefully Mira and Aysha were right. Better to deal with childish stunts than with the Antima.

  “Aequo,” she murmured.

  No reaction. The shadow message didn’t shimmer or change color, and neither did the lock of hair.

  She envisioned shimmers and colors in her mind. “Aequo!”

  Still nothing.

  Frowning, she repeated the enchantment with Greta’s jar, then Ridley’s. No shimmering, no color changes.

  So it wasn’t them.

  Which meant that the Antima might have her in their sights, after all.

  Which was a problem. A serious problem.

  Div grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts to find Greta’s number. They would deal with this threat together; they would end this threat together. Back in eighth grade, when they’d had their little coven of two, they’d been an incredible team. They’d both been skilled at harvesting the natural world for magical use. Herbs, plants, minerals… whatever could be found in nature, they could utilize as ingredients for their craft. And they’d been so good at it. They’d inspired each other, challenged each other (and this was way before Crowe’s book).

  Then Div had started to explore the darker aspects of the natural world. While Greta continued to focus on healing and fixing and growing, Div began to focus on manipulating and breaking and destroying. She tried to get Greta interested in this new direction, too, but to no avail. Greta was just too… pure. So stubbornly dogmatic with her magic-can-only-be-used-for-good nonsense.

  Then, around the time when Div started teaching herself about necromancy, Greta had left their coven and formed her own.

  Div looked down at her phone. There was Greta’s name in the middle of the Ns. Greta Navarro.

  No. She didn’t need Greta anymore. They were the past. She had her girls now.

  Mira Jahani. Aysha Rodriguez.

  She fired off a text to them; the last period should be wrapping up.

  My house, ASAP.

  K, Aysha wrote back immediately. Mira responded with a car emoji.

  Good. They were, as usual, respectful of her status as coven leader and never disobeyed her.

  Div had met Mira and Aysha at the beginning of ninth grade. The pair had been BFFs since elementary school, and even as their interests began to diverge (while Aysha grew into martial arts and wolves, Mira grew into fashion design and celebrity blogs), they’d stuck together because of their history. And because it turned out that they were both witches—the only ones they knew of in Sorrow Point or anywhere else. (Their discovery moments had happened during a game of two-person flashlight freeze tag that had resulted in Mira actually freezing Aysha’s shirt, and vice versa.)

  Div had never really noticed them before last September, when they’d all ended up in the same freshman history class. One day, she overheard the two friends planning to use a spell to alter their report cards to
give themselves all A’s. Later, Div had confronted them privately and pretended that she was going to report them to the principal. They’d immediately tried to cast a double memory-erase spell on her, to which she’d responded with a powerful counterspell along with the words Nice to meet you, too. She’d then suggested that the three of them form a coven with her as leader. (Mira and Aysha were the first witches Div had ever come across aside from her mother and Greta, and she liked the idea of bossing lesser witches around, just as her mother had done to her before she moved to Barcelona with her boyfriend.)

  Setting her phone down on the dressing table, Div gazed at the shadow message that lay, unchanged and unshimmering, on top of Ridley’s hair jar. She swallowed nervously. She needed to distract herself while she waited for the girls to show up.

  Holding up her hands, she regarded her French-tipped nails. “Blancus,” she commanded, and the French tips morphed into a dark purple, the color of bruises. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  She reiterated the spell and at the same time pictured a silvery-white shade in her mind, changing her nail color again. “Better.”

  Leaning back in her chair, Div blinked at her reflection in the mirror. She was pale. So pale. She looked like those women in Victorian England who ate arsenic wafers to make their complexions ashy-white. (Another poison called belladonna, which was Italian for beautiful woman, was used for this purpose, too, and also to enlarge the pupils—big pupils had been, for some reason, desirable back then.)

  Div could appreciate the application of poisons for beautifying purposes, although she herself had little need for them. She preferred to use her toxic concoctions to hinder and harm her enemies, her detractors. She got her recipes not just from Crowe (who, like Greta, had been too virtuous and earth-motherish to go there) but from her own research and experiments. Of course, she couldn’t imagine actually killing someone with one of her potions, unless it was in self-defense or in defense of one of her witches.

  Still, she wondered… could she kill, say, an Antima member? Not in self-defense or defense of others, but because the Antima were scum? She tried to picture herself doing this. Maybe? Probably not. Although it was an interesting idea and reminded her of something her uncle mentioned once. A legal concept. Choice of evils. Sure, it was evil to kill someone, but what if that someone himself was evil?