The world stretched like thread. Each action, a lifetime. Jacinta listened to Olivia’s voicemail message, gasping for air, lungs squeezed, pulled, tightening—
Images crushed against her skull with every blink.
An echo, again, again, again—
Not again.
Her mother, an angry and fierce woman, usually soft-faced and kind, had sharpened to a blade's edge. She was all jagged, snarling and snapping like an animal. Her hair twisting, fading to smoke, alive like Medusa’s crown of snakes. Spanish curses, hexes, together, words flowing in and out in one constant string, spit, hiss, snarl. Pointing kitchen knife forward. Knife warping to a wand, back, back again. Panic, pain—gliding kitchen-knife along her middle fingers, curling the rest inward, lifting her slit fingers—a fuck you, literally embodied. Along the palm, slashing the lifelines, the money line, the heart line; palms cut in two. Down to the wrists, past the arms—blood-gush in dual rivers of red.
Yo nunca seré tuyo.
I will never be yours.
Her voice, first in Spanish and then in English, sizzled along the air. It was so calm, so furious. A whispered scream. A howl.
A cry.
She was not ready to go.
While her mother fought, Jacinta hid beneath a table, invisible on her mom’s spell. Above, imprinted along the wood, wards taped on—magic protection. Invisibility to their monitors, magic blocked from the outside. So long as she was within the table’s four legs, she was safe, unable to be monitored and taken. She had a hand wrapped around Olivia, who was sobbing, writhing. Jacinta pulled her in, held her tight, focused. Her nails dug into Olivia’s skin—not to hurt her, but because it was the only way to grip onto her skin. Olivia was thirteen. Jacinta, eighteen.
Jacinta had everything lined up. She was a planner. She was tight-laced, thin-lipped, organized, settled. Together. A mirror, pre-sledgehammer. She had prepared for rainy days, bad interviews; she was a good student—NYU. Financial aid in near-full, luckily.
She loved her mother so much. The lifelines weren’t split open in the last reading. No—her mom was safe. Steady. Good.
But Jacinta had never been good at magic.
She held her sister down, crying, breathing. Asthma attack, collapse of the lungs, the squeeze. She hadn’t had an attack since she was a kid. She blinked through it, wheezed, tried to keep herself small, to make as little noise as possible.
Gray Kevlar, iron panels, masks. They were faceless, unified as one: the enemy.
SEE.
Jacinta’s mom spat all the magic she could. The kitchen burst. Jacinta and Olivia were still safe under the table. She went supernova, energy filling the air in smoke, in iron, in blood. Red spray, mottled. Acid. The parts of the SEE agents that weren’t covered burned. Skin melted off, muscle raw, open. The men screamed, staggered, slipped back.
The others searched the home. Shot at open walls, windows. Bullet-break made Jacinta cower, flinch. Olivia bit Jacinta’s fingers, moved to scream—blood. Mamá’s hand to hers. Jacinta squeezed Olivia, whispered fierce: “You run, we’re taken. So stay, and wait, dammit, manita.”
She was shaking. Gasping. Every word a challenge.
Mother, pulled from home.
Olivia wouldn’t echo their mother—no. She’d be safe. Jacinta would make sure of it. Jacinta wouldn't let Olivia be taken. She'd keep her safe. She promised her mother that. She would never have Olivia be theirs.
Had she failed?
She fumbled for her bag. Inhaler. The inhaler. In, in—she set it against her lips and pushed and she exhaled and inhaled and grabbed her bag and slung it across her body, turning to face Silas, trying to explain but he just frowned, blinked; he grabbed his wallet and threw down two hundred-dollar bills and she swallowed and struggled and—
“My sister—SEE. Help me. Please—she’s—” Jacinta faced the glass. The exit. She’d give him three seconds until she made a run for it.
Silas didn’t have context. Still, he clenched his jaw. One. He debated, twisted his head up, down—two. And pointed. “Alright, where is she?”
Three.
Jacinta gestured for him to follow and bolted to the exit, nearly slamming into chairs, people. She didn’t apologize; she just had set her focus on the door, the exit, the way out. The smell of beer was making her nauseous. Her lungs remained tight, tight—
Silas apologized to the host on the way out. Family emergency, he awkwardly apologized. Keep the change. He followed Jacinta, keeping her pace easily; she turned a corner, went to an alleyway, pulled out her wand.
“Jacinta, just tell me where your sister is. I’ll check and see if there’s a raid or s—”
“No! They’re in her HOUSE. Her—her friend’s house. Long Island. South, central area—suburbs, I—I dunno. I—I need to teleport there…Atlas, show me the teleportation s-spell.”
Teleportation:
-Adept Transfiguration spell; displacement. Dissolves the caster into magical energy that is displaced, briefly sent into an individual passage portal, and re-appeared to the desired location within seconds (depending on location; may be minutes if a longer distance is suggested.)
The larger the object, the higher the risk of failure. Self-teleportation is suggested only for adept spellcasters in Transfiguration magic.
Larger range of distance, higher risk of death.
Warning: no previous attempts. High risk of failure and/or injury.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Likelihood of success (50 mi. distance): 23%.
Likelihood of success with blood rune (50 mi. distance): 52%.
Mana cost: 40.
Luckily, the grimoire knew this was dire. It didn’t sizzle.
Shit. Shit, shit—okay. The odds weren’t great, but she had a better shot with a blood rune. Runes in general boosted magic performance; supernaturals often tattooed them into their skin to have them work until their energy ran out, and then they were refilled again. Jacinta, being a blood witch—
Well, blood only gave runes, and her magic, more power. A necessary, small sacrifice.
“Pocket knife. I know you have it.” Jacinta hissed to Silas, snapping into action. “I’m going to teleport there; with blood in a rune set against my skin, it’ll strengthen the spell. I’ll explain later how. No time. Uh—” there were, of course, the Norse Runes. She’d seen symbols of more modern magic; basically tattoos. One, a spiral—to help safe passage. To warp, spin; undo and redo. Yes.
Silas handed her the knife. Jacinta drew it along her right palm, slicing across the lifeline. She thrust the knife back in Silas’s direction, handle-out; he hesitantly took it, wiping it on the nearest wall, before slipping it away. “Uh, please tell me you know what you’re doing.”
“Fuck, no.” She laughed hoarsely, confidently. “But it’ll work. Panic and anger can fuel magic. Emotions bring it out. Magic’s all primordial, chaotic, impossible energy: emotions bring out different energy in people, right? So…emotions bring out magic in-turn. Passion, love, fear, rage. Whatever else the fuck emotions people have…” She was trying to reassure him, and mopre importantly, herself. Jacinta swiped two fingers along the cut in her hand, drawing the spiral into her arm. She whispered a prayer, kissed it—
The skin sizzled, burned. She flinched, cursed under her breath. The blood was gone; instead, the skin was left white, bubbled, like it was a second-degree burn. Through gritted teeth, she took Silas’s arm, pulled him close, panting.
“If you’re the religious type, pray. And hug me.” She pressed a dot of blood along his arm. He looked disgusted; he took a step back, she moved forward, wrapping an arm around him, inhaling—he smelled like good cologne; it overwhelmed the smell of blood in her nose, skull, head, self. She held the wand out, pointed it back; Atlas brought the page up. A warning was scribbled in the bottom—
Herman murió a causa de este hechizo.
Uncle Herman died from this spell.
Oh.
How reassuring.
But she didn’t care. She’d tried Transfiguration magic many times—it was a weaker section of magic for her, but her fervency would fuel the way. Fuel to fire, yes—she’d do it. She had to. She would.
For Olivia.
She studied the spell, grabbed Silas, pressed herself in—and said the spell aloud. Again, again, again; three times, picturing the house: Long Island, the beaches, suburbs; trees, paved roads, two-story homes. Gated communities, open spaces—their home. The green yard, the dog, the minimalist design within, Olivia and Emmy and her family and—
Jacinta felt herself pulled forward, stretched. As though being pulled through a straw.
Snap. Release. A blink, a moment—a gasp of air. She fell forward, caught in the tangle of Silas’s long limbs—they both fell forward, but she rolled away, aside, panting, staring up. Starless sky.
Spell Success:
Teleportation (self, one other.)
Mana reduced 50%.
Current Mana: 40/80.
Status condition: nausea; weakness.
-50% closer to Apprentice class in General Spellcasting.
-50% closer to Apprentice class in Transfiguration.
-28% remaining until Apprentice spellcasting—currently Novice class in spellcasting.
-60% remaining until Novice class in Transfiguration.
Level Up!
You have graduated to Apprentice class in Transfiguration.
She blinked away the vision, ignoring the confetti and congratulatory horns, and rushed to her feet, staggering, wheezing. Jacinta’s vision spun; she felt ready to pass out, but held steady, squinting, looking around. The world was tilted; trees’ leaves twisted into the dark clouds above, roofs impossibly angled, warped. Lines wobbled, air and magic shimmering in the air in the space where they were, fading, swirling like cream in coffee. She was in the middle of a street, a suburb; trees, two-story homes, nice cars. Long Island, yes; she smelled the sea, recognized the street. Emmy’s house was close. A few houses down.
“Silas, you alright?” She asked him, remembering that she’d teleported with him. He held his head, but threw up a thumbs-up, struggling to stand. He leaned against a mailbox for support, staggering drunkenly.
“Please…teleport…without me next time…” he hissed through gritted teeth, turning off something on his flat, clear device—probably the way to get back to SEE. He squinted, lifted it up to his head; Jacinta looked around, panting. Nothing weird. Did SEE come and go? Or was Olivia not even there at all? Jacinta cursed in Spanish, dialing her again, pressing the phone to her ear—
Ringing, ringing. No answer. Shit.
“SEE hasn’t reported any raids tonight.” Silas’s voice rang through. Jacinta shook her head at him, scowling.
“What do you mean?! Are you lying to me? I—”
Silas raised one hand; the other flew to his thigh. “Hey, hey! You’re giving me info. I’m giving you some. We have shit on each other. We’re both partners; for now, I’m on your side, alright? Trust me.”
“I won’t.” Jacinta hissed, panting, setting off in the direction of Emmy’s house. “But I have to try.”
Here she was, trusting the word of a damn SEE officer…still, he was right. They weren’t going to jeopardize each other; they cared about their own asses too much. Jacinta sure as hell wasn’t going to end up dead, just to put this guy under.
And anyway, he saved her life, with the sap-gnaw.
She saw the number on the mailbox. Emmy’s house. Standard pale paint job, shingle roof, two stories Pretty ornamental plants, trimmed grass. No cars in the driveway—not Emmy’s, not Emmy’s parents’ cars—Jacinta sped up, nearly tripping multiple times, but continued on, pounding at the door.
“Olivia!” she cried, jamming her finger into the doorbell. The dog was barking from inside. Jacinta continued, cursed; Silas managed to catch up, hand against the door, gaze forward.
“Look, maybe she’s just playing a tric—”
“No. Olivia knows how serious I am. I can feel that something’s wrong, so fucking wrong—¡carajo!”
She was desperate; she needed to get in. She pulled the wand again from her bra and held it to the keyhole, hissing the unlocking spell—something she did often, especially when she forgot her own keys. The door unlatched.
She blinked the Atlas’s text away before it could tell her anything. Inside was dark. The dog ran up, fur on-end, eyes wide. Jacinta bent down, scowling.
No lights on? That was weird. Olivia always complained about all the energy they were wasting, keeping them on all the time…
“Alright, c’mon…” She hissed, sucking in a sharp breath, standing again. No calls from Olivia. Only one way to go:
In.
Jacinta strode inside.