Wild is the Witch (65)

“It’s almost impossible for me to describe the power of this owl,” I say, forcing myself to keep going. “He’s an amplifier—he can literally magnify the intensity of the magic inside him, including the curse. If I can’t unbind the curse in time, you will be turned into a mage. But the curse won’t stop with you. It will stretch on for miles; I don’t know exactly how it will manifest, but the worst case is that it turns many more people, not just you.”

“And those people,” Pike says, working through something as he speaks. “Are they at risk of burning to death?”

“Yes, it’s always a risk.” I try to keep my voice even, but it makes me sound callous instead. I soften my tone and keep going. “It’s not a guarantee. People have turned before and been just fine. But I don’t want to lie to you anymore, and the truth is that it’s a risk. A considerable one.”

“Fuck,” Pike says, scrambling on the ground, trying to stand. “Fuck.” He manages to get to his feet, but his leg buckles and he collapses, crying out in pain.

I rush over to him, but he pushes me away. “Don’t touch me,” he says, clutching his leg and bringing it to his chest.

“Let me make this better for you,” I say, trying to reach his leg.

“No. Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. Don’t say my name. Do whatever you need to do to save the owl or the curse or whatever, but don’t you dare touch me.”

“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands. “But sitting there in pain isn’t making this any better.”

“Don’t talk to me like I chose this, Iris. I didn’t. I’m here because of you, and from where I’m sitting, you haven’t made a damn thing better.” His breathing is too shallow and too fast, and he winces and rubs his thigh.

“You’re right,” I say, moving away from him. “But I’m still going to try, and you need to rest.”

He closes his eyes and keeps rubbing his leg, and I turn my attention back to the owl. The air is so heavy with the metallic scent I’m surprised Pike can’t smell it yet. I breathe through my nose and it stings, sharp and crackling with magic.

I quickly get up and walk around the area, gathering enough pine branches and roots to bind the curse to. Old growth forests hold more magic than any other place on Earth, and while I didn’t write the curse specifically for them, I’m hoping they’ll be strong enough to hold it.

Once I have more than I think I’ll need, I dump them next to the owl and get started. I tune out Pike and his words and the way his voice sounds when he’s scared and instead close my eyes and concentrate on the curse, drawing from all the intent and frustration and fear I felt when I first created it. I put myself back in that place, imagining myself standing in the backyard next to the cottage, upset with my mom for not caring about Pike and angry at Pike for his callousness.

All I wanted was to give it to the earth, like my grandmother taught me. I never meant for any of this to happen.

I feel the curse materialize in the owl, coming together in a dense, tangible form I can hold, a living thing I can take from the owl and give to something else.

I keep my breathing even and my focus sharp, narrowing my world to this one task.

I can solve this.

Here we go.

The owl takes a heaving breath, and as he does, I grab hold of the curse. When he exhales, I pull it from his chest and cast it to the bundle of pine, but something isn’t right. The curse fights against me, unwilling to go where I’m directing it.

I push it to the pine and roots, imagine it clutching their needles and being absorbed by their bark, waiting to be burned away just as it should have always been.

But it doesn’t work.

I release the curse, and faster than it takes a heart to beat, it snaps back to the owl, binding itself to him once more.





Twenty-Five


I open my eyes and stare at the owl, terrified of what just happened. I search the ground as if it can tell me exactly what went wrong, but there’s nothing. I must have rushed the spell or not prepared the pines enough, and I close my eyes and begin again, forcing myself to be patient. But the result is the same, and the curse snaps back to the owl. I frantically try again, over and over, but it doesn’t work.

“What’s happening?” Pike asks, his voice panicked. “Did you fix it?”

“No.” I shake my head, watching the owl. “It isn’t working. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“What do you mean it isn’t working?” Pike raises his voice and shifts where he’s sitting as if he’s going to come over here and do it himself. Now that I’ve started working on the owl, I can see how the smallest seed of hope has sprouted inside of Pike, and he clings to it with both hands. Hope is a powerful thing, impossible to turn away from, a lighthouse on the rocky coast of the Pacific, and everything within him is reaching toward it.

“I don’t know,” I say, dread crawling through my body, threatening to take over everything. “It should have worked.”

“Well, try it again.” Pike looks at the owl and back to me, his eyes wild.

“I am,” I say, wiping my palms on my pants. “It isn’t working.”

“Try harder,” Pike shouts.

“Shut up,” I yell, glaring at him from my perch over the owl. “You aren’t helping. Just sit there and be quiet and let me think.” I stand and rest my hands on my head, walking through the woods.