VenCo(108)

It was just before dawn, but already hot. Still, the sea made that heat gorgeous. She left the driver’s seat and climbed around to recline on the prow, the metal still cool on her bare skin where her shorts ended. She folded her arms under her head and crossed her ankles, looking up at the sky. There was an excitement under her ribs, one she didn’t have an exact name for. Anticipation?

As the boat rocked her gently, Octavia whispered a prayer of gratitude for this territory, for her breath, for whatever was coming that had her marrow buzzing. Her grandmother liked to remind her that gratitude was the strongest spell, one that attracts, that transforms, that makes clear. She had even prayed gratitude the day her grandma had passed, weeping her thanks for the years she had been given.

A small crack appeared above her, a rip in the near darkness that sewed itself back together so quickly, she thought it might have been lightning, so quiet she might not have seen it at all. And then there was a small light, a glimmer, really, right above her.

She tried to focus her eyes in the dark. Under her, the boat settled as if she had hit dry land. There were no more waves, and even the gentle sway had calmed to stillness. What was it? She sat up on her knees and reached out. And still, it took its time to come to her, tumbling into her cupped hands.

She brought it close to her face. She knew this thing—this ball of translucent spokes. A dandelion fluff. Dandelions were called weeds and grew as such, undaunted, in spite of every effort to control their spread. But they also made tea, wine, and medicine. People didn’t want them, but only because they didn’t understand what they really were.

Octavia held her breath, watching the small bundle spin and settle against her skin. She tipped her face up and spoke to the sky that had dropped this gift to her, in the middle of the sea, no land that could host a dandelion in sight.

She called to her grandmother, her sisters, her coven. She called to the witches who sent the announcement, perhaps even without knowing that was what they had done. She spoke the excitement in her bones and the gratitude in her blood, the blood already rife with old magic passed down to her. At last, the northern coven had found one another.

“It’s time.”


United States of America



Jay Christos limped into the park around lunch hour, just as the office workers and schoolchildren came out to stretch and breathe. He had broken bones wrenching free of the restraints and held his right arm against his chest, his hand a bag of mush held together by purple, marbling skin. The fire had burned his torso and some of his hair, the skin of his skull showing, red and pitted. For the first time in his life, he was not beautiful.

This witch had left more than a scar over his heart. This witch had stripped his skin right off. It was the most romantic thing he had ever experienced. He had to get back to his compound to heal and get ready, so he could find her again.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he croaked, approaching a woman sitting on a bench eating a tuna sandwich. “I have been gravely hurt and am in need of some assistance.”

The woman glanced up then, a look of horror on her face, dropped her sandwich on the ground. She got up and walked away as fast as she could, looking back to make sure he wasn’t following her. This was not the reaction Jay was used to getting from people.

He sighed, coughing at the end of it, and tried to rearrange his remaining hair to cover the burn, smoothing the sweater he had pulled from a clothesline tight over his chest. Then he limped towards some teenagers playing frisbee in the grass.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called out from behind him. “Do you need some help?”

He stopped, trying to ready his best smile, pulling himself up straight. Maybe he hadn’t completely lost his touch. “Why, yes, thank you. I should have known that a damsel would come in my distress.” He turned.

The Mother stood in the path. She gave him a small wave, a distraction, as the Maiden stepped from the hedges with a jerry can and sloshed gasoline across his back. He screamed when the chemicals soaked through to his broken skin. From a nearby bench, the Crone stood, lit her cigarette, and tossed her Zippo to the Mother.

Jay turned in circles. All around him was quiet. The teenagers were gone, the paths cleared. Even the birds had stopped singing. Instead, they sat and watched. Now there was only the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. He tore at his wet sweater. “What is this? Who are you?”

“Damsels. Who have come to you in your distress,” the Maiden answered with false sweetness.

The Mother stepped towards him. “Do you know what happens when a witch has children who don’t inherit her power?”

“You are making a grave mistake.” He swung around wildly, trying to keep them all in focus.

“They become Watchers, like me,” the Mother continued, pointing to herself. Then she indicated the Crone. “Or Bookers.” Then, finally, the Maiden. “Or Tenders, like the one you killed in Massachusetts.”

“Stay away,” he growled, trying to hold his wounded arm against his chest. “Just stay back!”

“That means we are all descended from witches.” The Mother rubbed the Zippo against the side of her skirt as she walked so that the cap clicked open and shut. He couldn’t take his eyes from it. It was like the ticking of a clock, counting down. “My mother, and my grandmother—who you murdered, by the way—and all the way back, were witches. In fact, you’ve managed to kill four witches in my line alone.”