“Yes. I was small, shy, and one of the few mixed kids in my neighborhood. I was confused, torn between different worlds— my father was a human, my mother was a witch. My father was white, my mother was black. Every question I had about magic went unanswered. Every concern I had was swept under the rug. By the time I went to school, I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.”

“Let me guess, the little psychopaths made it worse.”

She laughed. “Kids can be cruel. I was bullied. One girl liked to put paint in my hair, and she would whisper in my ear that her mother had told her my mother was a witch, and I was going to hell. It didn’t take long before I was going home crying each day, begging my parents to let me homeschool. Unfortunately, they both agreed that I needed to learn to solve my problems and not run from them. One day, this little girl decided to get physical. She pushed me off the swing and called me a filthy word. I snapped.”

Selina sighed, pushing her plate away.

I leaned one elbow on the counter. “Did you kill her?”

“No. But almost. My power was uncontrollable. My mother was called, and she arrived to find that I’d wrapped the swing around the little girl and was hoisting it higher and higher in the air as it tightened. I had created a ward, and none of the human teachers could get through to stop me. By the time my mother managed to pull me from my frenzy, I’d broken several of the girl’s bones.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. That was the end of human school for me, for which I was grateful. But my mother realized I needed to be trained. By then, she was so used to suppressing her own magic that she needed her coven’s help. My father threatened to leave. She took me anyway. They divorced a few months later.”

“She should’ve taught you how to use your power.”

“Yes. And you need to be taught the same. I was a child with witch power. You are something more. But without training, the result is the same. You can’t expect to be able to control something that has been suppressed all these years. The only differences between you and the seven-year-old me are your age and the amount of power you wield.”

I picked at my cuticle while I thought it through. Attempting to ignore my power hadn’t worked. “You think you can teach me how to avoid scaring the crap out of people unintentionally?”

“I can teach you what I was taught. Your power is different, but the underlying rules should be the same.”

I took a sip of my iced tea and squared my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

8

Danica