CHAPTER II: THAT WHICH REGARDS WITCHCRAFT

Magic. True magic.

I had dreamed of it ever since I read Matilda as a child. Now I had it. I could snap my fingers, mutter a funny word, and bend reality to my will. And I had no idea what to do about it.

I mean, what could I do? I had magic, but I didn't know shit about it. I just kinda did it. Then I did it again. And again. And again. Then my head hurt, like migraine levels of agony. Like, a thousand needles of burning ice cutting through my brain painful. I passed out after that. Woke up to Dad shaking me awake, before he sent me off to bed.

When I woke up the next day, I half-thought I hallucinated the whole thing, but I didn't. I knew I didn't.

"Átendra." A muttered word and a snap of my fingers. Fire plumed and the blackened wick of a pilfered candle burned. Light. Warmth. It was beautiful. Felt beautiful. The power, blooming in my chest and pouring through my limbs.

Yet the questions remained. How did magic work? How did I even do magic in the first place? Could I learn more, or was I stuck being a glorified Zippo? Where did I even begin looking to learn more? My brain spiralled out of control, questions upon questions drowning me in a sea of paralysing frustration, even as child-like excitement bubbled in my chest.

I forced myself to calm down. To breathe. One thing at a time. Just one thing.

Okay, so I had magic. Why? How? That didn't matter. I had magic, so what was I going to do about it? The answer to that was simple: figure out how it worked. That meant practice. That meant research.

My weekend was seeming a lot busier than I had originally anticipated.

Unfortunately, there was only so much time I could indulge my inner pyromania before I got tired — it was educational, though. I got exhausted, for one. Apparently, there was a limit to how much magic I could use at any one time. Apparently, I reached it. Repeatedly. Didn't know if it was a hard limit but I certainly hoped it wasn't. Maybe it worked like a muscle? The more magic I used, the more magic I could do.

Second thing I figured out was that my cantrip didn't only light candles. I could set just about anything on fire if I tried hard enough. Scraps of paper. Toothpicks. Old rags we really should've thrown out. My bedsheets.

Okay, yeah. I might've gotten a bit carried away. Maybe I became a bit of a fire hazard. But who could blame me? I could set things on fire with my mind! Who in their right mind wouldn't fuck around with it, but I wasn't entirely stupid.

I had a bucket of water on hand, just in case.

Still, it was more than I knew before. I even managed to light two candles at once, though that didn't exactly end well. The house didn't burn down, but I got another headache. And, just like last time, I made Dad worried witless.

Once was a bit concerning, but passing out from a migraine twice had sent Dad into overdrive. He had his questions, his concerns, but I wasn't sure how to tell him. What could I even say? "Hey, by the by, I can set fires with my mind!"

I mean, I could out-and-out say it, but — no. I didn't want to.

Not yet.

I wanted to understand, first. I wanted to understand so he could understand. So Mom could, too. Plus, it was fun having a little secret.

Just kill my uncle and call me Peter Parker.

I lied to him, in the end. Told them I was just a bit stressed out. About school. About everything. It wasn't a lie, I guess. I was in junior year, and well — I was being made to think about things I really didn't want to think about. University. Work. Life beyond school. Add on top of that the Halloween, and Mom and Dad nearly getting gang violence-d to death a few weeks back. Yeah. The past month and a bit hadn't been fun.

He, begrudgingly, accepted my half-truth. Told me to relax and to make sure I had aspirin on hand. If I got another headache, I'd be sent to the hospital, no ifs and or buts about it. To be fair, I wasn't really looking for another headache. I'd hold off pushing myself until I understood magic better.

I read, instead. I mean, I didn't know shit about magic. About real magic. But I needed to start making assumptions or else I'd be floundering. It was like science! Hypotheses. Tests. Research. Except it wasn't, really. It was magic.

My first hypothesis? I wasn't the only, er— What did I call myself? A sorceress? A witch? A magician? I don't know. Either way, I would have to have an ego the size of the sun to believe I was the first to pull magic out of my ass. So, no. I probably wasn't the first with magic in the world.

Whoever my predecessors were, I hoped they wrote some stuff down.

It was a few hours past noon, Saturday, when I made my hypothesis. I was in the middle of a bad case of what I had dubbed 'magical exhaustion.' Dad was out, working with a client on their renovations. Mom had just gotten home.

I stumbled downstairs, looking for a bite to eat and to refill my glass of water, but also because I wanted to take a look at our bookshelves. Mom had a few occult books; a hold over from her Wiccan phase. I wasn't sure how applicable they were, and up until now I mostly considered witchcraft and all that to be New Age woo — but now it was my best bet to understand my newfound power.

Mom was in the kitchen, still in her work clothes, making herself a sandwich. When she saw me, she crooked an eyebrow. "Someone looks like they woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

I grumbled my reply, too tired to use words. I filled a glass, drank the whole thing, and filled it up again, setting it on the bench as I filted around the cupboard for some chips.

"Did you just wake up from a nap?" Mom continued, sounding a bit more worried. No doubt Dad told her about my recent headache.

"I'm fine. Just a bit tired," I managed to reply, just staring glassy eyed at the pack of salt & vinegar chips. A moment later, I jerked into action and poured myself a bowl.

Mom nodded, slow, and started to retreat to the lounge. I was about to just let her go, but some small part of my brain remembered why I was downstairs and slapped some sense into me.

"Wait, Mom?"

She stopped at the threshold of the kitchen, turning to face me immediately. "Yes, dear?"

"Do you still have those books on witchcraft?" I asked.

She blinked, fixing me with a weird expression. "Um. Yes? I think so. Why?" Then she smiled. "Thinking of converting?"

I shook my head. "No, no. I'm — I'm just working on a project. Thought they might help."

Mom nodded, slow, mulling over my words. Even if she didn't believe me, I doubted she would figure out the truth of the matter on her own. "Fair enough. They're in the lounge if you want them. I'll show you."

Show me she did. There, at the bottom of the bookshelf, collecting dust, were a few books I had some primal memory of passing over whenever I perused our collection. There was The Fundamentals of Witchcraft by Michael Nightshade; The Pagan Rites by Nigel Montgomery; Wicca: A Living Practice by Thomas Pasolini; and, finally, A Practical Guide to Magick by Daphne Ambrose.

I had to make two trips, one to deposit the chips and my water, the other to get the books. But once I was done, I shut the door to my bedroom, feeling just a bit more awake than I had when I originally left.

My room was a bit of a mess, I'll be honest. The bookshelves were cluttered with toys, teddies, and books. Clothes hung like tongues out of my wardrobe's draws. Then, there were the candles and the rag I used during my tests earlier today. My desk was covered in homework and notes, and there was a bucket beside it filled with water. About the only thing that looked remotely clean was my bed, and only because I had decided to make it after setting my sheet on fire.

It took a second to clean up, which amounted to throwing my homework and anything else I didn't need onto my bed. And I took a second to grab a notebook and pen just in case there was anything interesting I wanted to write down.

With everything prepped, I got comfortable and started digging in.

The books were interesting, for the most part. Dense, too. History. Philosophy. Religion. Magic. I was a quick reader, quicker when skimming, but it was a nightmare balancing all four of them. Even as I read, I couldn't help the idea that I was just wasting my time. I got a taste of magic — a taste of power — and now I wanted more. And I wanted it now.

I was impatient. Sue me.

Wiccan philosophy was curious. I staunchly, if naïvely, followed the Golden Rule: I treated others the way they wanted to be treated. For the Wiccan, they had their rede.

"An' it harm none, do what thou wilt."

Michael Nightshade had paraphrased it as: "Do what you want but don't harm others." I wasn't sure how much I agreed with it, personally. It felt too . . . dogmatic.

Even the Golden Rule had its exceptions, at least in my mind. If I treated others the way I wanted to be treated, I expected them to treat me the way that they wanted to be treated. If someone threw a punch at me, I would punch back. Sometimes. Most of the time, it wasn't an option — especially not with Principal Snyder lurking about. He hated kids but he had a clear bias towards certain students. I wasn't one of them.

It was only my tentative self-control that stopped me from getting detention at least once a week, and better yet if I kept my record mostly clean I wouldn't need to visit the therapist's office for a long time coming.

I did see some wisdom in the Rede, though. I wasn't sure if I was going to adopt it wholly myself, but I'd keep it in mind. At least I'd try not to set anyone on fire, anyway.

For the most part, the books were just so — so different. Weird. Contradictory. Surprisingly arrogant. I couldn't help but imagine that if Ambrose, Nightshade, and Pasolini were all locked in a room together, it wouldn't take long for them to start ripping each other to bits.

About the only person who didn't seem to be so aggressively opinionated was Montgomery and only because The Pagan Rites was focused on the historical practices of the pre-Christian European religions.

Actually, I wasn't even sure how applicable The Pagan Rites were, in reality. But there was something about the book that kept me from dismissing it out of hand. Maybe it was the other three presupposing that Wicca was part of those old religions? That it was the Old Religion in some cases. Or maybe it was the magic in my head that gave me pause. Suddenly, pagan history felt a lot more real, as terrifying as that thought was.

I mean, if magic existed, what else did? Gods? Monsters? Were fairy-tales more reality than fantasy? Was there a secret supernatural underground, hidden from mundane eyes? That was one question I wasn't sure I wanted answered, to be honest.

In the end, however, none of the books seemed to address my specific ability. There was no mention of anything close to the magic I could do, and what was mentioned seemed less about tangible results and more about the ephemeral. A charm to secure good fortunes and amulets to ward of the Evil Eye.

Worse still, much of the magic was ritual in nature. I needed an altar, I needed robes, I needed an athamé — a sort of blunted ritual knife — and a wand, and a chalice. I needed a coven, too, though depending on the author that step was heavily debated. I made thirty dollars a week for chores, barely had any friends, and now I was expected to build a community and buy a shed's worth of equipment. Great.

When I got around to Fundamentals' chapter on sex magic and how it was the "best possible" way of "generating magical energies," I all but threw the book away with a disgusted huff and gave up on research for the time being. There was a lot of sexual shit in Nightshade's book, and I wasn't sure I liked it. Actually, I didn't like it. Left me feeling dirty and insulted. That wasn't the only reason, though. I just didn't feel like the book, any of the books for that matter, could help.

It was frustrating.

Infuriating.

I needed more. More information. More books. Resources. I didn't know where I'd get them, though. Sunnydale High didn't exactly have a big witch scene. I'm sure we had a few but I also felt weird about asking strangers for help.

I always felt weird talking with strangers in general, but now I had more to be anxious about. What if they couldn't do what I could? What if I broke some unspoken magical rule about witch-to-witch correspondence? I was already considered the Weird Kid. One of them, at least. I didn't need to make it worse.

It didn't matter much in the end. I got my lead soon enough.

Sunday night. I was drafting all the notes I had written down into something more legible and far more compact. There wasn't actually much to write, but it hadn't been a worthless endeavour. The books might have disagreed on peculiars, but there were some things they all seemed to agree on.

For example, they all agree that magic was an internal force, one tapped through emotion or, perhaps, meditation. I favoured meditation in the end, but I kept a note about emotion. I don't know. Star Wars kept creeping into mind with Luke Skywalker's struggle with hate and anger and fear in his final confrontation with Vader.

The dark side suddenly felt quite pertinent now.

I had also deigned to get started on my spellbook, my grimoire — and wasn't that a fancy word. I had eschewed an actual book for now, but I wanted to record the one spell I did have and make it fancy.

It was about half-way through my much too detailed drawing of a candle's flame when Dad called me from downstairs. "Kaity, dinner's ready!"

Dinner. How annoying. I was uncovering the secrets of the universe and Dad wanted me down for dinner? Okay, well. I wasn't uncovering anything now, but still! Gah! "I'll be down in a second!"

I shut my notebook and blew out the one candle I had kept lit before heading downstairs. The whole house smelled rich with spice and meat. My stomach growled and I suddenly realised just how hungry I was. The table was set, Dad was dishing up in the kitchen while Mom poured drinks — coke for me and Dad, and a diet lemonade for her. Without anything else to do, I sat and waited.

A second later, Dad arrived with plates: curry sausages with a side of veg and some potato mash. As always, Dad's cooking was sublime. I practically inhaled dinner, feeling as if I hadn't been fed in centuries.

We ate and ate and then I realised Dad was looking at me, amused. "Someone's worked up quite the appetite. Magic taking a lot out of you?"

I didn't choke on my food exactly. I was far more graceful than that. "I — I, um. What?"

He laughed. "Mom told me you borrowed some of her old books," he said, before adding, slyly: "Thinking about converting?"

Why does everyone think that?

"No, no. I'm just working on a project." As fixated as I was on magic, invoking ancient deities and observing sabbats wasn't something I was interested in. Kinda. Actually, I'll be honest, I wasn't sure right now. I needed time to think and consider before I did anything as extraneous as adopting a whole-ass religion.

Mom hummed, looking far more refined than I cared to emulate in my lizard-brained desire to consume.

I huffed.

"School or for pleasure?" Dad continued.

"Eh. Personal one," I said between mouthfuls. "I was watching Sabrina last night and I was wondering about, like . . . 'real world' magic."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "'Real' magic?"

"Well, magic with — with a presence," I amended, finding it difficult to phrase my meaning. "Something with, well, history. Stuff like that. Old stuff."

Mom cut in. "And . . . ? How're you finding the books?" When I grimaced, she laughed again. "That bad?"

"They're not bad. It's just that they're so — so . . ."

"Not what you expected?" Mom said with that knowing expression.

I made a small agreeing sound in the back of my throat, frowning at my vegetables. "It's just . . . they're so dense and confusing and half the time I feel like — I just. It's weird and I don't like it."

"That's alright," said Mom. "If you need help wading through it, you can always ask me. I spent three years working with that shit, I might as well get some actual use out of it."

"Thanks Mom." I was tempted to take her up on it, but— "But for now, I think I'd like to figure it out on my own."

Mom smiled, understanding. "I understand. Though, a few quick pointers — no ifs and or buts — the 'Burning Times' didn't happen. The witches who were burnt at the stake—"

"Were just normal people," I finished. "I know. We did The Crucible last year."

"Yes, and you did a wonderful Goody Proctor."

"I don't know why you stopped doing Drama," Dad suddenly asked. "You were good at it!"

I groaned, not wanting this conversation again. "I—" Was afraid? Hated the other kids? Felt sick every time I went on stage?— "just didn't want to do that anymore. Plus, I gotta focus on, like. Important stuff."

Dad looked positively distraught that his daughter didn't consider theatre 'important,' but let it slide. "I know." There was a pause. Then: "So, this witchy-shit?"

Smooth transition, Dad. Smooth.

I grumbled and mumbled. "We wouldn't happen to have any other books, would we? Like, older ones or something?"

Mom tapped the table, humming. "I don't think so. I got rid of most of them when I quit. I could take you down to the library, or maybe a bookstore if you want, though. I'm sure we can find something there."

"What about the school library?" Dad asked, gesturing with his fork. "It's got a whole lotta weird books last time I saw. Maybe you can find your answers there? Get some good old Lesser Key or something in your hands. Not some flimsy new-age woo."

I rolled my eyes but was immediately confronted by two thoughts. First was: When did Dad visit the library? The answer came quick enough. Parent-teacher night. Obviously. Though, I did have good reason to try and repress that memory. Seeing Mom and Dad come home utterly terrified. Finding out about the gang attack. It was a punch in the gut. I didn't know what would happen if my parents died.

My second thought, a realisation, was: Oh, shit, he's right!

The library at Sunnydale High School was notorious for being filled with weird books, ever since the new librarian arrived in town January this year. If there was anything magical in this backwater valley, that would be a good place to look. "Oh, yeah! Thanks Dad. I'll check it out on Monday."

Dad grinned, looking far too pleased with his addition to a topic he knew shit all about. "Tell us what you find, my little-witchling."

The conversation tapered off after that but I didn't mind. As Mom and Dad got talking about work, their day, current events, my mind was whirling with possibilities.

The library. What would I find inside? Oh, I heard the rumours and knew them to be true. Books on daemonic lore, graphic depictions of human sacrifice, and — of course — the semi-nude sketches of witches of debatable tastefulness. Maybe there'd be some magic amongst it all?

Doubt lingered in my mind, poisonous pessimism, but I couldn't shake the electrifying current of excitement that buzzed beneath my skin.

For the first time in a long time, I was excited about going to school.