I walk onto the beach, and the witch behind me goes through the same attendance procedure.
Once we have all checked in, the rush will begin.
None of us is strong enough to rush our magic on our own. Magical perfumes and teas and pastries are wonderful—they’re how we support our lives here and why the mainlanders began to accept us—but they don’t require a lot of magic.
The combined force of all of us together is the only thing that makes the rush possible.
We all wear identical white rushing gowns, loose, light garments that hit at the ankles and look like nightdresses. The eldest witches stand spread out in a row along the shoreline. Behind them, my parents’ generation stands, and behind them, the youngest of us. None of the witches speak. We look out at the water or down at the rocky beach. Shame is a powerful weapon, convincing every person on this shore to turn away from each other during a ritual that is part of who we are.
Sometimes I think it is the shame, not the fear, that will ensure our survival as a coven. The rush is a pillar of the new order and what enabled us to begin a productive dialogue with the mainland; they didn’t stop trying to eradicate magic until we proved to them that the new order was not a threat. In many ways, the rush should be a celebration of survival and courage, of sacrifice and wit. But another pillar of the new order is a complete and utter disavowal of dark magic, and over many generations, that disavowal has turned from conviction to shame. As soon as dark magic became something to be ashamed of, no one wanted to practice it any longer.
And it has stayed that way.
We’re on the western edge of the island that looks out onto the open ocean. We would never rush on the eastern shore that faces the mainland; even with the Passage as wide as it is, knowing the mainlanders could never see us from so far away, it would still feel too vulnerable. So instead we make the trek to the western edge, turning our backs on the mainland for one evening per month. Just one.
I jump when the copper bowl behind me goes up in flames, signifying everyone is here.
“Let’s begin,” my mother says, her voice carried on a wave of magic so everyone can hear.
In unison, we wade into the water, the eldest witches going out the farthest and the younger witches following. Those not old enough to rush their magic are held by their parents, the spell powerful enough to coax what little unused magic is in their systems out to sea.
The water has just touched my ankles when something catches the corner of my eye. I turn. It’s a small circular light identical to the one I saw outside my bedroom window, hovering above the ground, illuminating a moonflower.
I look around, but no one else notices it, focusing instead on the water.
The light gets brighter, and I can no longer ignore it. I carefully back away from the water, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching. The actual rush won’t happen for at least twenty minutes, and it doesn’t take me as long to prepare as some of the others.
As quietly as possible, I hurry up the beach and around a dense patch of flowering bushes, following the light. I’m no longer in view of the shoreline, and I move faster, chasing the glowing sphere.
But the closer I get, the faster it moves away from me.
I keep running, following it into an inland field, long grasses blowing in the nighttime breeze. They nip at my skin as I push my way through, and I keep my eyes on the light as best I can.
It comes in and out of view, then goes out entirely. A shiver rolls down my spine.
I run toward the last place I saw it, relying on the light of the full moon to guide me, and slam directly into another person.
I fall to the ground, shocked and disoriented. The wind is knocked clear out of me, and I clutch my middle and groan, rolling onto my side. No one else should be here—everyone is on the beach.
“What the hell?” The voice is coming from a few feet away, and I push myself off the earth and frantically look around.
The light is long gone by now, but slowly, another person rises from the ground. A person I’ve never seen before. I take a step back.
“Did you miss the ferry?” I ask, wondering how I can possibly get him off the Witchery before the rush happens.
“You ran right into me,” he says, ignoring my question. “Where the hell are your manners?”
I’m completely taken aback, and I stare at him with my mouth open.
“Well?” he asks. His dark hair is unkempt and falling into his eyes, the light of the moon casting his pale skin in a faint blue glow. The set of his jaw is hard, and he looks at me as if he’s irate, as if I killed the thing he loves most in the world instead of accidentally running into him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to keep my voice even in case his parents are people of importance on the mainland. “I should have been paying closer attention.”
He scowls at my answer, like he’s disappointed in me.
“Did you see that light?” he asks, and my heart picks up speed.
“You saw it?”
“Several times now,” he says, shoving a hand through his hair. “I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.”
“Me neither,” I say.
The light went out right where we’re standing, and in the span of a breath, the earth groans and a single moonflower rises in the space between us, sprouting large, heart-shaped leaves.
I jump back and take several steps away, putting enough distance between the bloom and me, but I’m not willing to run from it. Not this time.
The boy raises his eyebrow and looks at me with an amused expression.
“It’s a moonflower,” I say.
“I know what it is.” And with that, he picks it from the ground and touches it to his lips.
He stretches his hand out, offering me the flower, and I move even farther away from him. “Don’t come any closer.”
“They say these flowers are poisonous to witches, you know,” he says as he looks at the flower, twirling it between his fingers.
A sick feeling settles in my gut, and every impulse I have tells me to get out of here. I break out in a cold sweat, wondering who this person is, wondering if he hates witches enough to throw that flower at me. I should run, need to run, but for a reason I can’t explain, I stay where I am, frozen.
“One touch can be lethal.” He looks at me then and smiles, and for one terrible moment, I think he might be here to kill me. “I’ll tell you a secret, though,” he says, leaning closer. “It isn’t true.”
I swallow hard. Sweat beads on the back of my neck, and I shiver. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave. Now.”
“Why would I do that? I live here.”
“That’s not possible,” I say.
“Of course it is,” he responds. “Anything is possible.”
He moves his right hand through the air, back and forth, and the previously light breeze picks up into a gale force wind, slamming into me, sending my hair and my dress every which way.
Then, just as easily, he moves his hand down, and the wind calms.
I know what I’m seeing, know what I feel on my skin, but there’s only one explanation for it, and I can’t make myself believe it. I close my eyes and shake my head, trying to clear my mind of the two words screaming inside me, but they won’t go away. They get louder and louder until I’m forced to acknowledge what I saw: a perfect display of dark magic.
Goose bumps rise along my arms, and I take another step back.
“No.” It’s all I can say.
“No?” he asks, quirking his brow and raising his hand again. The wind picks up, and I rush over and slam his arm down to his side.
“That magic is forbidden, and I will not have it on my island.”
“Our island,” he says. “And where I come from, it most definitely is not forbidden.”
Our island. What he’s saying doesn’t make any sense. I’ve lived here my whole life and have never once encountered a wielder of dark magic. If what he’s saying is true and he does use dark magic, then—