Scorched | Bewitchment #2

Chapter One

1865, Galway, Ireland

Kali twisted a thread of red-hot magic between her fingers. It glowed in the darkness, illuminating the worn wooden walls of her wagon, a lumpy straw mattress tucked in the corner, and a battered old trunk at the foot of her bed. Her modest, spare accommodations certainly didn't amount to a glamorous life. But she didn't care. All she wanted was the comfort she found in the shadows anyway.

The thread was barely longer than her thumb and yet it wouldn't take much more than a flick of her wrist, a breath, a thought, to send it into a sweeping, swirling storm of fire. She felt the magic pulse, like a second heartbeat beneath her skin. Ready and waiting to escape. Seeking space to expand like a star. Hotter. Bigger. Brighter.

Let go, the magic whispered. Let go, let go, let go.

Kali wrapped the thread around a small pebble and snapped it off to form a single, short spell, firmly tied with nowhere to go. The only thing it could do was burn itself out once she released it.

Kali never cast raw spells if she could help it. Years ago, she had learned the hard way what an insatiable appetite her magic held when it wasn't anchored. She had woken surrounded by a halo of ash and cinders where her home used to be. But she had remained untouched, unburned.

That's when everyone knew without a doubt she was a witch.

A burst of laughter drew Kali from her thoughts. For the past three days, the caravan had been rolling its way to a new city. The only sounds Kali had for company were the creaking of the wagon, punctuated by the dull rhythm of the horses' hooves that spoke of endless countryside and a plain, dirt road.

Then the rushing whisper of the ocean joined the journey's cadence. And now, there were voices. People. Kali would soon have an audience and the thought made her stomach churn with dread.

The clamor of civilization grew louder and closer with every passing mile. Shouts and murmurs of conversation. The echoing clang of a blacksmith's hammer against an anvil. The rasp of a fishmonger's voice calling out, "Bass! Herring! Cod!"

Kali crawled to the door and eased it open just enough to peer out.

Puddles lined a cobblestone street like muddy mirrors, reflecting grumbling gray clouds overhead. Small, neat houses were tucked together, cozy alongside a bakery, a tavern, a few shops, a smattering of inns. Beyond the buildings, Kali caught a glimpse of a long wharf, stretching out into the sea. A handful of moored fishing boats bobbed gently on the rise and fall of the tide as gulls squabbled at each other.

Five more wagons trailed behind Kali, one for each act of the circus. People stopped in the streets to watch the caravan pass by, curiosity piqued by the purple and gold letters painted along the wagons' sides.

Pandemonium: when the darkness descends, let the dreams begin.

Heat prickled Kali's palms, ignited by anxiety. She ducked back into the shelter of her wagon. This was the worst part. The waiting. Wondering what the audience would think of her when she released that first anchored spell.

Some were fascinated by her. The witch with fire at her fingertips.

Others hated her on sight. The witch who could burn them all to the ground.

She never knew what greeting she might receive. And she always worried, just a little, that she would find herself in that halo of destruction again. Rubble all around her. Guilt heavy on her shoulders. Smoke thick on her tongue.

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided herself, though the words felt hollow, lacking the reassurance she'd been hoping for.

Ten years with the circus and she hadn't slipped. Not once. But she'd been careful. Painfully, studiously careful. With every spell she cast, there was always a chance, no matter how small, that this time she might not be able to hold on. It wouldn't take much for one of her spells to spark a wildfire, blooming into a beast too wild to tame.