A gust of wind kicks up, sending a violent shiver through me.

I rub my bare arms and glance over at Nero. “Are you cold, buddy?”

Nero’s eyes flick to me just long enough to make me feel like I asked an inane question.

“Fine, fine, forget I asked.”

My heels crunch fallen pine needles, and the smell of woodsmoke grows stronger. For a witch, that smell stirs something deep in the bones. This is the magic we’re made of—midnight fires and fog-shrouded forests.

The woods open to a clearing filled with dozens and dozens of supernaturals chatting, dancing, drinking, and laughing around bundles of dried cornstalks. Most of the women, I recognize from the coven, but there are some unfamiliar witches, as well as several lycanthropes as well. I take in the mages—the male equivalent of a witch—and the other lycans. Magic shimmers in the air above them, glittering off the light from the bonfire and the enchanted lanterns that float in the sky.

I’ve missed this.

I’ve spent the past year maneuvering the regular world filled with nonmagical humans and their nonmagical lives. I forgot how a gathering of supernaturals can make my blood thrum.

I hear a squeal, and then Sybil is running over to me, her drink sloshing in her hand, while her owl, Merlin, lifts off her shoulder where he’s been perched.

“There you are!” she calls, her long dark hair swaying behind her. “I was worried you wouldn’t show—” Sybil stops short, her eyes landing on Nero. “What in the Tiger King hell is that thing?” she says, staring at him. Her own familiar glares at the panther; Merlin looks as put out as an owl can look.

Did I not tell her?

“This is my familiar, Nero.” I place a hand on Nero’s head, ruffling my panther’s fur perhaps a tad more aggressively than I need to.

In response, my familiar growls, probably because he’s aware I’m being an ass.

He and I have a love-hate relationship.

“That is your familiar?” she says, edging back a little. “I thought you said he was a cat.”

Nero gives me a long look, like I’ve disappointed him. But you know what? He’s the one who licks his own butt, so he has no grounds to be judgmental.

“He is a cat,” I say defensively. “He’s just a really, really big one.”

“You think?” Sybil says. Her owl flaps his wings in agitation, clearly uncomfortable being this close to a panther. My friend looks equally uncomfortable, like she’s fighting her own instincts to flee from such a large predator. Not that she needs to worry about that. Familiars are fairly safe to be around. As an animal extension of myself, Nero will only attack another human if I command it or if it’s in defense of my life. Short of that, he’ll act in line with my values, and those don’t include maiming best friends.

After a moment, Sybil’s expression brightens. “Well, hey, there’s no way Henbane Coven can deny you now, not when you have a familiar like that.”

Among witches, it’s commonly thought that the stronger the witch, the bigger and more powerful the familiar. And I am flattered and proud, and I feel redeemed for all the struggles I’ve faced. But as I glance down at Nero, I bite the corner of my lip. Talking about this has unlocked a whole new worry—that I may have more familiar than I can handle.

Nero certainly seems to think so.

After a moment, Sybil collects herself and links her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

I let her drag me across the clearing, past the sparking bonfire and a fiddler playing some upbeat tune. Next to him is a harpist, though she’s currently leaning back on the fallen log she sits on, a drink in her hand, talking to a mage wearing the crest of Bladderwrack Grove, which is the local magical association for mages.

When the fiddler catches sight of Nero, he halts his song, watching my panther with wide eyes. And a nearby group of what must be shifters sniff the air as we pass them. The moment they trace the scent back to Nero, they go preternaturally still, their eyes turning luminous as their wolves peek out.

In fact, little by little, the party goes quiet. I’ve never had so much attention fixed on me at once. Though, technically, it’s not me everyone is looking at. Their eyes are trained on my panther.

Finally, someone shouts, “What in the seven hells is that?” The voice carries across the field.

My stomach roils as though I did something wrong. I don’t know why I feel this way. I’ve wanted people to recognize my worth as a witch for so long; apparently, I have no idea what to do now that they’re forced to.

I pause and place my hand on Nero’s head as I search the crowd for the voice. “This is my familiar.”

Somehow, the silence deepens; the only sounds are the crackling fire and the hiss from another witch’s familiar.

Then someone else says, “Man, that’s fucking dope as shit.”

A nearby witch laughs, and just like that, the tension eases out like air from a balloon.

Sybil grabs my hand once more and continues to pull me along as the rest of the party goes back to chatting.

“So, have you heard from the admissions committee yet?” Sybil asks as we make our way to a massive cauldron. Wildflowers grow thickly around its base, and steam drifts up from it.

I shake my head. “No,” I say softly, trying not to think about spending another year yearning to be part of the coven.

The two of us reach the cauldron, which is filled with a deep, plum-colored liquid. Herbs and dried flowers float on its surface, and white smoke drifts up from it.

Ah, witch’s brew. Exactly what I need to soothe my frayed nerves.

“Another drink already?” a nearby witch says to Sybil, pretending to be shocked. “You lush!”

Sybil and the witch cackle together as Sybil helps herself to a drink and grabs me one as well.

The other witch’s eyes move to me, and I see recognition spark in them. “Hey,” she says, “you’re the girl from the plane crash, right?”

I take the cup Sybil hands me. “Um…yeah.”

In my mind’s eye, I see that indigo magic.

We were never meant to part…

“That’s so wild. I heard that the way the plane landed could’ve only been achieved by magic,” she says.

That’s news to me.

“Did you help land it?” she asks. The witch has a look in her eye, one that makes me a little nervous. I’ve hated being overlooked, but between Nero and now this, I’m pretty sure I hate the spotlight even more.

“I can’t remember,” I say because it’s the truth. My memory of the event was wiped.

Still, her words linger with me.

The way the plane landed could’ve only been achieved by magic.

The witch’s gaze moves to Nero, and I can practically see her next question. Did you find your familiar while you were there?

Before she can voice it, Sybil grabs me by the wrist and begins dragging me away. “We’ll be back for more brew soon!” my friend calls.

I give a helpless wave and follow her. “Are you going to stop manhandling me any time tonight?” I ask.

“Don’t pretend like you wanted to stick around to answer Tara’s questions,” Sybil says.

True.

I bring my drink to my lips rather than answer. This batch of witch’s brew is smoky, and it tastes a bit like licorice. It doesn’t always taste this way; sometimes it’s floral, sometimes it’s citrusy, and sometimes it’s honeyed. The only consistent part of the alcohol’s flavor is the mildly bitter undertone that is espiritus, an ingredient that interacts with our magic.

Sybil pulls me in close. “I’m sorry to say that Kane is not here.”

I nearly choke on my drink.

“Oh my goddess, Sybil,” I say. “Please stop talking about him. I liked him a long time ago.”

She scoffs. “If a month ago is a long time.”

I narrow my eyes at her, unsure whether she’s remembering something I don’t or if she’s just playing me.