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CHAPTER ONE
JOSIE
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Stop freaking out, Josie.
Nope, it’s too late.
Sweat slicks my hairline, my heart rate is racing, and the edges of my vision are blurred. All telltale signs I’m about to hit full-blown magical freak-out mode in T-minus—
“Eight… nine… ten.” I count quietly under my breath, shutting my eyes against the harsh artificial lights above.
It helps, but not much.
Turbulent energy swirls around me in a whirlwind of chaos as crowds of people hustle past in every direction, unaware. There is a cyclone of power radiating from me—I know that—but I can’t seem to reel it in.
Witches feel things stronger than humans. It’s part of being in tune with our surroundings, and with Mother Gaia. I’ve always considered it a kind of sixth sense—an alarm for when shit is about to hit the fan.
Except that it overreacts sometimes, switching into high gear over nothing and causing my entire body to feel like it’s going on the fritz.
Like now.
After a sixteen-hour flight from Leeds to Louisiana, I’m exhausted and extra sensitive to the shifting energies around me. It calls to the magic in my cells and ignites against my will before I can do anything to stop it.
The cacophony of dozens of simultaneous conversations fades as my ears pop in the same moment the lights overhead flicker. The screen above my head, displaying flight departures and arrivals, glitches and blinks off, leaving behind a black mirrored reflection. Confused travelers look around like they expect to see someone pointing a remote at the screen.
Nope, just me having yet another meltdown.
Breathe.
Inhale through the nose… hold for five… exhale slowly through the mouth and expel the anxiety.
The breathing exercise my grandmother taught me as a child isn’t working. Anxiety churns in my stomach, lurches into my throat, and threatens to choke me until I pass out right here in the middle of the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport.
“I’m sorry, cher. My computer is all kinds of misbehavin’ today. What was the name again?” The thick Louisiana accent pulls me out of my mental spiral and brings me some small comfort with its familiarity.
The gate attendant—Lisette, according to her shiny name plate—is the middle-aged woman leaning across the little podium desk. “You feeling all right there, cher? You’re not gonna swoon on me, are you? ‘Cause you’re as pale as a sheet.”
The endearment makes tears well up. Grand-Mère always called me cher. It sounds like home.
“I’m fine.” Blinking past the sting of unshed tears, I take another run at getting myself under control. I swallow against the lump of emotion and clear my throat. Now is not the time for crying.
“Claudette Josephine Dumont,” I repeat my grandmother’s name. “I have all the necessary paperwork.”
I hold out a file folder of pages in shaking hands, but Lisette just nods as she flips through a stack of papers of her own before picking up the phone and holding it to her ear.
After a moment, she frowns, placing the phone back in its cradle. She tries again, but I’m guessing she still doesn’t get a dial tone.
My power surge took out more than just her computer.
Oops.
“Strange,” Lisette mumbles to herself as she hangs up a second time. She’s looking more and more flustered as the seconds drag by.
I know the feeling.
“Hold on one more moment. We’ll get this sorted and find your Grand-Mère in a jiff,” Lisette says.
Sure. My flight landed over two hours ago. What’s another minute or two?
