FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

“Alexia!” my father calls from upstairs. “Darren’s here.”

Rubbing my eyes, I haul myself off the ratty sofa and bump into my carefully aimed telescope as I dig out a pair of relatively clean shorts. I’d have to realign it later. I was up very late, or early, depending on how you define 4:00 a.m.—watching for Venus’ shift from evening to morning star, but it hadn’t appeared yet. I give myself a passing glance in the mirror. Drowsy blue eyes stare back at me, the aquamarine hue barely visible under the dim fluorescent light. Strands of matted blond hair partially cover my face, courtesy of this summer’s never-ending humidity. My skin, dewy and bronzed, gleams from a daytrip to the community pool with my siblings despite my mother’s insistence that we lather ourselves in SPF 1000. I dread climbing up the stairs. Darren means more training and I’m exhausted. More training means seeing the disappointed look in his eye too.

School starts tomorrow and I’ve barely done anything with myself all summer. Studying fell by the wayside, as did keeping up with friends from school. All I’ve been able to motivate myself to do in this sticky, overpowering heat is to sit at my window and gaze at the night sky. There’s just something in the air this summer, something that’s making the heat index rise, pulling the water out of my body and then suffocating me with it as it evaporates into the already thick, damp air.

It doesn’t help that our air conditioning went out last week. I still say it wasn’t my fault, no matter what Ryan and Sam claim. Darren insisted I could control the spell when I just knew I couldn’t. But, no, Darren just had to make me try it. We were in the basement and he wanted me to conjure a little spark of light with allerum, kind of like a flashlight. It’s not that I don’t have the power to cast it. I just don’t have the focus yet. Need a bit of wind to push a paper plane? Sure, no problem. Bit of fire to light a candle? Easy as pie. But just conjuring a little ball of light wasn’t something I could wrap my head around. It’s electricity and heat and there’s nothing to channel it into. I just have to hold the power tight in my hands. Easier said than done.

The moment I cast, I knew it was far too big. The malleable metallic sphere hovered precariously over my open palms, like pieces of mercury bobbing in a lava lamp. The circular shape glowed bright, lit from within by the densely packed light particles my magic wielded. It only took a second for the room’s heat to rise rapidly and I tried to pull back, but it was still growing and I had to send it somewhere. I really did mean to hit the cinderblock wall. Instead, I tossed it right at the HVAC unit. Oops.

After berating me for an hour about how to control the flow of energy from within me, Darren tried to fix it and couldn’t. I had fried the air conditioning unit’s circuit board.

Apparently, that much heat energy at once melted some components and overloaded others. Thankfully, the new one arrives tomorrow and the day after, a repairman is coming to install it. It’s been almost eight days without air conditioning in some of the hottest weather the Midwest has seen in years. Seeking relief from this stifling heat, I moved into the basement seven days ago. All my clothes smell musty now, but at least I’m not deep-frying in my own sweat.

I grab a hair tie from one of the mismatched end tables and loosely french braid my hair as I trudge up the old wooden steps. The air thickens and warms as I climb and by the time I reach the top, the air isn’t just hot and sticky, it’s a presence on my skin. I can feel it around me, even as I stand still.

At the top of the stairs, I turn toward the living room and see that the front door has been propped open in the hope of keeping a breeze flowing through the warm house. I grab the newspaper and supermarket flyers off the welcome mat and drop them onto the side table with the mail. The South Haven Tribune’s headline catches my eye: “South Haven’s Annual Harvest Festival Coming Soon!”

The festival brings back warm memories. My family loves it, and we’ve been a part of it for generations. There are always carnival rides and games to play, cotton candy and elephant ears to eat, and one of the biggest farmers’ markets and crafts fairs in Michigan. The festival also attracts local witches from neighboring towns, who are always on the lookout for precious gems, artifacts, and other ritual items that are hard to come by.

I think last year was the first year since Sam was born that we didn’t go as a family. My parents had been wrapped up in a council issue, so Darren Smalls took Sam, Ryan, and me out with him for an evening. He claimed it was something to do with a favor he owed my dad, but I think he just wanted to go and didn’t want to go alone. Either way, my mom and dad had been stressed to the max and Ryan was driving Sam and I up the wall with his latest computer obsession. Ryan didn’t seem bothered by our parents’ absence, but Sam was. We tried to keep her attention on the festival, but she had a hard time having fun without them.

Darren is my mentor—an irindant within our coven, Alerium. He was appointed my mentor when it became clear that having one of my parents teach me wasn’t going to result in either of us surviving the situation. Don’t get me wrong—I love my family. They’re all I’ve got, you know? But our abilities tend toward different areas of magic. Right now, my siblings and I are only alleries—apprentices. My parents, before they became high priestess and priest, were illurims. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the beginning. Most spells and rituals kids learn are the same, but we’re supposed to start specializing around the time of the Trials, if we’ve shown a talent for one area or another.

The way it’s always been described to me is that irindants and illurims balance each other. I think there’s more to it, but Darren refuses to give me any more information than I explicitly need. He insists it will inhibit my training. Generally, illurims and irindants are equal in ability and status, but witches tend to be better at one type of magic than another. Illurims work inward magic; they tend toward regenerative spells and potions—magic that takes more finesse and planning than it does raw power. Irindants lean toward outward magic—magic that affects the world around us instead of that within us. While finesse is still needed, you can force an irindant-type spell if you throw enough power at it. What I’ve got in power I make up for in lack of finesse, which is probably why I blew out the AC unit.

My parents were disappointed that they weren’t the best choice to be my mentors, since magical tendencies run in families. My siblings both take after our parents, but not me. I guess I’m the rebel. Most fifteen-year-olds don’t really get along with their parents anymore—some don’t even get along with their siblings—but our family has always been close. When you’re keeping a secret as big as ours, you can’t really confide in school friends. If they were to find out who I am and what I’m capable of, not only would I be grounded for eternity, but that eternity would be pretty short if the covens got word that I let our little secret slip. Not to mention what might happen if anything outside of the witch world found out. I’d be hunted by my own kind and every other kind there is.

“Today, Alexia!” my father shouts from the living room.

“Coming, Dad,” I say halfheartedly. Training sounds exhausting.

I move through the kitchen and dining room before finally crossing the threshold of our old riverfront home. I grew up playing in the Black River and riding my bike to South Beach to swim in Lake Michigan. All of us South Haven kids used to pretend we could see Chicago and that we’d swim there and escape our boring, traditional lives. We wanted to run away to the big city, desperate for adventure. It was the same thing every summer: wrap up school, practice magic more seriously, spend time with elders learning about our history and the relationships between the covens. It could all be tedious at times.

I lean against the living room doorframe and sigh heavily. The living room shades and drapes have been drawn since I killed the air conditioning unit in an attempt to keep the air inside cooler longer. I don’t think it’s worked at all. It’s not just hot and humid—it’s also dark and creepy. Darren sits in the armchair across from my father on the sofa.

“Nice of you to join us, Alexia,” Darren says, steepling his hands. The specks of gray at his temple would give him an air of distinction if it weren’t for his unfortunate fashion sense. He hides himself beneath layers of clothing even in this heat. What’s he hiding? I wonder. I can see three shirts on him right now—a flannel overshirt, a T-shirt, and if I know him, he has a tank top embroidered with protective sigils underneath everything. He swears it’s better than Kevlar. He rounds his outfit out with dirty, worn jeans and a pair of beat-up Doc Martens. He might’ve worn the exact same outfit last time I saw him, actually.

Darren’s long dark hair is braided down his back, his only nod to his mother’s Chippewa heritage. He’s around the same age as my father, forty or so, although no one knows for sure. From what I’ve gathered through rumor and his own vague references, a drunk driver killed his parents when Darren was about six, and he wound up in the foster care system. When his powers started to manifest, a coven leader found him and took him in.

“I was kind of hoping you weren’t going to come by until the AC was fixed.”

Darren shakes his head. “Discipline. Practice—”

“I know, I know. Discipline, practice, rote repetition until I’m not sure if I’m going to sweat to death or die of boredom.”

A frown creases my father’s brow and I bite my lip.

“Sorry, I’m just cranky.”

Darren halfheartedly shrugs as if nothing I could possibly say would bother him.

“Alexia,” my father says, “you should be more respectful. The Trials are coming up.” His green eyes gaze at me with disapproval. My dad is a couple of inches shorter than Darren, who stands tall at six feet. His scruffy beard makes him look so much older than he is, but oddly enough, I think he gets a kick out of it. I hope he comes to his senses soon and shaves the whole thing off.

“I know.” That’s just the absolute last thing I want to think about.

The floorboards creak under my feet as I shift off the wall and flop into an armchair.

“I bet if we had new windows it wouldn’t be this hot,” I say looking up at him. My father never seems like it, but he’s a tall man. He has this quiet nature that makes him seem smaller than he is . . . until he’s angry with you, anyway.

“And if you hadn’t blown out the central air, we wouldn’t need new windows,” my father quips.

Swallowing a laugh, my father stands, claps Darren on the shoulder, and leaves us in the living room. I avoid looking at my mentor, instead choosing to peer through the space between drapes at the house next door. They got new windows last year.

While many of the houses in the area have been fixed up and renovated so they can be rented out during the summer, ours, while loved and well maintained, hasn’t been modernized. My parents insist “constant togetherness through integrated living spaces” is just a fad. I think they just don’t want to spend the money to knock down a few walls and update the kitchen and bathrooms. I’m just glad that whatever their reason, they’ve left the basement unfinished. If they hadn’t, I’d be sharing the downstairs den with everyone. Right now, I don’t mind some turquoise tile and an oven you have to switch on and off three times before it lights in exchange for peace and quiet.

Darren breaks me from my daydreaming. “They’ve set a date for the Pre-Trials—two months from tomorrow.”

I blink slowly, surprised. The Pre-Trials determine who goes to the Annual Trials, which is the most important rite of passage for a witch. Not only does it essentially determine your ability to progress on to more complex magic, but it is literally a rite of passage. If you don’t pass, you don’t always earn a respectable status in the community. Some witches with less magical ability or talent never pass, but they can still perform admirably and gain respect that way. Others pass by the skin of their teeth and then move on to show their worth in different ways. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t pass—Ryan’s failed the Trials a couple of times now, but depending on your overall performance, ability, and talents, failing can make you and your coven look weak. Both the Pre-Trials and Trials rankings are generally a good way to spot the most powerful witches too. It doesn’t hold universally true though. Darren told me he flunked his Pre-Trials a couple of times before he figured it all out, and he’s one of the most powerful witches I know.

The Trials are also the time of year that all the covens get together. It’s always in the fall, but the date varies depending on the phase of the moon and star alignment. The three major covens—Alerium, Malerium, and Xelerium—all have to agree on the date and what it means, or something. I don’t know the specifics, but it wouldn’t be hard to figure it out if I went over the astronomy data for the dates of the past several Trials’ and Pre-Trials tryouts. In general, each respective coven nominates kids for the Pre-Trials based on their overall spellcasting abilities and mastery of the craft. Those who pass the Pre-Trials get to represent their coven and compete at the national level at Annual Trials. The few who win the Annual Trials get to move on in their training and learn higher-level magic. During this time, the covens also discuss the future, work out disagreements, and there’s even the occasional intermarriage. It’s pretty uncommon for most witches to marry outside their coven, but it has happened once or twice. It’s more common for political reasons, though.

They keep the actual details of the process a secret from those who haven’t participated before, but Darren’s made it clear that I need to know offensive and defensive spells, strategy, and I need to practice thinking ahead.

“Are you kidding?” I ask, starting to freak out. “No, you’re not kidding. You don’t kid. That’s just . . . two months? That’s not enough time.”

Darren smirks. “Samhain. All Hallows’ Eve. Halloween. Happy New Year!”

“New Year’s is in January,” I say stubbornly.

Rolling his eyes, Darren says, “Our people—witches—have celebrated the new year at the end of the first full month of autumn since the time of the ancient Celts. It represents the beginning and end of the earth’s life cycle, respect for our ancestors and those who’ve recently passed away. Fall ends the harvest and everything slows down. During the winter, nature is dormant, resting, so it can start fresh and be rejuvenated in the spring.”

“And summer is the time of growth and blah blah blah. I know—I get it,” I grumble. “I respect our traditions, but we don’t live only in a world of witches. Regular people don’t celebrate New Year’s in October. Plus, I don’t have it off from school, so it’s not really a holiday for me. It’s just a time for weird family celebrations.”

Darren smiles, making me hesitate. “Every new generation thinks they’re so rebellious. That their parents couldn’t have possibly felt the same way as them. We didn’t all start out in our positions, you know. We went through the Trials. We were all surprised when our names were called. We all wanted to be normal at one point too. I actually even made the same argument about New Year’s.”

I eye him skeptically. “There’s no way that you put up a big fuss to your mentor. No one does. You guys are all looked at like royalty, training us to succeed, to protect the next generation by sharing your knowledge.” I play with a strand of my blond hair, twirling it around my finger. “Parents and mentors—well, elders I suppose—are supposed to be respected at all costs.”

I just couldn’t stop my mouth. It just keeps going. I’m not even really mad at Darren. It’s just the whole situation. I’m different from my family. I’m not an illurim. I’m stubborn and ambitious, and I guess my parents must have been too, to get to where they are, but my father’s parents had been high priest and priestess before them. It was just handed down to him. They earned it, of course. They never would have kept it otherwise, but still, it was just expected that he would step into his father’s role and that their marriage would have secured a great boon between their families. I want more than that.

“It’s not that I think I’m rebellious, Darren.”

He raises an eyebrow, urging me to continue.

“I just want more, in a way. Eventually, I want to be inducted onto the Council. I want to be powerful and strong and learn magic and help people. But I want to do it on my terms.”

A small smile, one that I rarely saw, crosses his face. He nods proudly, as if I’d learned a spell more quickly than he’d seen before or done a ritual in an unprecedented way. He loves pushing the bounds of magic, but he loves watching me succeed more.

“Come on, let’s go up and hurl magic at each other for a while.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say, heaving myself out of the chair with a grin. “Race you to the top!”

Next Chapter: Chapter 2: illuminza