Lincoln Memorial High was a place where teenage hopes and dreams came to die. Not because it was a place of hard ass teachers and impossible studies, oh no, that would almost be interesting. No, Lincoln Memorial High was a killer of spirits because it was just so boring. Richard King felt that the dim, white-bricked walls of his school were more akin to a prison than a place of learning, and he brooded on this fact quietly as he stomped through his daily routine.

A message was sent on a cracked cell phone. A kid was pushed. A name was called. A dented red locker was opened, closed, opened again and then slammed with enough force to silence the meagering cast of coffee-dependant teenagers scrabbling to their homerooms. The contents of the locker were mostly ignored, save for a few pages of a ruined textbook and a flashing image of five people with varying degrees of happiness smeared on their faces. And then King was on his way again, stomping down the hall, everything about him pouring with the feel of “familiarity”. It was the same scene as every other morning before. Nothing ever changed at Lincoln Memorial, and that was a fact.

King took in the walk to his own homeroom as he shoved a few necessary papers into his bag, his eyes cold as his sneakers squeaked against unpolished linoleum and his shoulder brushed up against far too many distracted students. The hall ahead of him was still littered with tiny packs of kids despite the fact that the first bell had rung already. King’s eyebrow twitched, and his stomach rolled as he saw pinpricks of emotional energy well from these groups of hormone-charged teenagers. The others didn’t notice. His eyes were different from theirs’, more magic, more critical. He caught whiffs of sadness and happiness in the air, joy and panic, appearing in a kaleidoscope of colors, and they infected his mood whenever his guard fell even a fraction of an inch. His sister called it “empathy”. King called it a nuisance.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, once, then twice, and then it seemed endless. A sign that his group’s chat was now alive and trickling in replies to the text he had sent a mere five minutes earlier. Whatever anxiety he had gained from sending out the text simmered and died and was easily replaced with annoyance from the continual ringing. With quick succession, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and gave the spilling-in messages a quick once over before turning the damned thing off entirely. His friends could live another few hours without a message from him.

The quietly noisy halls eventually faded away as King found his way towards the far east wing of the school, and he barely made it into the classroom before the second bell rang out it’s final warning. Homeroom was already filled with bright colors of sleepiness, petty despair, and hope for the weekend. King couldn’t help but squint against it, already fed up with have to block out the emotional baggage of every other person in the room. Still, his ire was smothered slightly by the tired face of Malcolm Okada.

“Hey.” King said, “You coming to the river tonight?”. He cuffed Mal over the head as he passed and took up the seat directly next to him, an action he usually withheld for someone like Aiden or his sister.

“If you don’t mind the likely outcome of me falling asleep and being a total buzzkill,” Mal shot him the slightest, sleepy grin and glanced up at him, eyes half-lidded, “then sure. But fair warning, I’ll be using you as a pillow. A... body pillow. Actually, scratch that last part––it made it weird.” When the other boy pushed his glasses into his hairline to press the heel of his hand against his eyes, King caught a better glimpse of dark circles under them.

“Did you do the math homework?”

“What do you think?” King gave his cockiest smirk as he tossed his head back and relaxed into the hard wooden chair, “I don’t think I’m graduating anyway, so what’s even the point?” Images of failed report cards and angry, billowing fathers came and went, flashing passed his eyes like some sort of bad dream. School didn’t matter to bad eggs like Richard King. Still, it seemed that wasn’t the answer Malcolm was hoping for, and the moment King expressed his unfinished work the boy slammed his head dramatically onto the desk.

“We were rooting for you,” Mal recited, his voice dull and dripping with familiar sarcasm, “We were all rooting for you,” And King couldn’t control the harsh laughter that welled from his chest as Mal rose with an over dramatic sigh. “I’ll just have to get it from Aiden or Jess.” And then he paused, eyebrows raising, and King could see a bad idea turning cogs in his friend’s head, “Or. Or we could skip. It’s last period; nobody will miss us. I’m tempted.”

King smiled, imagining their sneaky escape as clear as day. It wouldn’t be the first time they would do this, after all, and it most certainly couldn’t be the last. “Honestly, we should. I did drive here today, so it’d be an easy getaway.” His hands moved idly as he spoke, trying to comb through the messy stack of papers in his backpack as he found solace in focusing on Mal’s relaxed expression. His attention was seized, however, as a stray paper slipped from his grasp and forced him to bend awkwardly after it. He failed to notice the teacher who beckoned their homeroom teacher, Dahms, into the hall, or the whispering rumors of secret agents from the few stragglers who made it into class late.

“You drove. Good. Here’s my idea,” Mal said as King sat up, leaning forward and lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, one meant only for King. For some strange reason, that notion made his heartbeat stammer. “You said the river, but what if we went to the beach instead? It’s only another hour there and back, and if we left early enough...” There was a hopeful lilt to his voice as he trailed off, and King could see the rings of bright yellows exuding off his skin in waves.

“It’s going to be fucking freezing, you know. Wind chill and all that.” King flicked Mal’s forehead playfully, and smirked when he caught wind of the wavering in his emotions, “But maybe it won’t be too bad if we make a fire or something. Aiden would have fun with making that at least.” His hand combed through Mal’s hair once, and then he furiously ruffled the other’s hair. Mal cursed his name, and King laughed again, already forgetting the anger he had walked into the room with.

Mr. Dahms reentered the room then, gazing out into the rambunctious crowd of children. On his left was another faculty member, Mrs. Keets, and on his right were two well-suited men. They carried an air of chilling confidence. King felt their waves of interest from his seat, and he turned his attention to the front of the room just as Mr. Dahms caught sight of both of them in the back.

“There they are, over there. King, Malcolm. You’re… Being called to the Principal’s office.” On cue, dozens of voices sang out a chorus of ‘ooooo’s and ‘you’re in trouble’s. King turned his attention back to the suits then, his hand slowly closing around the strap of his backpack. Something wasn’t right. He was a gold star frequent to the Principal's office byw now, and he usually wasn’t offered such fancy looking escorts. Besides, he hadn’t done anything office-worthy since last week.

Carefully, King leaned his head down to Mal’s ear and whispered, “Did you fucking do something? And who the fuck even are these new guys, security?” All he was granted in return with a withering glance and a quickly barked,

“You tell me––you’re the ‘rebel without a clue’.” King huffed audibly at the insult, humor still somehow worming its way through his system, but watching Mal rise with his oh-so-light backpack and nervous aura to follow the faculty and strangers out into the hall made his stomach roll with anxiety. King followed after Malcolm with a short gait, turning only once to watch Mr. Dahms on his way out. He had hoped for some kind of shrug and nonchalant head wag, gesture familiar to his good-humored homeroom teacher, but all he found was a guiltily bowed head and silence.

Something wasn’t right, something wasn’t right.

His thumb jammed the power button of his phone as he was shoved ahead to stand next to Malcolm. Both of the strange men were staring ahead, silent as can be. King stared ahead as well, acting his part, but his left hand curved over to his right pocket to quickly tap out a message to the others. Just as his thumb dashed across the ‘send’ button, and he heard the telltale buzz in Mal’s back pocket, a strong and sturdy grip ripped his hand and phone from his sweatshirt pocket. One of the suits stared down at him with a gaze that emulated annoyance.

“You won’t be needing these.” The man said calmly, but his grip was tight and his emotional cloud deafening. King cursed and dropped his phone into the man’s hand, turning just in time to see Malcolm do the same with a pained expression. Phoneless and anxious, King and Mal were led through the empty halls of Lincoln High, turned around corners, and watched so closely that King swore they could probably just smell whatever they were seeking off of him.

His stomach dropped when he saw Charlotte and Nick, two members of Lincoln Memorial High’s secret Occult and Witchery Club, being dragged into the office ahead of him. This wasn’t good, his mind sang. His heart was a thundering steed, galloping two fold as they passed through two threshold sinto the Principal’s office. No Principal sat at the desk. Instead, another agent with dark sunglasses and a short-cropped haircut sat with his hands folded across the table, looking as prim and proper as a ruler. In front of him, in one of the three cushioned seats for guests and naughty children, sat Austin, King’s quiet and reluctant apprentice from the club. His head did no rise when the four other witches entered. Guilt and shame poured off him like wind, buffeting King with it’s horrid gale.

Mal’s hand on his shoulder is sudden and shocking. It knocked the wind from his chest and brought him back into the present, the here and now, where their meek little Principal Jameson was standing off to the side. Behind him, through the massive, sunlit window, was an armoured van and three more suited agents.

“Richard, Malcolm,” Jameson began, fighting through the apparent fright in his voice. King was sure just from glancing at him that he wasn’t scared of the agent. “These men are from Seattle; they’re here to speak with you.” He and the agents cast their gazes across the room once, taking them all in, and King felt horribly known.

Beside him, Charlotte, small and round faced, her hair hidden beneath a floral hijab and her eyes hugened by the thick rimmed glasses that sat on her nose, shook with rage instead of fear. She was clutching a bag close to her chest, one that King was sure contained a Book of Shadows. She was the backup scribe, after all– all of their club activities were her’s to protect. Nick was standing with his back straight, ever defiant and poised, to her right. His shocking red hair was the most intense thing about him, and the bravado he clung to looked about as terrifying as an angry kitten. His magic was subtle, natural, seen in the pen doodles of vines on his wrist and flowers in his veins. Mal was charged with endless energy, a scientist imbued with arcana, and he clung to King with the knowing concern of an elder.

Jameson and these damned agents saw them not as four scared children, wondering what was bringing them to such a strange scene, but for who the rumors swore they were, finally. Witches.

They were witches.

The head agent said, “How many more are coming?”

“There’s a few left, but it will be quicker to address this group first, then deal with the stragglers.” One of the other agents answered, quick and efficient.

“Some of those names are our worst truants. There is no guarantee they will have come in today.” Jameson added, wringing his hands together. King paid them no heed. He was focused on the back of Austin’s head. Austin Steinmenn was King’s apprentice in the club. He had been gifted in mental magic, and that was enough of a reason for the others to shove the poor kid into King’s lap for tutoring. He was shy, nearly reclusive, and never spoke unless greeted first during club activities. Sometimes, he would confide in King, tell him the reasons for his trembling emotions, spill his heart out to reveal his detestment he held for his own abilities.

He was weak-willed and frightened. Guilty. King’s rage flared as everything seemed to click into place, and red anger spilled from him.

“What did you do?” He whispered, cold. Austin’s expresion broke, finally, and he ducked his head in shame as King moved forward. When no response, no apology, no tears came, King surged forward and snatched at the back of Austin’s neck, “What’d you do, Steinmann? Did you fucking snitch on us? For what? Don’t you understand what this means?” His voice was rough, raw, filled with the brokenness of betrayal. Austin still did not speak, offered no explanation, no remorse, nothing. Nothing. Through King’s haze of red, all he could see before him was a pathetic traitor.

The agents watched on, unimpressed, and King failed to notice their annoyance until one shoved Mal forward and demanded he “control the idiot” before they had to step in. Malcolm’s hand returned to his shoulder, and King felt his grip on Austin’s shirt lessen almost immediately. He had no reason to push Malcolm away, and so he shifted back into a seat, eyes narrowing as his friend said,

“King, calm down. Chill a bit. It’s not gonna help anyone, getting angry. Just listen.” The whispered ending caught his attention, and King’s jaw set knowingly. Malcolm wanted him to try telepathy again.

King was versed in mental magics only because of his innate skills in empathy. He was shitty in every other school of magic and unwilling to really apply himself, but things like telepathy didn’t require vast hours of studying and planning. All he had to do was sit and listen. Listen.

Listen.

The government agent behind the desk said, “You are all under arrest for illegal magic usage, harboring occult artifacts, and forming an unauthorized coven on a government owned piece of property.”

Listen.

Charlotte grimaced and responded, “You can’t prove shit.” King’s eyebrow twitched. He squeezed his fists so tight that his fingernails dug into the palm of his flesh.

Listen.

“He’s given us more than enough evidence Miss Alvi. Both verbal recounts and images. So yes, we can prove shit.” And Austin, again, exuded the dark green of pure guilt. King sucked in a deep breathe, lowered his head, and finally focused entirely on his own mind, his own thoughts. He ignored Charlotte’s gasp of rage and Nick’s whining questions until he could only hear the blood pulsing in his ears and the faint, hiccuping voice of Malcolm’s mind.

He whispered, “I’m not saying anything until I speak to my parents’ lawyer. You might want to call him.” The ever collected Mal spoke wisdom, yes, but his emotions were shaking. His anxiety was clearer than it has ever been before as he welcome King into his mind. Beside King’s arm, Mal’s leg bounced up and down, his sneaker squeaking against the tiled floor, and this loss of focus garbled his next uttered words. “My parents, too... While you’re at it. I’m sure they’ll be so happy with all these ridiculous claims.”

As King fell into his psychic mindspace, the agent continued on, already discrediting Mal’s initial plan by denying them access to legal representation and taking them directly into custody. Mal’s actual voice cut through the watery deafness King forced upon himself, “That’s not fair. And it’s super illegal.” And the agent immediately replied,

“I would begin focusing on your alibi, witch.”

King’s head rolled for a moment, his jaw twitching, and he cut himself free form Mal in search of the others. Astrid, Aiden, and Jess. They had to get out. Them getting caught would mean no one else was free to get them out of this mess. He sought their familiar minds, and, when he failed to pinpoint them directly, instead began projecting his thoughts to any and all magic users in the area.

”Run.” He projected, ”Run, get out. Occult club has been found out, they’re taking us in. Go. Go. Run.”

Charlotte and Nick shut themselves off immediately, frightened by the volume perhaps, and King felt Austin shift beside him. He felt eyes, and urged for him to shut up, to keep quiet, please. Don’t ruin this again. And then nothing came. Austin’s head dropped again, and he closed himself off from the rest of them once more. King continued to scream his thoughts out, trying to keep his head upright at least to avoid suspicion.

The head agent eventually gestured again, swirling his pointer finger around in a dismissive manner as he said, “Start rounding them up into the van while we wait for the others. It’s probably our best bet to get ‘em secure now.” Hands came next, impatient and pushing, and they urged King into walking after a few heavy shoves. Mal’s voice was a soothing echo in his mind, projecting forward the manta of “The others will get us, the others will get us” as KIng dragged himself into movement. His head rolled again, his mind aching for some reason despite the reassurance, and quickly he realized it was due to Malcolm preparing a spell. His eyes focused for a moment, settling on Mal’s hand, and he fought a smirk as he saw the telltale symbols of alchemy. The others were a bit more docile in their movement, but as they passed through the office doorway and were escorted towards the front entrance Charlotte turned and bit the hand of the agent holding onto her shoulder.

“Dammit, kid. Keep it up and you’ll regret it.” The agent barked, pushing Charlotte ahead. The flash of a gun stilled her fighting, and she fell back in line with Nick as they were all led out the doors.

The moment they are pulled and shoved into the van, KIng’s mind is filled with static. White noise deafened him, swallowed him, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he realized he had just been cut off from everything that made him magical. The van’s doors were slammed shut after a few more moments of rigorously complaints, and King’s head fell back hard against the wall behind him as he reconnected with the material plane.

“I’m cut off.” He growled, eyes flashing, “I can’t hear shit anymore. Just white noise. Fuck, fuck!” He kicked the seat across from him, causing Nick to leap to his feet in fright. He kicked the seat again, and again, and again, cursing out the world and all the shit in it until Mal slammed his hand on to King’s thigh.

“Calm the fuck down. We might not be able to do magic,” He lifted his hand as evidence, and King stared at the unlight pattern of an alchemical circle, “But calm down. You’re freaking the kids out.” His gentle gaze returned to Charlotte and Nick, and they seemed to relax a bit, settling down onto their side once more. King felt his shoulders slump as well. He was no match for Malcolm Okada.

“Astrid, Aiden, and Jess are still out there, King.They haven’t got them yet. There’s still a chance.” Mal said, again hopeful, again calm, and King’s head rose to stare at his friend with disbelief clear in his eyes. Finally, though, he let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, and he drew his knees up to his chest as he has finally deflated. The only thing he could do now was cling desperately to the hope Mal spun into the air.

“Then… Fuck. I guess we wait.”

Richard King was never good at feeling things half way. He had a knack for getting overly upset, overly angry, overly sad. It wasn’t his fault entirely, at least. Sometimes it felt like the weight of everyone else’s world was stacking onto his shoulders. When that happened, it only seems fair to cry. So King sat on his car hood and held his face in his hands, tears falling freely as he tried to find his center and calm down, calm down.

The others left. They had to pack, to hide things away, to say goodbye maybe. The only one left with him was his sister, Astrid.

He wasn’t entirely prepared for her arms around him, holding him tight, nor was he ready for the overbearing numbness she was pressing under his skin. Astrid had a strange way of displaying her emotions. She was perhaps the hardest of their group for him to read; her sadness never fully formed in the same way it did with Mal or Aiden. It stunted, and froze, and became something similar to apathy. It was frightening, but during the harder days, where King was too overstimulated to make sense of anything around him, Astrid was like a shock blanket.

“It’s not how we expected to leave Verona behind, is it?” Said Astrid, her laugh a grim echo of the panic still wedged in King’s gut.

King said, “It’s fucked up, Az.” But he remained close, digging his chin gently into her shoulder as he fully embraced his apathetic little sister, “This is fucked. The others– the freshmen, God. Do you think they’re okay?”

“I don’t know.” Astrid responded, brutally honest as ever, “I don’t want to think about it. They–” Her voice wavered, stopped, pausing to collect itself, maybe. King could hear the unuttered word in her heartbeat. She continued, “We can’t worry about it right now; it’s out of our control.”

She gave up so easily. KIng couldn’t stand that quitter in her sometimes.

“We’re going back got them.” Said King, firm in his morals despite the cracking of his tone. He brushed away tears with a stiff flick of the wrist and leaned back enough to meet his sister’s familiar, comforting eyes. “We have to. They trust us. We have to go back for them no matter what.” King stood up, finally, and he felt the weight on his shoulders turn back into air. Everything began to fall back into place again. “We should pack, I guess. If we’re planning on leaving.”

“There’s not much time…” Astrid nodded, though. Her agreement was plable in the air. “There’ll be a chance to make plans or– mourn, I guess– soon, just not now.” She forced a signature smile, one that told him to relax, breathe, don’t think too hard about it, and passed him a tissue. King took it with a huff and blew his nose loudly.

“Don’t say mourn. They’re not dead.”

“Whatever.” Astrid pressed her hand into King’s shoulder, rubbing the goosebumps right away. “Just… Break something if you have to? Give Dad something to remember us by.” King mused her hair roughly, and he couldn’t fight the smirk of approval his sister’s words spurred.

“I’m going to tear this fucking house down, Az. I hope you’re going to do the same. He said, and gave her one last hug before stomping out into the house beyond.

The King’s abode was much like their father; extravagant, rich, shallow. Beautiful artwork and vases and flower pots lined ornately painted walls, filling the main living spaces with a sense of otherness. Walking through the glossy foyer and the unmarred kitchen felt like stepping into some foreign land at times, full of dangers and secrets that even the natives couldn’t fully understand yet. King snuck through the quiet halls as he normally did. His room came first, full of memories and smells he almost felt guilty to leave behind.

What should come with him?

Clothes, of course, a few piles of pants and flannel shirts and band tees. He had about fifteen pairs of shoes, twelve of which he was hesitant to part with, but the buzz in his pocket told him he had no time to fret over objects like these. He chose two pairs of sneakers and a pair of expensive and heavy boots, just in case they wandered across any wild snow storms. Next came important belongings; his crystals (gifted by Astrid), his guitar, his cassette tapes and CDs, his laptop. Every one of these items were important in different ways. Memories, and all that. He knew he couldn’t take them all.

King picked out three cassettes, one made by Aiden and the rest his own, and shoved them into his clothing bag. Five crystals joined them, as well as his old and half-broken Walkman. His duffel bag was filled with his laptop, toiletries, first aid kits, books and pencils and anything else he could steal away that could be used to discredit him. And, once his bags felt full, King began to rip apart his room. He tore into his posters and threw open his drawers and tossed old textbooks straight through his window. Catharsis came every time his fist opened, his voice rang, his home crumbled.

King carried his bangs downstairs and then turned to wreak havoc on the rest of the house. Ornate vases shattered, art burned. King tore apart his father’s work and his mother’s joy as easily as they did to him. He only paused to consider his work in his father’s study. Books surrounded him, warriors carrying Henry King’s hateful rhetoric. His father was the lead author on countless anti-witch books and essays, and King knew, somehow, this was another reason for his incessant abuse.

King walked quietly through the library, striking and dousing matches as he contemplated what to do. His father’s safe was in here as well, looking like a crown jewel in its hidden apartment behind a few fake spines. Money was inside, probably. He had a vague memory of Henry counting bills in the silence of his study, saving them for something. King rested his hand against the cold metal, dragged his finger along the dial, and then began entering codes. Henry’s birthday. His mother’s birthday. Astrid’s birthday. The day the King’s settled in America (April 1st, 1916). The day Knight, their loyal dog, died.

He was surprised when his own birthday was the code needed. The surprise turned to unadulterated delight as he saw stacks upon stacks of green bills clumped up in the center of the safe. King quickly gathered all of the money into his duffel bag, counting out loosley at least a few thousand dollars. It was a fucking Christmas fucking miracle.

The buzz of his cellphone pulled him from his moment of ecstasy. King stared down at the text written by his sister and sucked on his lip, feeling the wrathful tentacles of anxiety curling once more in his stomach,

Was he ready?

No. But, eventually, he would have to be. Lying hopefully now may eventually lead to a real truth.

King lit a match and threw it into the safe, catching the few remaining files and papers in there ablaze. Then, with one, shaking hand, he typed out a reply:

i’m ready

---

Astrid waited a few heartbeats once her brother left before tip-toeing up to her room. ‘Children should be seen and not heard’ was a difficult habit to break. Shutting the door behind her, tears burned at the corners of her eyes. The smell of sage burnt in ceremony less than twelve hours ago hit her like a truck.

By sitting down on her bed she risked being unable to get back up again, and instead merely grazed her knuckles against the numerous woven blankets. Packing. She could only imagine what the others were taking from their bedrooms right now.

She wasn’t frantic enough, that was the problem. Astrid spun around like one of her records left on the turntable, but without the needle-point precision of knowing what would be important a week, a month down the line, she was just as aimless.

Deep breath. One item at a time. What should she take?

Laptop. Small and dainty, adorned with peeling stickers. While some kind Taken-esque tracking device was not outside her father’s M.O., the great Henry King was probably saving that for her college years. That could go with her. On the off-chance they seized her belongings, Astrid didn’t want her online contacts, fellow practitioners and suppliers, to be the slightest bit at risk. What else?

Polaroids. Dozens of them strung up with fairy lights. A handful pinned to the corkboard above her desk, below the whiteboard Message of the Day: ‘Cheer up!’ One flick of the wrist later and they were peeling themselves from the wall, fluttering down to land on the rug. Mal’s goofy grin. Jess, Aiden and Rich down by the river. Alex pouring over books. Charlotte and Nick clinging to each other to squeeze into frame. There would be no photos left behind for them to use on posters or milk cartons. None of her collection, at least.

She collected them all from the floor, shuffling the thick stack into its proper alignment like a deck of cards.

After that, she turned her attention to all the secret places in her room, every loose floorboard and hole in the wall. Astrid pulled out plastic containers of crystals, incense sticks and travel-sized candles from her sock drawer, spiral and leather-bound notebooks alike from under her bed –– everything she needed to assemble an altar on-the-go. They were already portable, easy to move around, easy to hide, which made selecting what to tie up in a black velvet bag was simple.

When she had two tote bags resting by the door, she texted the group:

ready when u guys are

She was not ready.

1) There was no getting around the fact that she had relaxed prematurely, as she had yet to pick out more than a few comfortable t-shirts, a selection of unmentionables and her comfiest pair of jeans. More space was taken up by her threadbare stuffed lion (for nostalgia’s sake!) than essentials. That would have to change in the next five minutes.

2) Could someone ever be ready to leave the home they’d grown up in, the only one they had ever known – and probably would ever know? The suits at school, they hadn’t found her. They might not even be looking for her, in the end, and she could happily live out the last of her eighteen-year term at the King residence and flee to college like a normal teenager.

Astrid’s busy hands paused in the middle of folding a blanket to take in the car with her. What if she didn’t have to go?

---

Picture perfect suburbia was five friends who lived in houses adjacent to each other –– with only one small exception in Jess. Though Aiden lived on the other side of his fence, Mal didn’t stick around to wait for him in the garage. The kitchen door of the King residence swung out behind him and struck the wall hard enough for the glass to wobble; the latch on the gate at the bottom of the garden went untouched; and he made it home with tight lungs and a twinge of phantom pain.

Fumbling with the key left scratches around the metal circumference of the lock. The house was empty, as per usual. Dad would have been at the clinic, and Mom worked part-time at the mayor’s office. Whether that was a bad thing or not remained to be seen. He twisted a lock of hair over and over again, weakening it until a few strands came loose. If he had anything else as support, or anyone to tell him in quiet, calm tones that it was all going to be okay, he wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t, most likely.

But nobody was home, nobody but him. Nobody to see him speed through the house like a bat out of hell, plucking ragged tomes from the bookshelves in the living room where they hid in plain sight. Nobody to apologise to when he lifted up the rug in the bedroom and smudged the white chalk circle underneath with his shirt sleeves until it looked like a scene from Scarface.

Memorabilia littered the house, all of it his. It was the liberty of not having to hide his craft. His parents knew. They knew and they didn’t care. One of his aunts read palms. His uncles on the opposite side had libraries of illicit and illegal texts that they happily loaned out to him whenever they visited for the holidays, with the promise that he not damage the spines. Astrid and King would never understand what that felt like –– Aiden even more so. Hell, they were probably rampaging through their house like a wrecking ball, breaking and burning and ripping everything apart at the seams.

Then again, he might have been doing the same thing, albeit with intentions other than pure mischief. He threw century-old manuals and printed-out PDFs alike into a tote. Whatever he left behind in his parents’ house was dangerous, not to him, but to those he cared for. Each suspect item of magical interest was a smoking gun to dispose of.

By the time he thought he was done, he had a cardboard box full of books and a high-volume hiking bag full of miscellaneous clothes; some of them his, others borrowed from King, Aiden, Jess. A matching sleeping bag, rolled up and strapped to the outside, reminded him of how he hated their one foray into the wilderness, even after he’d spent so much on ‘equipment’. Now was the time to put it to good use, as he imagined the others wouldn’t prepare for the worst case scenario: becoming wild men of the woods, living off the land, and growing chest-length beards to scare off bears.

The dull, hazy blue of his room was a comforting blanket he never wanted to leave. Nobody had checked in except Astrid, so he still had time to do one last thing. Tearing out an unlined page from his math notebook, he folded it in two like a book, addressing it to his parents on the front. It read like this, with every third word scored out and rewritten in a messier hand:

---

When it came to packing, Jess was such a stereotypical girl it wasn’t even funny. Even when she was just sleeping over at Astrid’s for a few days, she was armed with a duffle bag full of clothes, backpack full of makeup, skin care, hair products, several electronic devices and their corresponding chargers. No matter what, Jess was always armed to the teeth with all of the things that she might need in any given situation, and even more of the stuff she would never need.

How was she supposed to stuff her entire life away into a few bags to run away? Briefly, the annoying get-to-know-you question that got asked at every single retreat and team-building exercise flashed in her mind. If you got stranded on an island and could only bring three things, what would you bring? Jess hated that question, it was so stupid. She was always the smartass that answered with some game-breaking thing like ‘a fully furnished luxury cruise ship with autopilot and the GPS coordinates for the nearest city’.

Now she was paying the price for not figuring out what was the most important to her ahead of time.

Jess tore through her room, haphazardly pulling things from shelves, closets and drawers to toss them into the growing pile on her bed. Clothes for every occasion and weather; any item that was even slightly magic-related; books, notebooks and all sorts of stationary; any and all the gifts, trinkets and presents that she’s hoarded over the years… By the time Jess finished with grabbing what she considered the ‘bare minimum’, about half of her room was picked apart and strewn over her bed and floor.

People always told Jess that she was too materialistic and that she had too much stuff. She had always denied it but now the damning evidence was staring at her right in the face. It would probably take a moving truck to fit everything that she wanted to. Even after she went through and dug out every single magical tome, artifact, tools or scribbles and dumped them into her waiting duffle bag (they were the highest priority, even she knew that), the huge pile of her belongings barely subsided.

Jess planted her hands on his hips and pursed her lips. How the hell did people on reality shows pack enough shit for three months in just two suitcases?

---

Aiden crept through the silent house, checking to make sure that he was one-hundred percent alone. He ghosted by every single open door, peeking in just casually enough to explain away his presence as just passing through if someone was inside. Every door was hesitantly knocked upon, with a million excuses waiting on the tip of his tongue just in case someone actually answered.

He did a sweep of the house once, twice, thrice. Checking, double-checking and triple-checking, until he finally could assure his racing heart that yes, no one was home. Even with that reassurance forced to the forefront of his mind, Aiden ran upstairs two steps at a time and locked his bedroom door firmly behind him. Unnecessary, perhaps but it was a habit and a comfort thing at this point.

The only time Aiden ever dared to even bring his magical belongings out in his room was when the door was locked and bolted, and all of the curtains were drawn. His brother had the disruptive tendency to barge into his room whenever he pleased, and his parents never really respected the “knock before entering” thing that they had instilled in him harshly for years.

With practiced ease, Aiden rolled up the rug on the floor to reveal the one floorboard that he had pried loose years ago. He traced a rounded symbol onto the wooden panel not to cast a spell, but as a passcode to remove the board. It was a simple protection charm that was surprisingly difficult to cast — Mal and Aiden had spent a week putting their heads together, attempting to figure out how it worked.

Everything that held any sort of importance to Aiden was buried here, far from the reaches of his family. It wasn’t just the well-worn spiral notebooks that Aiden had filled with notes, experimental spells, observations and even some feelings (they were quickly scrawled out with pen), the bundles of incense, the small pocket knife or the small handful of gemstones he had accumulated over the years that was hidden away here. The misshapen failed prototype of a mug that Astrid had so graciously given to him; the small walkman that was obscure and outdated in this day and age, but Aiden kept it around for King and his vintage tastes; the binder full of magical cocktail recipes that he had managed to scrape together from various resources that he had gathered as a gift to Mal; all the tarot cards that Jess declared she didn’t want and dumped it all on him; they were all in here too.

It only took a few minutes to scoop them all and carefully place them into his reasonably sized suitcase. Shirts went in next, carefully wrapped around the more breakable objects he had. Aiden didn’t have much to his name that he cared about, and it only took about ten minutes to pack up the essentials — everything else were things he was eager to leave behind.

After dragging his suitcase and bags downstairs and wreaking havoc in the immaculate house by clumsily knocking things over with his luggage and not bothering to pick them up — take that mom — Aiden found himself in the garage to retrieve some things from his car. A car charger, some cash he hid in the compartments, auxiliary cord... They were all tossed into the front pocket of his backpack.

Something wasn't right. Just as he turned to leave, Aiden pivoted around again to glance at the garage with a frown. There was nothing he could pinpoint as off, but something was different. Something familiar, but something that shouldn’t be here. The garage was silent, but it was almost as if there was some sort of hum in the air, something that he knew well something like—

Something like magic.

Aiden’s brow knit together — no one else in his family practiced magic, he was sure of that. But that energy in the air, it was unmistakable. Aiden lived it, practiced it, breathed it day in and day out, there was no way he would get it wrong. With his hand outstretched, he walked towards the empty area where the magic tingled the most in the air.

His foot knocked by a small projector-looking device on the ground, and the jig was up. As the device clattered away, an old yellow van that looked like it was straight from a 60s magazine revealed itself, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. In awe, Aiden tentatively placed his hand on the dusty surface of the van.

It was magic, he was sure of it. It was old, it had seen better days, but magical energy was humming under his fingers, and the small device couldn’t have been charged with this much magic.

A magical van hidden behind some sort of cloaking device powered by magic.

Guys, you’ll never guess what I found.

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