I couldn’t move. Part of me wanted to collapse. Part of me wanted to hit all of them. Brenda was supposed to be safe here—and now she was gone. Heat rose in my chest for the first time in a long time. I reined it in. I didn’t fake a smile this time.
“We have to go find her.”
“No, Lonnie—you have to stay.” Reidlinger’s voice left no room. “Curtis may be hunting you, and you’re safe here. I have Brenda’s emotional scent. I can track her.” She rolled her eyes back; her body shuddered and convulsed. She dropped to her knees. “She took a horse. Heading toward Salem.”
Brad, Morgan, and Krystal helped her up, and we hurried downstairs. In the carriage house, a coach waited with three horses, each draped in blue sheets to hide their markings. Reidlinger expected me to stay as the barn doors opened up the hill. The coach clattered out. I ran after them but kept to the shadows as the doors thudded shut.
“Master?” Oya appeared at my side. “What are you doing? You heard her. We should stay. I don’t want to run into Curtis—or Andy—again.”
“Brenda is our responsibility,” I said. “And I think I figured out the pattern with the time stuff. You can read my mind.”
She nodded, lifted her hand, and summoned the wind. It swirled around us, a tight cyclone that lifted and flung us skyward. We rocketed over the Blue Order carriage and toward the largest cluster of rooftops—had to be Salem.
“It worked, Master. Instead of you holding on to me—”
“I got the idea watching Patrick and his servant, Betsy. If they can fly with a force field, we can fly on your weather. Also—I never noticed before, but I can feel Brenda’s signature. I can’t explain it. But I can explain your wind.”
“No need. It’s in your thoughts,” she said. “The wind can hold us if I focus. And yes—I can sense Brenda too. It’s like how we appear to April in the present.”
“This time travel pulled me first to Bordentown. The next morning I met Brenda. I couldn’t save her from Andy’s attack, but the Blue Order did. She was safe.”
“Then we appeared to April in Lymper,” Oya said. “We helped—but she still struggled with Daniel and his mom.”
“And once she stabilized, we were yanked back here—back to Brenda.”
“But Master, she wasn’t in danger.”
“I know. But my physical body’s here. So when April needed us again…”
“We ended up saving her from drowning. Once she was safe, Brenda ran.”
“And now we’re back.” I exhaled. “I can’t explain it, but Brenda and April are linked to our time jumps. When one is in trouble…”
“We appear—maybe not exactly to them,” she finished.
“Right. I think it depends on the threat. It’s almost like the ability sees ahead—like it knew April would meet Laura and Nicole.”
“Master, we didn’t return to the present until April told your mom you’re alive,” Oya said, eyes narrowing as she kept us aloft. “But here’s the thing: if April was being kidnapped when we came back to the past the second time, Brenda wasn’t in danger. Why didn’t we go straight to stop the drowning?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t get to my mom’s house; I kept being pulled to April. She’s definitely a focus. Maybe Brenda triggers in an emotional crisis, and April triggers in immediate danger. And I kept ending up near Brenda each time in the past…”
“I think it’s your guilt toward Brenda—and, like you said, April’s danger is immediate.” Oya’s gaze flicked. “But if this ability responds to who you care about—why not your parents? You think about them constantly.”
“I don’t—” The trouble-seeker sensation flooded in. “It’s happening.” Oya started to fade with me as light swallowed the world. Each jump came faster. This time, my body tugged along for the ride. The numbness, the iron taste, the tang of metal—all of it. My body went translucent, but it didn’t feel like astral drift. Darkness rushed back, and my eyes adjusted.
We stood in the middle of a town square. People stared. Fingers pointed. I heard the word I hate—the N-word—spat more than once. Wooden signs around us read: Salem.
Oya stood at my shoulder, equally disoriented. We hadn’t just appeared in the open; we’d appeared Black and unaccompanied in a place famous for hanging “witches.” We went back-to-back.
“This isn’t good,” Oya said, calm in the way you are when humans are easier than mages.
“It’s not.”
The crowd pressed closer—until a familiar voice cut through.
“Stop!” Brenda rushed forward, waving her arms. “They’re mine! My slaves!”
Murmurs rippled. Men raised muskets. Women held torches behind them. That escalated fast, I thought.
“I told you witches are still around!” an old man shouted, torch held high. “Hang ’em and burn ’em like when I was a boy!” He had to be in his eighties, and the hate in his voice felt like a noose. My heart thundered. Fernanda couldn’t control Ifrit. I didn’t want to unleash Oya on villagers. Last time was self-defense. This time, it might mean killing to survive.
“Those ain’t her niggers!” another man yelled.
“Them witch niggas!”
They kept coming. Heat from the torches licked my face; smoke scraped my throat.
“No!” Brenda begged, dropping to her knees.
“She’s one of ’em witches too!”
“And if she is?” A new voice rolled across the square—measured, powerful.
An older gentleman stepped around the statue penning us in—tall and almost skeletal, with fine purple silk trousers tucked into brown leather boots, a white shirt beneath a purple waistcoat. A long-oval head, graying blond hair combed to one side. The crowd fell back a step.
“You— you own them slaves, master?” the ringleader crackled, spitting toward Brenda. “Cuz if you do, you’ll burn with ’em. I don’t care if they belong to you.”
The gentleman snapped his fingers. A white boy about my age emerged to his left. His outfit was a sleek, period twist on a modern ninja—dark purple waistcoat, high-collared shirt, fitted breeches, knee-high boots, sash at his waist. Black hair pulled into a neat queue. Brown eyes with orange pupils. A master. Level two. A whip hung at his hip, and a purple bandana wrapped his neck. He looked more curious than scared.
A girl followed—taller than the boy, slim and poised, about my age. She wore a deep red gown with a structured bodice, long fitted sleeves, a full skirt, and a black corset overlay that emphasized her lean frame. Subtle gloves. A decorative fan. Orange pupils.
“Burn?” the gentleman said lightly. “You humans and your fires and pitchforks. Let me tell you something: they are witches—like my two protégés.” He gestured at the pair. “Robert prefers killing with kindness. As one of you can see.”
A man in the mob dropped to his knees, clutching his throat. Vomit spilled, cutting off his breath. The veins in his eyes cracked red. He convulsed three times, then went still. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth into the bile. Robert yawned and stretched. A ripple shimmered above the corpse, taking the shape of a woman. She materialized: brown hair in an updo with a simple ornament; a white tunic that glowed; a golden bodice; a layered skirt to the knee. Plain features, dangerous aura. She walked with swaying hips and touched Robert’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Medea,” he said in a clipped, polite British tone.
“And Amye—well, Amye’s been your mayor for months,” the gentleman went on. Amye lifted the back of her hand to her face and slid it down. Her features shifted into the mob leader’s—then back again. A woman stood at her side: striking red hair, armor, and a heavy broadsword resting on her right. Strong, intimidating, and deeply sad eyes. Two men in the crowd jolted, their heads thudding after their bodies. Blood dripped from the woman’s blade.
“Well done, Joan,” Amye said, Irish lilt bright and cold. “They never see us coming.”
“Yes,” the gentleman said, pacing behind the crowd. “You simple townsfolk try to kill what you don’t understand. Robert watched his family being murdered because someone called his mother a witch. Amye’s brother lost an arm and a leg.” He looked down at them. They dropped to one knee. Their servants knelt too.
He showed no regret—only pride. His posture reminded me of black-and-white films of World War II dictators. The mob’s courage curdled. Some men shook. Some stood tall and shouted. Dark stains spread at a few groins.
Amye and Robert didn’t move. Their smiles widened, too many teeth with every step the gentleman took.
“You look at us mages as if we were the devils in your little bibles,” he said, voice swelling word by word. “Psychics, mediums—every name you’ve dragged from scripture.”
The crowd tried to bolt, but some froze in place.
“Well, don’t fear me,” he said with a curl of sarcasm. “Fear the god you’re about to meet.” He raised his arms. Embers sprouted, flickering in the air, then drifted toward the crowd, clustering like cattle. Those who were frozen jolted free and tried to back away, but the embers found them and leapt.
Within seconds, they were engulfed. Flames piled people on people. Flesh sizzled in the air. The smell of urine, feces, and vomit slapped my face. They reached for help, but an invisible ring held them in.
“YOU DAMN—AAAA—” the old ringleader choked. He alone stood untouched. Someone grabbed his ankles.
“You damn what?” the gentleman snapped. His body twitched left, then returned to the center. The fires erupted higher at the last word. Smoke rolled. Doors slammed as the town vanished indoors. Bibles clutched behind panes.
“See, it’s time you learned,” he said softly. “Mages aren’t figments of your ‘holy father.’ We are more than that.” He smiled. “We are the future.”
“Future my as—” the old man gagged. He grabbed his throat and glared at Robert.
“I promise you’re not being poisoned,” Robert said.
“Nor by me,” Amye added.
The old man convulsed, trying to sink to his knees. Light brightened in his throat, pulsing like a firefly. Smoke seeped between his fingers as his neck flushed scarlet.
“What… did you do to me?” he rasped. The fight in his eyes flickered. Tears hissed to steam near his glowing mouth. He hacked—and a small, fiery hand forced its way between his teeth.
“Oh, what does it matter now?” the gentleman murmured. “Who will save you—your Jesus? Your God? No. They’ve forsaken you for your crimes against evolution. We are Moses parting the seas. Samson toppling pillars. Everything you revere about God—yet you chose to murder us. So now the good book’s yours to keep.” He smiled. “And I… am your hell.”
The fiery hands pried the jaw open. A flaming head followed, squeezing past bone. The body slumped, deflating as the creature crawled out, burning and smoking. It stood—a skeleton of flame—and turned to me. I swallowed my tears. I wanted to run, but my legs locked. Brenda went catatonic. Ifrit and Oya appeared at our sides, ready to fight. More flaming skeletons clawed out behind the first.
The gentleman lifted the chin of the first one. It knelt before him.
“My body! What did you do?” a familiar voice screamed—from the burning skull.
The last screams of the townsfolk guttered out. Charred husks lay tangled. The gentleman surveyed the line of newly made horrors.
“Oh, I gave you eternal life,” he said. “Breath of life, made fire. Fire that I control.” He tilted his head. “Tell me—do you have children?”
The skull’s flames wavered as it tried to nod.
“No,” the dead man’s human voice croaked from within.
The gentleman laughed. “You still don’t understand. You are mine. Do you have grandchildren?”
“Yes,” the voice said at last, unwilling and obedient. “All live with me. My two boys, their wives, and my five grandchildren—over there.”
The fire-thing lifted an arm toward a low colonial house and the farm behind it. A family stared, frozen with horror. My gut knew what was next. He would make them burn their own. I looked to Oya. We both wanted to fight, but she and Ifrit hesitated—scarred by Hercules and Andy. Would rain even matter against this?
“What was your name?” the gentleman asked, standing over the flame-body.
“William,” came the answer.
“William, pleased to meet you. I’m Curtis,” he said, turning to all of us. He clapped once, cheerful. “Oh—almost forgot. Go burn your house down, William. With your children and grandchildren inside.”
The fiery doubles lurched toward the homes.
My heart pounded. Oya finally stirred. This was Curtis—the same one Reidlinger had warned me about. He made Andy look merciful. Even if we fought, we were outmatched. But there was no other path.
“Master,” Oya breathed.
“Ah. Brenda, is it?” Curtis strolled up, eyes on her. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Brenda? Not me?” I asked. Reidlinger thought he wanted me. I thought he wanted me.
Curtis smiled. “My dear boy—why would I want you?”