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Bo

My feet stumble as I trip over that word.

Experiments .

“What does that mean?” I ask the question slowly, not sure I want the answer while also needing to know.

There’s an urge in my chest to learn every detail about Mor Shelly.

To tuck the facts away like little treasures.

All the more precious if the pieces of knowledge come from her pain because her sharing them means I have some of her trust along with them.

That’s something I’ve realized about Georgiana.

She trusted that I would do anything, be anything for her.

But she didn’t give truly deep parts of herself to me.

Only some of her truth, but not all.

Not like Mor is doing right now, in this grocery store as she stares at yogurts.

“My parents are both witches. Strong ones. They are fascinated by spells.” Her throat bobs with a hard swallow.

“If they hadn’t been born with magic, I know they would have become sorcerers, stealing it from any mythic they could find.”

“How do you know that?” I rasp the question, not asking because I doubt her, but because there’s a sickening note behind the surety in her voice.

Mor flicks her eyes to me, then away.

“Because they had plenty of power, but they still used a leeching spell on me.” She straightens her shoulders, then reaches for a four-pack of strawberry-flavored Greek yogurt.

“I was twelve when I got my powers. It took me two years to figure out how to build shields. After that, they couldn’t take anything, but only because it seemed like I had nothing left to give. I trained my powers to present as dormant. They thought they had drained me.”

I’m going to be sick.

My mother left me.

My father ignored me.

But neither of them used me.

“Mor—”

“I was stupid.”

“No—”

“Yes, I was. Stupid and selfish. Because I convinced myself I was the only one at risk. That Broderick and Anthony and A-Ame”—her voice cracks on her sister’s name—“were safe. That they would only leech from me.”

“They did it to all of you?”

She nods.

“Male witches take longer to age into their powers. But Ame, she was just a little girl, and they … have you noticed how her skin looks sunburned?”

I nod, recalling the redness on the youngest Shelly’s arms. I figured it was because she liked to be outside and forgot to apply sunscreen.

“That’s this.” Mor fingers the locket around her neck.

The little piece of jewelry holds the red powder she coated her hands in before reading my emotions.

“A special concoction for us Shelly witches. Helps to strengthen and focus our powers.”

“How …” I’m not even sure what I’m asking.

How does that red powder connect to reddened skin?

“They were bathing her in it. Scrubbing it into her skin. Trying to cause her powers to manifest before puberty.” Mor lets out a chuckle with no humor.

“An experiment. And it worked. She was exhibiting magic really early.”

“That’s sick.”

Mor nods and tucks the locket into the collar of her shirt.

“When I found out, I told them the same. Screamed it. My mother … she just waved her hand like I was a fly. Told me to stop being dramatic.” Mor tucks a wayward red curl behind her ear.

“My siblings, me—I don’t think we registered in their minds as individual beings. To my parents, we were simply extensions of themselves. To be used how they wanted.”

“What happened? Between you and them?”

“When I found out what was happening with Ame, I swore a blood oath that I would sabotage all my parents’ spells if they experimented on her or the twins again. It was the only threat I knew they’d care about. So, they stopped, and when I was sixteen, I emancipated myself, and I took her and my brothers away.”

“They let you go?”

“I’m not sure they noticed. They didn’t fight me about it. They aren’t the fighting kind. They’re like fucked-up magical scientists.”

“Have you seen them since you left?”

Mor shrugs.

“A few times. Not because I wanted to. But Ame and I had to go back to the town they lived in because a friend was storing my overflow of books while we traveled to find more. They didn’t attack us or threaten us. They seemed almost amused. Like we were a set of Pinocchios, wandering around the world, telling everyone we were real boys.”

“They sound like sociopaths.”

Mor nods and silently leads the way to the checkout.

As we load our groceries onto the belt and the clerk scans everything, I can’t help studying the witch.

She might not have been trapped in a statue form for years, but it sounds like she knows exactly how it feels to be helpless and unable to escape.

Maybe that’s why she’s so quick to assist me.

I’m both grateful to her and agitated at the thought that Mor might only want to be around me because we have similar trauma.

Could the pretty witch ever choose to get close to me for no other reason than she enjoys my company?

A mortified blush floods the back of my neck at my neediness, only growing deeper when I realize Mor is handing over her credit card to pay for all the food, including mine.

“No, wait.” I shove my hand into my back pocket and tug out some of the few crumpled bills to my name.

I thrust them toward the grocery worker, who accepts the payment with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to, Bo,” Mor says.

“I can cover these.”

“I want to pay my own way,” I mutter, my voice gruff and face hot with embarrassment.

“Fair enough.”

She still hands over her card because the money I had wasn’t sufficient to cover everything in our cart.

Food prices have also crept up while I was frozen.

At least I’m getting a paycheck from the library now.

Mor and I stay quiet to her car, silently unloading our bags into the trunk, and I roll the cart all the way back to the front of the store, wanting to give her a moment away from me before the car ride back to the library.

When I climb into the passenger seat, she doesn’t immediately pull out of the lot, instead turning to face me.

“I’m sorry, Bo. I kind of unloaded on you back there. That’s not something I normally do.”

I blink at her, surprised by her apology.

“You don’t?”

Her lips twist in a grimace.

“No. I only meant to tell you my parents suck, but then”—she flares her fingers in front of her mouth—“the rest came spilling out. You’re just … really easy to talk to. But that doesn’t mean I should make you my therapist.”

“I’m glad you told me. I want to know things about you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I want to know everything.” Whoa.

Slow down.

Mor tilts her head, studying me, and oddly enough, I’m reminded of the raccoon I keep running into on my nightly walks.

The furry creature tilts its head at the exact same angle, only the raccoon is cute while Mor is gorgeous.

“You know, I think I feel the same way.” Her smile is small and a touch confused.

“About you. I think I want to know everything about you.”

I clear my throat and tug on the back of my neck, the skin hot under my palm.

“There’s not much.”

And why would she care?

The beautiful, smart witch has much more interesting topics to fill her time, I’m sure.

Mor shrugs. “Short stories are still stories.” She starts the car.

“Will you tell me more? About yourself?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you’d like to share.”

I ponder that as she pulls onto the two-lane road that’ll take us back through Folk Haven and toward Lake Galen.

“How about the first vacuum cleaner I fixed?”

She huffs out a breath that sounds like a curious laugh.

“A vacuum cleaner?”

I offer her a hesitant smile.

“Yeah. I, uh, I’ve always liked vacuum cleaners.”

Mor’s smile widens to a grin, and I’m relieved to read only delight and no mockery in the expression.

And a shiver brushes down my spine at her next husky words. “Tell me.”