1 WILLEM Sir?" I look up from the book in my lap, annoyed that one of the servants has bothered to disturb me in my study. Putting aside the treatise on the casting benefits of various types of dried beetles as spell components, I eye my housekeeper. "Is there a problem?" She gestures feebly toward the front of the house. "It's happening again." My annoyance disappears immediately, replaced with surging anger and frustration. I jump to my feet, racing out of my study and down the hall. "Where?" "M-mailbox," she calls after me. "Dorothy found a dead bird in your mailbox." I storm out the front door and into the neighborhood. My house is in a little suburban community of other witches and warlocks, because it's easiest to have neighbors that won't call the police on me at all hours. I scan my lawn and the driveway. Nothing seems amiss, but the mailbox is hanging open. Biting the inside of my cheek, I manage to keep a bland expression on my face as I stalk toward the curb. One quick glance inside the mailbox shows that Dorothy did not lie. There's a dead dove inside, nestled atop my mail. That weasel. I knew he'd come after me, especially after I'd just stolen his prized library. It's an affront that can't go unrecognized. Still, to frighten my housekeeping staff feels petty. He's lucky they're well aware I'm a warlock . . . even if they're not aware that I'm a stifled one. I pull out the dove, irritated. The breast of the dead bird has been painted with runes, and I'm sure if I opened it up and examined the contents of its stomach, I'd find laurel leaves and a pebble from a hero's grave. It's a specific sort of spell that my nemesis is casting, one designed to break my wards and make my house vulnerable to others. This isn't the first time that my old master Stoker has tried this sort of stunt. Ever since I left his service, he's tried to have me killed. However, it is the first time he's cast a curse at my current house. The house I'd had built to my specifications ten years ago, after I'd been forced to move from the last one because Stoker had found me again. He wants to make my life hell. And since I can't cast to protect myself, the only thing I can do is avoid him. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have stolen his books. Ten years ago, I thought moving would solve my problems. My enemies would no longer have my address, and I'd finish the rest of my probationary period out under the radar. It's clear that Stoker won't rest until he finds me, and it doesn't matter how many times I move. The man's held a grudge for 250 years. Of course he's going to attack me while I'm vulnerable. Well, no more. I'm not retreating. I'm done hiding. I made the first move, so I shouldn't be surprised that he's retaliating. Still, a dead dove is a little . . . over the top. I take the dead bird inside with me and hand it to the housekeeper, who makes a sound of protest. "Get rid of that." "But, sir-" "I'll be in my study." I head for the bathroom, wash my hands, and then walk back to my study, locking the door behind me. I want to go down to my laboratory, but I never go when the help staff is here. No one can know about the secret door I've had built that leads down to my lab and my trove of stolen spell books. For now I have to wait. I take a deep breath, thinking through everything I need to get done. New wards around the house-that's the first priority. An obfuscation spell to hide my address from anyone looking it up online. Each spell will wear me out for at least a week. All of them together and I'll be out of action for well over a month. Without a familiar to act as my power source, I'll be forced to rely on my own limited pool of energy. That means everything will take twice as long to cast and will leave me vulnerable. I can't pay another witch or warlock to do it for me, because they've been forbidden to assist in my casting. It's part of my "punishment." Only ten more years to go. The thought is a dismal one. Maybe I should start out with scrying, I decide. See what exactly Stoker plans- A loud chirp echoes in the room. My eyes snap open, and I look at the "mailbox" atop the mantel of the fireplace. An envelope is inside, delivered by mystical means. It's the only way my old master-my other old master, the one that's not trying to kill me-communicates with me. I stride over toward it and tear the wax seal off the back of the envelope, reading the contents of the letter. Stoker is on the move. Be aware. -Abernathy I crumple it and toss the notice to the ground. "Thanks for nothing, but you're a bit late." 2 PENNY There's nothing better than a well-established routine. I love knowing what to expect. I love everyone playing their individual part, and watching it all come together. Maybe that's me romanticizing even the mundane aspects of life, but the best kind of progress happens when the system works like a well-oiled machine. That's why I don't mind the weekly meeting of the Society of Familiars. Some people might find it boring, but I love it. Well, most nights I love it. The current president of our society is . . . a bit difficult to listen to for long periods of time, if I'm being honest. I stifle a yawn as Derek Chapman bangs a gavel on the meeting table and then drones on. "Any other news to discuss before the society?" It's silent. "Anyone? Anyone?" I glance out at the gathered audience. There are twenty people here tonight. There should be all fifty of our local members out there, but a lot of them lose faith and stop attending, or they come around just enough to renew their dues and then disappear again for another year. I'm doing my best to make coming to society meetings more fun, but sometimes it feels like an uphill battle since no one else is putting in effort. I don't blame them for feeling down about things. It's hard to keep being positive when year after year, there's no opportunity to apprentice. But I believe in positivity, and I'm sure our situation will change at some point. We just have to keep on. "Anyone?" Derek drones out again. Derek doesn't think he's part of the problem with the Fam, as we call the Society of Familiars. It's an ironic name, because none of us are actually familiars. We're the pool of candidates in waiting to become familiars. We're here because we have the bloodlines and the inclination, and we're just waiting for a witch or a warlock to come along with an opening for an apprentice. Until that glorious moment happens, all we have is the Fam. And Derek isn't exactly a dynamic leader. He's dry and boring. He reads in a monotone from manuals instead of learning the information and speaking about it from the heart. He hyperfixates on tiny things about the society, like dues and attendance, and focuses less on the people themselves and what they bring to the group. As a result, our attendance numbers keep dwindling. You don't have to attend all the meetings to be in the society, of course, but as someone that loves to be part of the group, it's hard for me to watch everyone peel away under Derek's lead. "This is your opportunity to speak up," Derek continues in the same colorless voice. He rubs his nose rather wetly, examines his fingers, and then peers out at the group. "Might I remind you that attendance and joyful participation will be considered by some warlocks and witches as a sign of enthusiasm." Ugh. Please. There's a hierarchy to our group. Names are put on the list in order of how long we've been waiting and rarely get shuffled. The warlock or witch then pulls from the top candidates. It doesn't have anything to do with "joyful participation." That's just Derek being, well, Derek. I raise my hand and bounce to my feet, clutching my notes. Time to save the day. "I just wanted to say to please remember to bring your cookies for next week's baking swap! All cookies, cupcakes, and brownies are welcome, but remember that if you use known allergens or rare spell components in your baking, to please label your goods accordingly." I glance around the room, smiling at everyone as warmly as I can. "I also wanted to get volunteers for the car-wash fundraiser for Abby this weekend, and a reminder that several of us are going out for drinks after this. Everyone is of course invited!" "Thank you, Penny," Derek replies, his monotone drowning the shot of fun I just tried to inject. "Any other familiar business?" No one speaks up. There's a polite cough in the back. "Then I'd like to close the meeting-" Derek begins, lifting his gavel like he's a judge. "Wait." Someone in the audience stands up. It's Cody, a good friend of mine. We're about the same age and in the same situation-as in, we're both from a long line of familiars, and yet we have no one to serve. "When are we opening up membership again?" I look over at Derek, who frowns. "We're not." In the audience, Cody looks unhappy with this bit of information. "Why not?" Derek blinks. He's elderly, and for a moment, I wonder if he's forgotten where he's at, and my heart squeezes with pity. Poor old thing. But then he turns to me, a hint of confusion on his face. "Why not?" I have to answer? I stammer for a moment, then try to frame it in as positive a light as possible. "Right now we're focusing on our existing members to give them the best opportunity for familiarship possible." "So in other words, we're not letting in new people because it'd make things too competitive?" Cody crosses his arms, his pose challenging. "Doesn't that seem a little unfair?" I look over at Derek, but he's still watching me, so I bite back a sigh of frustration and keep a bright smile on my face. I shouldn't be surprised that Derek is making me do part of his job. I kinda end up doing it anyhow. "Membership being open or closed is voted upon at the annual meeting. If everyone feels really strongly about opening up for new applicants, we can take a vote then. Or you can send a formal request to have it added to a future agenda-" Cody waves a disgusted hand at me and sits back down. Oh. Well then. I keep smiling and look over at Derek. I guess it'd be impolite to point out that not only did Derek propose that we close enrollment, but he's supposed to be the one enforcing it, not me. Then again, if he's having trouble remembering where he's at, I guess I shouldn't be surprised he's forgetting this, too. Derek bangs the gavel. "Business concluded for this evening. See you all next week." "Drinks at the Alehouse around the corner," I call out cheerily. At least now it's time for my favorite part of meeting nights. "We'd love to see you guys there!" Despite my warm invitation, less than half the group migrates over to the Alehouse. I buy a few rounds of drinks to encourage people to stick around, and sip my amaretto sour as my friends talk about nothing in particular. Darcy is complaining about her job at a bookstore, and Megan just broke up with her boyfriend. Nathan asks if my job is hiring, but he always asks that. We're never hiring for my part of the job, unfortunately. There's a guy that works weekends at the front, but for spell component fulfillment? It's just me. I get why he asks, though. Of all of us in the Society of Familiars, I'm the only one that has regular contact with any witches or warlocks. The rest of them just sit back and . . . wait. I head for the bar once my drink is gone, ready to order another round. To my surprise, I run into Derek. He's sitting at the bar instead of with the rest of us, and I feel a twinge of pity. I put a hand on his back and tap it to let him know of my presence. "I didn't know you were here! Why didn't you join us?" He waves an irritated hand at me. "No one wants to sit with an old man like me." Oh dear. Derek's words are slurred. I frown at the cluster of empty beer glasses in front of him. "You're not old," I say cheerfully. "You're just distinguished." "I'm seventy-eight." He leans over toward me. "And I never, not once, served a witch." "Because you've made your life all about the Society of Familiars, right?" Derek moved here recently from out of state, and ever since, he's been determined to be involved in our local group. I'm thrilled that someone's showing interest other than me, but I just wish he were a more dynamic leader. But Derek just shakes his head. "No one wants an old familiar. I'm never gonna get to serve." He peers over at me through beer-glazed eyes. "You're gonna age out soon, too." That stings. Ouch. "I just turned thirty. There's plenty of time for me yet." "Yes, but there's always someone younger," Derek says in a lofty voice. "You're like me. The society is gonna be your life." He nods sagely and then taps my arm. "Play your cards right and you can be where I am someday." I smile politely and grab the tray of drinks from the bartender the moment he sets them on the bar, practically flinging down my tip. Somehow, I manage to keep smiling as I make my way over to the table again, even though Derek's words are ringing in my ears like a death knell. The society is gonna be your life. Do I even want that? I'm here because I want to learn witchcraft. I'm here because I want to serve as a familiar. I want to grow in my own power and live hundreds and hundreds of years, and I can do that only if a witch or warlock takes me under their wing and teaches me. But the problem is that because most witches are so long lived, they don't like swapping out apprentices. They don't like change. So anyone that apprentices can expect to be serving for a few decades at least before being taught to go out on their own. Excerpted from What the Hex by Jessica Clare All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
