Chapter Text
“Attention, New York! Tonight’s storm is expected to be stronger than your average late-summer thunderstorm. Stay safe out there—and if you don’t, Spider-Man will probably do it for you. As for the—”
With a sharp snap of my fingers, the news anchor’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. Rolling my eyes, I listen to the heavy drum of the rain against the glass. Well, what a surprise. It’s raining. Again.
Buried wrist-deep in dough, my hands are cramping. Instead of drying out, the mixture is stubbornly clinging to my skin, morphing into an impossible, gluey mess. Gritting my teeth, I scrape the sides of the bowl way harder than necessary, blowing a stray strand of hair out of my face. Above me, heavy, restless footsteps thud across the ceiling. Is the attic guy pacing again? I swear, that guy never sleeps. Tuning out the muffled thumps, I let my gaze drop back to Aunt Penelope’s recipe book for what feels like the five-hundredth time.
60 g Moon Flour.
30 g softened butter.
20 g Fairy Sugar.
½ egg (or one small egg).
½ tsp cinnamon.
A pinch of ground star anise.
A tiny pinch of dried rosemary.
A pinch of sage.
1 tsp silver bee honey.
1 drop of Inkdew.
2 finely chopped lemon balm leaves…
Exactly how I made it. So why the hell won’t this stupid dough dry out?
My fingertips are crying for mercy, and the dull ache radiating up my lower back definitely isn’t age-related. Seriously, which witch came up with the brilliant idea that we get to cook with magic… but have to make the magical ingredients ourselves? Gripping the edge of the counter, I take a slow, deep breath to keep from screaming. I need these cookies. Bombing tomorrow’s exam means repeating the semester, and there is absolutely no way I’m tacking another six months onto my studies. Okay. Breathe, Davina.
“Yeah… this isn’t going to work.”
A tiny, squeaky voice suddenly pipes up beside my mixing bowl.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I roll my eyes for the ninety-seventh time tonight. “Move it, Pumpkin.”
Instead of stepping away, the black cat plants one tiny paw on the rim of the bowl and taps the ceramic. “You forgot the tiny pinch of crystal quartz powder.” Her voice drips with feline disappointment.
My annoyance, however, rapidly morphs into the biggest grin I’ve managed since lunchtime. “You’re right! Damn it!” Yanking my dough-covered hands free, I practically dive into the open apothecary cabinet. Crystal quartz… Come on… Chamomile. Nope. Crystal rose. Also nope.
“Ah! There!” Snatching up the pale pink powder, I sprinkle a generous pinch over the sticky mess before planting an exaggerated kiss right on Pumpkin’s fluffy little head. “Thanks, Pump.”
She answers with nothing but a vibrating, satisfied purr.
Shoving my hands back into the bowl, I start kneading again. Instantly, the magic takes hold. The stubborn dough warms beneath my palms, smoothing out and binding together until it’s perfectly dry and pliable. Leaning back, I wipe my brow with the back of my wrist. This is exactly why I never bake. Well… unless magic is involved.
Once the dough reaches the right consistency, I stir it exactly twelve times clockwise and quietly recite:
Pages read, the words now known, Let their wisdom find my soul. Rest within my heart and mind, Clear until the morning light.
Shaping the mixture into three large balls, I flatten them slightly against the parchment paper. Last but not least, I press a rune into the center of each cookie with my ring finger. A faint, silver light pulses outward from my skin, sinking deep into the dough and sealing the spell. Into the oven they go.
Holy shit. That was exhausting.
One glance around my kitchen is enough to make my stomach turn. Flour coats the counters like fresh snow, and sticky bowls pile high in the sink. Shaking my head immediately, I refuse to deal with it the mortal way.
With a sharp snap of my fingers and a quick, “Ordin,” the air shifts. A warm, lavender-scented breeze sweeps through the room, lifting the flour into a neat little dust devil before tossing it into the trash. The dirty bowls stack themselves seamlessly into the sink with a sparkling clink.
Over on the couch, Pumpkin and Salem are staring at me with matching expressions of utter, judgmental disapproval.
“Oh please, you two lazy cats have it easy.” I pout, crossing my arms. Witches aren't supposed to use magic for every little daily chore, but personally? I couldn’t care less. I mean, hello? I’m a witch. Why exactly wouldn’t I take advantage of the perks?
I do shower the normal way, though. Mostly because I can’t wait to curl up on the couch afterward, wrapped in the lingering scent of vanilla and lavender, and continue watching Supernatural. Perfect evening.
Or so I think.
Before I even reach the bathroom, a deafening BOOM shatters the quiet of the night.
The floorboards violently shudder beneath my feet, rattling the glass in the windowpanes. Dropping my towel, I freeze. My heart spikes straight into my throat, the rush of blood in my ears suddenly drowning out the steady beat of the rain. On the couch, Pumpkin and Salem let out synchronized hisses, their fur puffed up into spiky black and orange silhouettes.
“…Okay,” I whisper into the heavy silence that follows. Weird.
Every survival instinct I possess is screaming at me to stay put. Unfortunately, minding my own business has never been my strong suit. Before my brain can fully process the adrenaline flooding my veins, my feet are already carrying me to the living room window.
Squinting through the rain-streaked glass, my breath catches.
Webs. An absolutely ridiculous amount of thick, white webs strung between the buildings.
“What the hell?“
For one horrifying second, my brain immediately jumps to giant spider, and sheer panic shoots down my spine. Then reality sets in. Right. I live in New York. And Spider-Man exists. Honestly, I think New York is the only city in the world where you can look out your window, see a building-sized spider web, and your first reaction is, Yeah… checks out.
But then what was that explosion?
I don’t spend more than half a second thinking about it. Shoving my bare feet into my slippers, I sprint out the door and rush downstairs.
Leaving the warm, lavender-scented safety of my apartment building, the storm hits me like a physical blow. Freezing rain lashes against my skin, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and wet asphalt burns my nose. The street is eerily deserted, bathed in the harsh, flickering amber light of a broken streetlamp swaying in the wind.
Nothing. At least not directly in front of the building. Shivering against the chill, my nosy ass quickly decides to round the corn—
…What the actual hell?
I genuinely didn’t think tonight could get any weirder. Apparently, I was wrong.
Because my upstairs neighbor—the guy living in that weird attic apartment—is lying flat on the filthy, rain-slicked New York sidewalk.
Wearing nothing but his underwear.