People—even witches—find great comfort in telling their secrets to the dead. Or, in my case, the not-quite-but-assumed dead.

Not that I could fault the theory. I had, after all, been turned to stone. Most people wouldn’t survive the experience.

Why confess their hearts to a witch with a heart of stone? Because no matter how petty were the crimes of my sister witches, they paled in comparison to mine—to the worst sin imaginable. I stand (because I cannot do otherwise) accused of killing my own daughter. A gravely-mistaken assumption, but who could blame them for jumping to the conclusion? The punishment for killing another witch is being turned to stone.

No one knows by whose hand the sentence is served, only that it is swift and irrevocable. Kill a witch, become a living monument: an effective warning against falling prey to the destructive side of the power that runs through the blood of our kind. All the evidence was against me.

Not having murdered anyone before, I’d had no idea if stoned witches remained awake inside their prison for all eternity. In the middle of a heated discussion with my daughter—a fight, if you want to be technical about it—my binding spell crossed with Sylvana’s ball of dark magic, picked up some of her intent, mixed it with mine and slammed us both with the result.

Nothing remained but a burnt scar on the earth and me, fearful I’d destroyed my own flesh and blood, forced to stand watch over the scene of my own destruction. Wanting to cry and not being able to shed a tear is the worst feeling in the world.

I’d resigned myself to an eternity of listening to the transgressions of others while wishing I’d eventually die inside my cocoon—that is, until sly Sylvana showed up very much alive and well. And with no intention of releasing me from stasis.

When word of her miraculous resurrection spread, the number of huddled confessors decreased dramatically.

Since then, witches pass me by with a look that says they hope I never heard a word of their transgressions and if I did, that I never have the chance to speak of them out loud. But I’ve smelled the dirty laundry flung around my feet, and I remember the stench of every tiny tidbit.

Lexi stands before me now with fierce determination in her eyes and a longing to set me free so strong I can feel it in my granite bones. She’s tried before and failed, but third time’s the charm. So they say, anyway. A pot of Balefire sits at her feet; the Bow of Destiny rides her hand with an arrow aimed at my heart. It’s a good thing I’m virtually frozen, because my instincts are screaming for me to duck.

I can’t duck. I can’t look away. Nothing is left but to stand (as if I had any other choice) and listen for the twang of the string, wait for the burning sting of the barb, and hope that her aim is true.

Lexi

Shooting my stoned grandmother with Cupid’s bow and a flaming arrow. What was I thinking? There are a hundred ways this could go wrong.

Determined, I pulled the bowstring back, forced trembling nerves to rock steadiness. Hushed calm flowed like water to fill me from the bottom up, pushing out my breath on a sigh. There would never be a better moment than now.

I let the arrow fly.

Time slowed to a crawl, and crystalline clear vision focused on the burning arrow crawling through the air toward its target. The golden barb picked up light and magic until it passed the halfway mark and time fell back to normal speed.

Pink flame arced straight and true, pierced stone, and lanced into Clara’s heart. For half a second, nothing happened, and it was as if the whole world held its breath.

My heart tried to punch a hole in my throat.

A lifetime of longing for blood family—for the mother of my dreams—hadn’t come to much once Sylvana finally appeared. Wicked witches make lousy parents, and you can’t trust them as far as you can throw a unicorn. Don’t try that, by the way, unicorns get stabby when you pick them up. Especially the purple ones.

The pressure popped my ears, my stomach plummeted into my shoes, and the Bow of Destiny slipped to the ground. Nothing else moved in the cotton-heavy silence—not a bird, not a bee, not even me.

Failure.

I’d been so sure my plan would work. Turned to stone in a freak accident involving wicked witchery, my grandmother’s statue guarded the clearing near my house for as long as I could remember. Once I’d learned her stoning wasn’t a lifetime sentence for killing another witch, I’d searched high and low for a means to set her free.

Salem and I had put our heads together—my familiar used his human head, not his cat one—and hatched a plan to use my newfound Fate Weaver abilities and my father’s bow to infuse Clara’s heart with the mighty power of the Balefire. It’s a good thing tending the magical flame is only one of my legacies, because Cupid’s bow—technically mine at the moment—turned out to be the pivotal part of the plan.

It would propel an arrow made from living gold and the essence of myself—don’t ask how that works because I’m a little hazy on the details—through the stone encasing Clara’s body and into her heart. Dipping the arrow in the Balefire would, if all went as planned, inject enough of the fire’s healing energy to bring her back to life.

Sounds like a long shot, I know (no pun intended), but it made sense when we came up with the idea. I am Lexi Balefire: Keeper of the sacred fire; maker of matches; weaver of fates. Shouldn’t I be able to weave one for my grandmother that didn’t involve eternal punishment for a crime she didn’t commit?

Sound rushed back to a world I’d already forgotten had gone silent. The first thing I heard was the sound of my breath hitching as I cried. I glanced behind me at the grave faces of my companions and tried to accept my failure.

A sharp crack rent the air.

Then another, and another.

Stone slid off my grandmother like snow off a roof—one slow ripple that revealed her by inches and raced my tears of happiness to the ground. Like mist, the arrow infused with living gold faded from her chest without leaving a mark. I felt its weight return to the quiver slung across my back.

“It worked.” A whoop went up from dear Aunt Mag, the newest member of my ragtag family.

I walked forward until I was standing close enough to touch my grandmother, but too shy to actually lay so much as the tip of one finger on her skin.

“Nice shot.” A warm smile brightened her first words to me as I launched into the waiting arms of a woman who could have been my double save a wrinkle or two around the corners of her emerald green eyes. I know witches aren’t supposed to cry, but whoever put that nonsense out into the world was an idiot. We’re human. Fancy extras and all.

Most of my body shook from the relief of pent-up tension, and I buried my face in a neck that still smelled of sun-warmed stone.

“It’s Lexi. I mean, I’m Lexi Balefire. You’re my…you’re Clara.” Nonsense tumbled out of my mouth like I thought she had been in a coma or something. Perhaps she had—I’d no idea whether she’d been cognizant all this time, and I desperately hoped she hadn’t.

“I know, dear girl. I know.” Gentle hands nudged me to arm’s length so she could get a better look at me. The abandoned child who lived in the corners of my soul crept out from the shadows and into my grandmother’s light. That child had taken a beating, poor thing, when my mother came back, and I knew she represented the part of me that feared another devastating fiasco.

My smile so wide it hurt, I turned to my made-from-the-scraps family and saw there wasn’t a dry eye in the bunch. Salem stood next to my four faerie godmothers and my boyfriend, Mackintosh Clark—also known as Kin since Mackintosh is kind of a mouthful. The only thing missing from the list was a partridge in a pear tree, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we had one of those perching somewhere in the backyard.

Even Salem’s cat-like emotions suffered from a touch of sentiment. I’d save the teasing for later. If I had a bad case of jelly legs after this experience, I could only imagine how Clara’s must feel given the number of years she’d been immobilized.

“Can you walk?” I whispered, instinctively knowing she wouldn’t want anyone to see her at a disadvantage.

“I think so.” My grandmother’s arm went around my waist and mine around hers for added support. Plus, I relished the safe sensation of being snuggled against her side. We took a tentative step or two away from the site where her feet had rested for all those long years, and she stopped for one brief look back. Petals drooped until nothing more than brambles remained of the roses that had twined around her skirts mere moments before, and while we watched, even those turned to mulch. Maybe the force of her displeasure killed the delicate flowers, or perhaps they couldn’t survive the loss of her essence. Either way, petals fell to dust and rode away on the breeze.

A satisfied smile that was just this side of a smirk crossed Clara’s lips as she turned her attention toward the waiting group. “Mag, you haven’t changed a bit. It’s good to see you.” Stepping out of the shelter of my embrace, she moved forward on her own. Never let it be said the Balefire women lack resilience.

If there was any animosity between the two sisters, they hid it well. I caught myself staring and wondering again at the visible difference in their ages. Maybe now I’d get to hear Mag’s story. But first, I made introductions.

“These are my…”

Clara pointed to the faeries in turn. “Evian, Terra, Soleil, and Vaeta. You have my undying gratitude for the way you’ve cared for Alexis over the years.”

“Lexi. Everyone calls me Lexi.”

“We love her.” Terra’s simple statement—truth, because the Fae don’t lie—warmed me to my toes. Welcoming Clara back into our—her—home was sure to beckon complicated emotions into the mix and with the Fae, emotions sometimes turned tangible. Not only had I opened a can of worms, but they were also enchanted worms with the power to multiply until they cluttered the entire house.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Mrs…Miss…” Kin shot me a desperate look as he tried to figure out how to address this new person in my life.

“Call me Clara. You’d be Kin.” Clara gave him a mock measuring look, but Kin didn’t pick up on the nuance.

“Yes, ma’am. Good to meet you. You’re not…I mean…Lexi’s mother was…” Poor thing. I’d give him props for standing up for me, but asking my grandmother if she was wicked might not be the best way to make a first impression.

“My daughter and I share many things: our face, the Balefire blood, a regular craving for butter pecan ice cream. But we operate off an entirely different set of values and perspectives. She’s not entirely bad, my Sylvana.” A sigh gusted from Clara’s lips and she gave Aunt Mag a warning look. “I made a great many mistakes with her. Mistakes that shaped her into a…”

Mag chimed in, “Selfish brat with way too much power and almost no impulse control.” Nail, meet the hammer that’s about to hit you on the head.

Letting the conversation go before it turned ugly, Clara singled out the last member of her welcoming party. “Salem, how nice to see you again.” She reached out to grasp his hand in hers and gave his arm a little rub that made him preen.

“Clara, always a pleasure.”

“You two know each other?” How was that possible? Clara had been stoned long before he’d shown up on my doorstep.

“Of course we do. We met during my job interview. While I was between witches.”

I made an effort to yank my jaw back off my chest. Obviously, there was more to certain witch-related processes than I’d been led to believe. Since Salem’s life—his ninth and final one, no less—will end the moment I die, I’d assumed we’d also been born simultaneously. Familiars competing for placement in a family seemed mundane by comparison. Job interviews, though? Really? Did they have to provide references? A resume?

“Speaking of food cravings, you wouldn’t happen to have any butter pecan ice cream in the freezer would you?”

If we didn’t, there would be some in there by the time we hit the kitchen. My faerie godmothers rock it out when it comes to conjuring yummy snackage.

Walking past the Bow of Destiny, I bent down to retrieve it before one of the fairies accidentally touched it again. Repairing the bow after its first devastating Fae encounter had been enough of an ordeal to last me a lifetime. Now all I had to do was figure out how to use it for its intended purpose, and not as a method for pelting my relatives with flaming arrows.

Objects of great power always come with rules. Complicated rules designed to create problems for anyone who tries to use them and complex enough not to be parsed with ease. Forged by my father, the Bow of Destiny was sure to come with a set worthy of his station.

The bow was meant to help me match souls, and there was a distinct possibility I could be held accountable for using it to my own advantage with Clara, even if it was for a good cause. Whatever you put out into the world comes back to you threefold, and depending on your intent could either lift you up or tear you down. I’d picked up the bow knowing all of that, and had chosen to accept whatever consequences came from my decision.

But I wasn’t thinking about any of those things at the moment my fingers closed over the section of the riser just above the handle—and then I wasn’t thinking anything at all.

You can’t think when your mind has been taken over by something with a consciousness deeper than you ever imagined. Take it from me, I’ve been there.

Overpowered by it all, I hit the ground like a marionette with clipped strings. That’s what they tell me, anyway.

Wild energy swelled and swept through my head like a whirlwind of echoing vastness with only one goal: to make room for itself within the confines of my puny existence. My hand gripped the bow as though it were an electric fence and while the current jolted through me, I was helpless to let go.

Puffy pink clouds floated across my vision while words boomed through my head in a language made up of sounds resembling music—if music itself were a god. Full and round and more real than anything I could touch with my hands, the sound carried me as if I weighed less than a windborne seed. A tiny parachute of dandelion fluff to be buffeted in any direction the breeze deemed to blow.

A single conviction burned itself into my soul. This was no toy and the matches I made using the bow would never, could never be broken. I needed to choose wisely before pointing my arrows.

My throat swelled with the depth of emotion being transferred to me from the living weapon as it made itself mine. Or took me for its own. To this day I’m unsure whether I became the carrier of the bow or its pawn.

The bow carried an electric energy that knocked me out cold. For the second time in less than an hour. I came to with the sound of my name ringing in my ears and Kin’s face just inches from mine.

“Lexi, can you hear me? How do you feel?”

The answers I meant to give were yes, and I feel amazing. I think I said something like, “Gah.”

Eloquence is me.

“I’m calling 911.” Kin pulled out his phone. “You fainting twice in one day is more than I can take.”

My focus snapped fully back to the present.

“Fainting sounds so wimpy. I’m fine.” Kin’s eyes widened doubtfully. “Better than, actually.” If I could bottle this feeling and sell it, I’d be a millionaire inside of a week. Probably a gazillionaire. “I feel incredible.” Like I could move mountains.

The only thing I moved was myself—off the ground. Then I remembered how I ended up down there in the first place and reached again for the bow.

“Where is it?” Swiveling my head left and right, I searched the area around where I’d fallen. “Don’t tell me it’s broken again.”

Kin’s face turned a shade paler, but his voice stayed steady as he answered, “It’s gone.”

“Gone? What? Where?”

“Inside you.” Helpful answer. Not.

“Excuse me?”

“It…I don’t even know how to describe it, but you absorbed it. Or it melted into you. Quiver and all.” Kin brushed a few errant blades of grass off my legs and gave me time to formulate a response. Nothing reasonable came to mind, so I chose to accept the weirdness for the time being and think about the repercussions later. I finally knew why Scarlett O’Hara preferred to put things off until tomorrow. I had enough on my plate for today.

My gaze traveled to Clara’s face. It had gone all grandmotherly and concerned. I lifted my chin and dared her to push the issue. “Why don’t we go inside and raid the fridge?” After an epic day, all I wanted was something mundane to bring me back to earth. Parts of me still felt like they were jetting through the clouds.

As it turned out, there was a final surprise or two still in store.

“It all looks so different.” Clara rubbernecked to take in the changes to her home. I’ll confess my knees felt a little shaky in anticipation of her reaction to the lighter, more airy color scheme we’d selected during the big renovation.

Twenty-five years is a short time in the lifespan of a witch, but a long one when it comes to technological advances. What would Clara think about the 55-inch flatscreen that had replaced her bulky 19-inch television set? Or the shabby chic feel of the whitewashing technique on the wainscoting in the hall. The kitchen had doubled in size when we added the faerie’s wing, but Clara’s bedroom remained untouched. She would have one familiar space at least.

“We can put it all back if you hate it.” As offers go, this one was half-hearted at best. Restoring this house to its former state would be about as easy as unscrambling an egg. I appealed to Terra, begging her with my eyes to say something. Anything. The only time the four of my godmothers are ever this quiet is when they’re getting ready to launch of one of their epic battles, so what was up with that?

Terra winked and then tossed me under the bus without a second thought. “We have some work to do, so we’ll just leave you to get acquainted again. Clara, it’s good to have you back.” She said it, so I had to believe she meant it, no matter what the repercussions. Kin received a pointed stare from Terra on her way out and took the hint.

His kiss carried the perfunctory awkwardness of feeling watched by a gun-toting father. I was pretty sure my grandmother wouldn’t need a firearm if she decided she didn’t like my boyfriend. Not that she would, he was a likeable sort. “I’ll see you tomorrow, babe.”

Suddenly the room felt empty, and I wasn’t sure what to say to the veritable stranger wolfing down ice cream like it was made from honey and nectar. Apparently, twenty-five years spent frozen in the front yard wasn’t as big a deal to the witches in my family as it was to me.

A whole new world was opening up right in front of me, but my grandmother and great-aunt acted as though Clara had simply been on an extended holiday. Mag filled in the awkward silence with fodder about witches I might have met but couldn’t put a face to any of the names.

“Matilda Backwater mixed up marigold with mandrake in a batch of that cough syrup she’s always bragging about. It reacted with one of the other ingredients and produced a series of interesting side effects. That was a good one.” Mag dished up gossip.

“What happened?” Spoon pinging against the bowl, Clara scraped the last bit of ice cream from the bottom.

“Lost her mind, that’s what. Went on what amounted to a week-long acid trip. Don’t mention dragons in front of her unless you want to hear the tale of how she brought down an albino Wyvern using an enchanted golden lasso. I guess she thought she was Wonder Woman or something.”

Gran’s laugh burst out, “Thanks for the mental image of Matilda all kitted out in a patriotic bathing…”

A whooshing noise pushed against our eardrums.

“My heavens!” Clara exclaimed as the room filled with billows of blue smoke and interrupted the conversation before Mag went off on a diatribe about the proper methods of potion making. Through a wide set of doors leading from the kitchen to the parlor, I glanced toward the ever-burning hearth and saw the Balefire sneeze and emit another belch of smoke. Tongues of flame burst out into the room in a flash of light and fury, then retreated just as quickly.

“Does this happen often?” Clara’s mild tone infused the question with deeper meaning.

“Never.” Embarrassed that on my first day with my grandmother I’d already come off looking like an incompetent, I rushed toward the fireplace to see if I could find a reason for the outburst. “Have you seen anything like it before?” Thrusting my hands into the fire, I picked and prodded my way through the flames feeling for inconsistencies or anomalies that would give me a clue. Soot darker than night stained a trail up the overmantel and across the ceiling.

“Here, let me.” Clara gently nudged me aside and did essentially the same thing I had just done. Evidently, she came to the same conclusions, too, because after a minute she dusted her hands off on her dress and shrugged.

“Probably just flustered,” she proclaimed. “By having two keepers in the house.”

The Balefire formed itself into a shape that reminded me of a person holding hands to either side in confusion before retreating to the back of the fireplace where it turned sullen and banked itself low save for the occasional spark. One fire, two masters. Oh, goody. Why is it that every time I take a step forward, I’m shoved two steps back?