Wild and Wicked Things

by Francesca May

Over the last few years I had learned that the best time to practice magic was not at midnight like my aunt had always said; the true witching hour was the morning after a party, any time after the last straggler passed out in the fountain and before eight o’clock.

how the blood in my veins was growing thick and tired, how my magic sometimes felt cracked and dry like a cursed riverbed.

I climbed the porch steps. There was a breeze, fragrant with an earthy, metallic tang. Like blood and dirt. It sent my carefully coiffed hair back to the wildness it loved best. My fingers grazed the wooden door. It swung open, smoky darkness greeting me. And a voice said, “Well, here you are.”