B*WITCH

magical information.) All copies of Callixta’s manuscript were presumed destroyed in the Great Purge, but parts of it survived and have surfaced. I have made it my life’s work to find these disparate pieces, put them together, and create a legible, comprehensible, and usable document. The work is not complete yet, but I believe I can no longer wait to share it with the world.
For the past 139 years, witches have been forced to teach themselves magic skills, invent their own spells, and in general try to be their true best selves in a vacuum of knowledge and community. I hope Callixta’s manuscript will help them reach the next level (and beyond) in their personal journeys. I hope, too, that it will help them defend against what appears to be a rising groundswell of hate.
Please use it well.
I will be removing this message and link within twenty-four hours and taking extreme measures to cover my digital tracks, for safety reasons.
Love and Light

PROLOGUE
SEPTEMBER 2017
She hadn’t expected the end to come so soon.
After all, her scrying mirror had told her that she would live to be a hundred: a silver-haired old lady with a dozen pampered rescue dogs and a closetful of Chanel.
She wasn’t even sixteen yet. Her birthday was next month; she knew that her parents had planned a party for her at the country club. A live band, a photo booth, goody bags full of Lush Bath Bombs and Tiffany’s trinkets, her cousin Nell flying in from London… the works.
Why had she been brought here? Was this a random act of evil? It wasn’t related to what she’d found in his car, was it? Whatever the case, her instincts told her that she should get the hex out, that it was her only hope. Unless help was on the way? But that was a long shot; she couldn’t count on that.
Straining against the ropes—the knots were like cement—she wriggled in the red chair and searched her brain for an escape spell, one of the ones from Callixta Crowe’s secret witch manual. (She’d been online during the brief, miraculous window when the link to it had appeared and disappeared eighteen months ago.) Pertroll? Nope, that was for when you’d misplaced your “communication apparatus,” aka phone. Oblitus? Nope, that was for when you’d forgotten to finish your “studies,” aka homework. (She’d already deployed that spell twice, and it was only the first week of the new school year.)
Honestly, she hadn’t really advanced beyond the day-to-day essentials; she hadn’t even known for sure about her witch-ness until Callixta’s manual. In fact, maybe her scrying skills weren’t as far along as she’d thought—maybe designer clothes and rescue dogs were not in her future. Plus, she’d bought that mirror at Target.
What about that shape-altering spell, amitto, that could make you “dispense with the discomfort and indignity of a corset” (i.e., drop a dress size)? She had almost mastered it (not to lose weight or look skinnier, since she believed in body positivity, but for disguise purposes should the need arise). She could try to tweak it for her current predicament and wriggle out of her bonds.
Suddenly, the woman appeared at her side, quiet as a mouse. She was carrying a silver tray with a tea set on it; she placed it on an antique table next to the red chair. The cup, saucer, and pot were antique—bone-white, with an intricate floral design.
“These flowers are called angel’s trumpets. Are you familiar with them?” the woman asked pleasantly.
She shook her head, confused. Wary. What was her captor up to now?
“They’re a marvelous addition to any garden—as long as they receive the proper amount of afternoon sun, of course. And see these? These are doll’s eyes.” The woman pointed to clusters of tiny black dots that flecked the rim of the cup.
Doll’s eyes… what the hex? The girl squinted. Ew, the dots did look like little eyeballs.
“Shall I be Mother?”
“W-what?”
The woman tipped the pot over the cup, releasing a thin ribbon of steaming tea. She added a generous dollop of honey and stirred. The silver spoon made a soothing tinkling noise against the porcelain.
The tinkling stopped, and the woman lifted the cup and touched it to the girl’s lips. The girl froze. It’s happening. She had seen the poisoned tea move in horror movies.
“No!” She squeezed her mouth shut and turned away.
She thought she’d turned away. But the geometry of the room had shifted like a kaleidoscope, because now the woman was behind her—in front of her?—and the girl was drinking the tea, almost willingly. It was pooling inside her mouth and trickling down her throat. It had a warm, green, slightly bittersweet taste that was masked only slightly by the honey—lavender honey, her favorite.
No! She jerked back from the cup, spat out the tea, and twisted the other way in the red chair.
But the kaleidoscope shifted again, and the woman was right there, feeding her more tea.
“Good girl,” she purred.
No, no, no.
“I brewed the petals and stems along with the leaves. Delicious, isn’t it?”
No. Yes.
She closed her eyes. The tea was delicious. A lovely fuzziness was starting to settle in, as though she’d been sunbathing all afternoon by the pool—listening to music and the distant hum of a lawn mower, a glossy magazine splayed across her stomach. Her familiar nearby, protecting her even in his sleep.
Adele was singing to her through her earbuds.
’Cause there’s a side to you that I never knew, never knew…
She smiled, feeling the sun on her face.
’Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name.
A shadow moved in the window. Another person. The woman had been talking to him earlier. His name was Mark or Matt or…
The kaleidoscope shifted one last time.
A cat brushed up against her, purring.
Then there was no more.


PART ICALLING THE QUARTERS
To protect the circle, four elements must always be summoned at the beginning of the rite. I usually go with Spearow in the East, Charmander in the