Witch in Hiding (#1 in the Witches Trilogy) (EDITING)

Twenty-Nine: Home Alone

"Morning," Mom greets, holding out a plate of pancakes. "Breakfast?"

"Whoa." Chocolate fluffiness, browned to perfection and topped with maple syrup and banana slices, plus she's making smoothies—Mom's up to something. "Did I forget something?"

"Your sister's coming home!" Mom swats my shoulder. "I'm going to go meet someone, then I'll swing by, pick you up, and we'll go meet her when she flies in at nine, and then we go for supper! Remember?"

"That's today?!" How did I forget? What with the hospital stay, and Jess, and the whole... killing thing, Vera's return just slipped my mind. "I'll just be here, probably. Jess is meeting Celine and Abby about Esther... De and Mel and Van are studying together."

Mom smiles. "And you're not?"

"I deserve a break."

Mom rolls her eyes. "You're going to run out of that excuse eventually," she says, but she laughs and hands me a frothy glass. "You'll be okay?"

I'm tempted to roll my eyes back at her, but I know she's serious. "Mom, I've got Rae on speed dial, and my friends—plus a lawyer—are just a phonecall away. I'll be fine. Who're you meeting, anyway?"

"Oh, it's business." She waves my question away. "Just text Vera and make sure she doesn't run off from her teacher?"

"Mom, it's Ver. She'll stick to him like glue."

She checks her watch. "I'm going to head off. Do the dishes, please!"

When she's gone the house is kind of... empty. Lonely, almost. I haven't been alone for some time, what with Rae, and school, and the hospital. Mom's been basically shadowing me since I fell off the roof; it's the first time she's leaving me alone in the house since the murder attempt. I thought I was tired of it, but now that she's gone I feel mildly unsettled. Like someone else is going to break in here and try to murder me. I spear my pancakes slowly, suddenly aware of the knife.

My TV shows are all still on hiatus, so I try to watch a movie, but it feels like a discount to just flop in front of a screen all day after having so much going on. Like an F1 racer thrown into a peak hour traffic jam. So I change into an old T-shirt and shorts, tie my hair in a ponytail, and drag out my old punching bag.

Slam. Slam. Slam. What starts out as tentative blows—I haven't gone for training in a while—becomes full out punches, driving my fists into the thing as hard as I can. As I do I remember my stances, my bracing, and shift into more fluid movements, sequences from exams, hands and elbows and knees and feet and shoulders. I imagine Esther and Remiko on that punching bag and lash out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why are they doing this?

Sweat streams down my face, runs down my back, soaking my shirt. It actually relaxes me. Doing things that I understand, doing things that have a very clear goal. Not this stupid crazy game of kill or be killed. Here, in this room, with the punching bag, I know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

It starts raining while I work out, battering the roof and the pavement outside. The feeling is actually really relaxing. Kind of sleepy.

Now that I know that my magic can be blocked, I need to up my defence game. I don't know what caused the last block—that mental dam when I was fighting Esther and Remiko in school that prevented me from using my magic. It was almost like a fear. Like if you've seen your house burn down, you become scared of fire. Like if you know you've killed something, you become scared to use the power that did it. I wasn't trying to use that power specifically, but it seemed like it created an umbrella block. The ultimate safeguard. If you don't get the matches, you can't set anything on fire. I couldn't even heal myself.

I need to make sure that doesn't happen again.

I brace my arm with a shield and swing with everything I have. I hit the bag so hard it swings; a jolt goes through my body, but my reinforced arm stays steady. I barely even feel the impact on my knuckles. Well, I think, a thrill of satisfaction sparking, this could be useful.

Even when I was younger, there was something exciting about sparring. About learning to rely on instinct and reflex, on discipline and muscle memory. Testing yourself under stress. I'm skinny but fast, and I won more than I lost. It probably got to my head, but if there's something I can't stand to do is lose. And the next time I come up against Remiko and Esther, I'm not losing. With or without Rae.

Thunder murmurs through the sky. I realise how tired I actually am—I've been going at this for something like two hours.

I dig out a microwave pizza that Mom reluctantly restocked after Mel, Van and I devoured all the ones in the fridge the other day. I manage not to blow anything up and eat the entire thing while watching cake-decorating videos on YouTube. Some clickbait video called FLYING GIRL!!! gives me a minor heart attack, but I realise it's just a hoax and it's got nothing to do with actual magic. It might not be explicitly said, but rule number one of being magical is that you don't announce it to the world. We've all watched enough movies to know that. I can't imagine what would happen if we got caught on video and people actually believed it.

What if my power got caught on video? Power that could turn the tide of a war, instantly. Murder political leaders without going anywhere near them—and making it look like a suicide to boot. I can't. And I won't.

The rain only gets heavier throughout the day. Restlessness beat out on the punching bag, I let myself mope around, first online, then around the house. I practice making little spots of rain stop, and try turning some of it to ice, which results in hail slashing at the windows, so I stop.

I find myself in my mom's room.

I get my hands on it before I know what I'm even looking for: a photo hidden at the back of the desk drawer. I'm maybe six, and Ver is already wowing people aged two. We're at the park, having a picnic. We must have gotten someone else to take the thing for us, because we're all there on the picnic mat with the small blue flowers: me, Ver, Mom and Dad, looking like the poster models for multicultural relationships. Mom, three-quarters Arab and one-quarter European; Dad, vaguely Spanish and looking more Italian; Ver and I, dark-haired, pointy-faced, going to international schools because we're pretty much not anything, Mom and Dad eloping after family disputes.

We look like a postcard.

I stick it in my pocket and shut the drawer. I doubt Mom will miss it, judging by the crumpled state of it. I wonder where she keeps all the rest of the photos—burned them, maybe.

I glance at the clock. Dinner, before Mom comes back to pick me up. Another round of easy food (mac and cheese) and another round of online videos. Seven turns to seven thirty turns to eight, and it's eight thirty by the time I realise.

I shut my laptop slowly, a bad feeling coming over me. Where's Mom?

My phone rings. I reach over and grab it; Vera's face is on the screen, a stupid selfie she took the last time I saw her. I smile and shake my head as I put the phone to my ear. She's probably calling me just before she gets on the plane. "Hey, stranger."

"Vinni."

I freeze. "Rae?"

Her voice is quiet. "I said I'd call."

My blood runs cold. Something is very, very wrong. "Where's Vera?"

"She's with me. Your mom was... held up."

"Rae, you're freaking me out, what's going on?"

"If you want your sister, come find me. Alone."

The line goes dead.