The Witch Collector Part I Read Free Page A

minute?”
    â€œIt’s safer upstairs.”
    â€œMom—” My lungs protested and I coughed again, painfully. I had to stop talking.
    She twisted her arm under mine and grasped my hand, binding us together. “Dad will bring our stuff. We’ll make it if we help each other.”
    My mother never needed help with anything, but obviously things had changed. I nodded.
    â€œBreathe in and out slowly,” she explained. “I know it hurts, but try to use the pain to your advantage. Inhale during the worst of it, and you’ll see the exhale as a relief. Once you’re ready, take a step on an exhale.”
    Inhale—sharp, piercing pain—exhale . I didn’t feel anything even close to relief. I was able to get enough oxygen in, small bits of air going in and out as if through a sieve.
    â€œBetter now?” she asked. Did she expect worse? But I managed a smile. “Better.”
    â€œMy brave, beautiful witch,” she said, and tightened her grip on my arm. With a sigh, we trudged toward our new home.

CHAPTER 3
    M y dad barreled around the living room, testing light switches and running his hand under the radiators. Though the apartment was nearly empty, the effect was very bull-in-a-china-shop. “We’ll need at least one key,” he said. “I don’t want to tire you out with the locks every time.”
    â€œWe’ll come up with something,” Mom said. She leaned against the tall windows and tilted her head toward the sun.
    Dad tugged at his messy ponytail. “We could ask for a spare.”
    â€œNo,” Mom said weakly. “Not yet. I need to rest first, and so do you. Then we’ll ask around and see if—”
    â€œIf what?” I said, my anger finally surfacing as my body calmed down. “If anyone else thought Evie was dead?”
    Mom and Dad looked at the floor and stayed silent.
    I trusted my parents. Witch kids usually did. We learned the language of witchcraft at their feet, after all—the rituals and ceremonies and spells, along with a respect for the natural forces binding us together. Witches believe in harmonious rings of community—nature, coven, family. They often overlapped but never crashed against one another. Choices affecting any of these were made after great consideration.
    That’s why I didn’t ask questions back in Portland when my dad walked into a rental-car office with an expired credit card and came out with the keys to a seafoam-green Ford Fiesta. Or earlier that day, when my mom’s low, soothing voice gently pulled me from a dream and into the gray shadows of my bedroom before dawn. I silently accepted my backpack, already full, and followed her down the dirt road leading away from our house. Excitement quickened my step. Maybe it was my time . My closest friend, Sonya, had left for Seaside, the witches’ training center, months before, and my boyfriend, Brandon, followed shortly afterward. When my sixteenth birthday passed, I had anxiously waited for my parents to tell me it was my turn to pack a bag.
    The others never snuck out in the dead of night, but then, no one had left during a time of mourning, so I didn’t question it. I could still smell traces of funeral incense in my mother’s hair. The girl who died, Greta, was older than me, but not by much. She was new to our coven, and I had just been getting to know her before she left for Seaside. Her sudden illness meant I never would have a chance to deepen our friendship.
    She wore a deep purple dress to her going-away party, the color of blackberries. Her laugh, light and airy as the good-luck balloons filling the room, had me smiling from ear to ear. But now Greta had no future. As excited as I was that it might be my turn to go, the thought of celebrating while her body still warmed the green earth made me slightly nauseous. It was right to leave in the cover of darkness.
    Sensing my mood, my mother wrapped one