Chapter 1: Azrael CHAPTER 1 Azrael
Eight Years Ago

Azrael Hart had missed his chance.

Again.

Victoria’s freckled nose pressed up against the glass of the car door as the engine started, and for a moment, they were kids again. As though she weren’t driving the few hours to college, and he weren’t catching a ride to the airport to fly three thousand miles away from the girl he’d loved since he was six years old.

“Devil dammit,” he swore. He shoved his hands in his pockets and replayed the speech he had planned. In his head, he’d given her the note, which he folded now, and shoved in his wallet, crushing the heavy weighted paper he used for his most treasured compositions against the sweaty, useless palm and tingling fingers that had failed him. His fingers were supposed to push a strand of hair behind her ear. To tuck it gently there, and ask her, in a voice that would have come out low and velvety, if he could kiss her. That perspiring palm was supposed to have been cool and collected and to have pressed against her soft cheek. He wanted to have pulled her face toward his own like he did in his best daydreams.

Instead, his hand had flapped, an awkward bird in the wind, wet with anticipation, as he told her good luck and then gave her a handshake.

An honest-to-devil handshake, like he was his uncle Larry, the funeral director, doing grim business and sealing a deal for a discounted casket and viewing package.

He was a fucking mess.

Vickie was sunshine and daisies and happiness. The echoes of their childhood friendship were everywhere, even when he turned to face his house, which sat on the grounds next to hers, the property marked off by a white picket fence on her family’s side and a wrought-iron one on his. Running a useless hand through dark brown curls, he looked up at the winding spires of the gothic mansion that was the Hart family home.

Now his hair was sweaty, and his hands steamed with angst and unused spells. He would need to at least magic a shower before he left, or risk alarming everyone on the airplane even more than he would if they caught a glimpse of his morbid parents in all their attire.

He looked up to the sweeping window from where his parents watched him.

A familiar clatter of combat boots on the stone walkway told him his sister was nearby.

Good. That crushed the longing in his chest.

Azrael swallowed and wondered if his family suspected how he felt about Victoria.

His mother stood there, straight dark hair hanging over her snug, high-necked, black velvet gown, the lace of the sleeves stretching over her fingers as she raised them in acknowledgment. Concern flickered across her face, pale as a sheet above bloodred lips. The way his mother glided across the ground made him shudder with embarrassment. Years of revulsion from adults and peers alike taught him that, good intentions or not, his parents caused scenes simply by existing.

Victoria’s parents were an exception, but only because the Starnbergers primarily spoke the language of black American Express cards and chauffeurs like the one who was about to squire Vickie away before Az could tell her of his hidden heart. The Hart family might be known for their proximity anytime something unusual happened in town, but they were wealthy enough to purchase the respect of their posh neighbors. Though the grounds surrounding both houses were vast enough to require a car, and there was no way to see if the Starnbergers stood watch from their window, Az knew the answer.

They never bothered.

“Did you at least kiss her farewell? You should do that. Like, now.” His sister’s mouth pulled into a smirk, and he knew he was blushing. Priscilla was his younger sister. How was it that she knew precisely the right way to boss him around?

Goddess, he hoped Vickie hadn’t heard that.

Vickie rolled down the window one last time. This was his moment.

Prissy looked at him and shook her head. “Weirdo,” she murmured, patting his arm so he knew that even if she was judging him, she did at least also care.

“If you decide this sulky, sad boy isn’t good enough to be your long-distance bestie, you can always pick me instead.” She pointed toward her face, nodding solemnly.

Vickie smiled, and Azrael’s heart seemed to stand still. He was never going to have the courage to tell her.

“I pick you already. You’re already my friend.”

His sister’s smile stretched wide now. “Damn right,” she said, waving one last time, and running back toward the door, but not before giving him a stern look. “Have fun at college! Be safe, but not too safe!” she called over her shoulder.

It was just the two of them now, and the insurmountable distance between his hand and the rolled-down window. He willed himself to move toward it.

His feet did nothing.

“Text me when you get there,” he murmured, weakly, instead. He held up his hand a final time, hoping she couldn’t see the glistening sweat.

She looked at him for a moment. Bit her lip.

“Bye, Az,” she said. “Miss you already.”

All he had to offer her in return was a weak smile.

He should have run to her then, but the window was rolling up, the car away, and then it was over. She was gone.

Vickie’s stop here was the real goodbye, and his parents and sister had said farewell the night before in an embarrassingly overaffectionate dinner in their family dining room.

He checked his watch.

Az had a plane to catch. There was nothing he could do besides trudge reluctantly up the sweeping cobblestone path toward the gated entrance of Hart Manor.

Twisting the gleaming silver doorknob in his hand, Az grimaced at the chill that ran through him upon touching it. Carved like a church door, the mahogany behemoth was so imposing that at times in his childhood, his sister teased him about the way it made him jump. But he swore it was more animated than the rest of the house; the moaning noises the door made did little to dispel the suggestion of something supernatural inside. The door grumbled now as he advanced but made no louder groans that might promise ghoulish behavior afoot.

The tingling sensation in his hands alerted him to the trap before the door swung completely open. It took no more than a lazy snap of his fingers—the Hart family signature magic—to turn the pile of gravedirt rigged to fall on him to harmless soap bubbles, which shone purple and popped, like his dreams of running off into the sunset with Victoria.

A titter of teenage laughter followed, and he sighed, rubbing his temples.

“I take it you didn’t tell the beautiful Vic-to-ree-aahhh how you feel?” Prissy sang it like the Kinks, and to retaliate, he snapped, shooting a volley of the soap bubbles at her, this time filled with rose-gold glitter dust. When they burst, she frowned, shaking the festive sparkles off her braid and her black vest.

“Fuck you, Azrael. I’ll look like a devil-damned My Little Pony for the rest of the week. You know how hard it is to get rid of glitter.”

He smiled wickedly now. “I do, sister dearest. Just as you know how hard it is to shake the truth curse of gravedirt. Imagine going off to your first week of college being literally forced to answer everything truthfully for seven days.”

She crossed her arms, blowing black bangs out of her eyes, which glowed golden brown like their father’s. “It would have eased up after a day or two,” she retorted. “By day three, you would have been able to swallow the truth back down. At least, some of the time.”

“Still. Prissy,” he said. “Not cool.”

Even in a family of witches, Azrael was the odd one out. His curly hair and hazel eyes came from his maternal grandmother. The siblings differed in more than appearance; at two years younger, Priscilla was always willing to give her opinion. Or pull a prank. Azrael kept to himself, mostly. He loved his family, even though he would never fit in with them completely.

Maybe he had no place in the magical or the mundane world.

“It would have been funny in hindsight,” she said, sulking.

Ironically, had she pranked him just a few hours earlier, the gravedirt could have worked out perfectly for him to finally be honest with the one person he might fit with.

Either that or it would have forced Azrael to bare his entire soul to the girl he worshiped, only to have her reject him. All the moments over the past few years when he’d mustered the courage, only to stop short when he finally got his chance. All the poems he’d written and burned. All the daisies he’d magicked into existence and then quickly pushed away before she could see them.

Rubbing his temples, he decided it was better this way. To pine desperately for what might possibly be rather than deal with the crushing reality if she didn’t love him too.

Which she didn’t. He was almost entirely sure.

Priscilla studied him, and he must have looked more wrecked than he realized because she didn’t attempt another prank, but patted his shoulder instead, leaving a few trace specks of glitter.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you finish packing.” She snapped her fingers, and his suitcases appeared on the landing, undoubtedly packed with the precision of Prissy’s magic.

On their way upstairs, Azrael spotted the guillotine, but Prissy didn’t make a move toward it, and she casually pulled him out of the way of a swinging axe that sliced the air above the staircase. The under-stairs apparition cackled at her caution, but they both knew better than to engage with it, for neither of them could see ghosts, and it was harmless, other than scaring the occasional visitor.

“Thanks, Priss.”

“Don’t mention it. You get a reprieve since you’re both heartbroken and leaving for college, possibly forever, to become some kind of sunshiny, strange normie.”

He grimaced. “I’m not heartbroken,” he insisted. “And California’s not that far away from Vermont. Some witches go international, you know.”

“Azrael Ashmedai Hart!” The rasping voice echoed across the upstairs hallway like sandpaper against wood. His father stood, as always, in a three-piece suit with a starched white dress shirt and a bow tie, in a deep shade of merlot today. Benedict Hart ran a hand through snow-colored, shoulder-length hair in a nervous tic that Az recognized all too well. With his golden-rimmed eyes, he was the family member who was most obviously a witch, at least to a trained magical eye, though his mother and sister certainly dressed the part enough to leave the townsfolk speculating that the Harts were the weird kind of wealthy.

It was a wonder the mundanes didn’t figure them out immediately. And yet, here Az was, nineteen and about to leave for college, and no one in all of Hallowcross, save Vickie, knew that the Hart family didn’t just dress like they belonged in his mother’s eclectically witchy tea shop in the middle of downtown, they were magical.

Pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs, Az looked down at his father expectantly.

Benedict cleared his throat, waiting. When his son did not say anything, he went on.

“Did you see Vickie off properly?”

“Yeah, Dad. It was fine.”

Arms crossed, his father grunted, as though he wanted to say more, but beside him, Az’s mother rested her hand on Benedict’s arm. The simple intimacy of the gesture was like an exhale, and his father relaxed. He nodded almost imperceptibly, letting the line of interrogation go. It was always like this; though Az’s father sat on the North American Council of Witchery, his mother ran both his father’s life and the shop.

Hopelessly Teavoted had an ornate sign with the name carved across it in shiny letters. Inside, it smelled like vintage books and incense, freshly ground coffee, and the tea of the day. They had a small side business trading in magical equipment with the odd witch traveling through, but those were so few and far between that it had been months since his mother had served anything other than antique cups full of surprisingly delicious beverages, sometimes magicked gently to wear away at worries or soothe a deserving soul.

Persephone Hart was as kind as she was committed to the pallor of her deathly white skin. That was saying something. Once, when he was a small boy, Az had held a sun-bleached bone he’d confiscated from his dog, Cerberus, up to her and noted no real difference in color. She must have powdered it to achieve the shade.

Az loved his parents, and even his annoying sister, but he couldn’t handle being seen at the airport with them today nor taking any of the ignominy of the Hart name with him to the Golden State. Not after everything that had happened with his classmates calling him odd, and everything that had not happened to Az in Hallowcross with Victoria.

California was a fresh start. A chance to be normal. He just wished that he didn’t see a heart-shaped face with enchanting green eyes and slightly frizzy brown hair whenever he shut his eyes. That he wasn’t haunted by swirls of freckles and the almost of loving her.

“Are you certain you don’t want us to take you to the airport?” His mother tapped her long crimson nails together. “Uncle Larry said we can take the hearse if you have a lot of luggage.”

Azrael blanched. The very last thing he wanted was to roll up to the airport in the hearse, of all things. He’d had enough of the teasing and staring in high school, and if he had it his way, he’d never set foot in the halls of Hallowcross High again in his life.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He repeated it to himself when the rideshare pulled up and he rolled a single, sleek black suitcase down the cobblestone drive, trying not to notice the way the driver stared up at the sharp spikes of the gates and the general gloom of the grounds.

I’m fine.

The refrain pounded through his brain as he watched the familiar haunts of Hallowcross drift by through the car window: his mother’s tea shop, Hopelessly Teavoted; the local salon, Blade Runner; and the twenty-four-hour diner, Don’t Go Bacon My Heart. All the absurdly punny shops on Main Street faded into a winding stretch of highway. When he got to the airport, and the driver paused for the cars whipping in and out of the departure zone, he reminded himself once again.

I’m fine.

The Zoloft kept him from panicking; even witches believed in better living through chemistry. And he remembered what his mother had told him: When the weight of the world seems awful, we look for the ways that we can make it better.

Small magics to fix the world.

He focused on moving through the security line, speeding it up with the snap of his fingers and a pinch of simple magic to relieve the head and foot aches of the agents standing all day. When they visibly relaxed, Az smiled as the line became more pleasant for everyone.

I’m fine, he reminded himself as he boarded the enormous plane, the sun creeping through the windows. A mother a few rows back wiped sweat from her brow while she wrangled two small children into their seats. All it took was a subtle snap of his fingers to lower the cabin temperature, and she exhaled relief. The children settled, and Az smiled to himself. The world had a history of burning witches, but magic could heal the world in so many small ways. It was beautiful, really, when he could let go of his shame over his eccentric family long enough to remember all the good they had to offer.

Azrael slid into his seat and gave the flight attendant a wave. She winked, whispering to the attendant next to her, who also smiled and raised his eyebrows at Azrael.

They were both attractive, and they couldn’t be too much older than he was. He would enjoy kissing either, but it was no matter, because that all-too-revealing note was burning a hole in his wallet, and his heart was stuck on the impossible dream of the girl next door. And of course, because they were not Vickie, it was easy enough to wave again, and to smile at the resulting blushes. He had this effect on strangers, so why couldn’t he ever find the same bravado when he was with her?

He stretched out, wishing he had opted for comfortable clothing instead of fitted jeans and a pressed white T-shirt, a gray bomber jacket completing the look, which he hoped screamed normal.

I’m fine, he insisted as the plane lifted off and his stomach flipped for a moment as it rose into the air. He closed his eyes. He’d do a pass of the plane on the way back to the bathroom and magic away small inconveniences as much as he could without being noticed.

His father said they had an obligation to help mundanes. That magic meant compassion. And it calmed him to walk the plane and tap his fingers against each other.

Snap. A cord connected fully for a kid’s tablet.

A few more snaps, and the airflow increased on a sweating older woman.

A quick snap and the man struggling with a crossword puzzle suddenly remembered that five down was kumquat.

By the time he reached the bathroom, the mood had shifted. Sun streamed through the windows, and a little boy raised a daisy-print blanket in front of it, casting pink and yellow tones on the tray table in front of him. It reminded Azrael of Vickie, and his heart twisted.

I’m fine, he told himself.

The assertion was undone as he returned to his seat, and the plane dipped through turbulence. The queasy feeling reminded him of how he felt sometimes when she came into a room, smelling like strawberries and lavender, and humming to herself. Usually, it was something he wanted to fuck her to softly, like Edward Sharpe. Oasis.

He was fine. And even if he wasn’t, Azrael Hart was a witch, going to his top choice of schools to study screenwriting and live his dream. What more could he ask for? There were plenty of men and women in California he could serve his heart to on a platter.

He hoped.