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  “This is an important meeting. As you know, recruitment remains at an all-time low, and we have been unable to fill the vacancies left in our congress.” LeBlanc gestured with a slim dark hand at the three chairs that sat empty around the table.

  Everyone looked around uncomfortably. Those who currently sat on the congress called themselves the Twelve for obvious reasons, but the round table had been meant to accommodate fifteen. The other three seats had been empty for far too long.

  Mary Mitchell raised a hand. “We did decide not to promote anyone else to the triumvirate position,” she said. “And we’re functioning just fine without a leader. Is it truly necessary to replace those seats, or is it only centuries-old force of habit?”

  James had to admit that she had a point, but as usual, she was missing the big picture. Lady Mary Carter Mitchell was a slim, thin-faced woman, who combined an old-fashioned primness and sense of propriety with a highly modern impatience. She disliked meetings, procedures, and oversights, preferring to rush through such things as quickly as possible so she could return to her lifelong hobby—the study and manipulation of plants.

  They were almost at the point for James to segue to his own plans, but before he could, Damian Diaz spoke.

  “High Witch Templeton,” he said, in his booming, theatrical way, “was not only our head bureaucrat. A proper coven requires thirteen members.” He gave a wry smile, “Yes, she had an unfortunate tendency to be busy somewhere else whenever any of us reached out to her for help,” there was a round of chuckles around the table, “but she never shirked her duty when it came to larger-scale spells, which there are now no way for us to perform should we need to. We should fill the thirteenth position, at least, or better yet, all three of the empty seats.”

  “Yes,” James said at once, seeing a natural segue, “and that is why it’s imperative that we seek new recruits. Mother LeBlanc and I are in agreement on this.”

  “In the past five years, we have found no students,” LeBlanc told them. Though the fact was well-known, it was not often spoken aloud, and many at the table looked away. She continued, “In the past two years, we have found no candidates for training. Within two or three generations, unless we turn things around, our discipline might disappear entirely, and, with it, our ability to guide events for the good of humanity.”

  The thaumaturges around the table looked at one another, then most of them ended up gazing at Lauren Jones. Round-faced and ginger-haired, she was the sort of person who perpetually looked younger than she was. On even brief acquaintance, however, it became clear that she could command the attention of any audience. As the best teacher among the Twelve, she had been particularly worried about their lack of recruits.

  Now she turned her brown eyes on James, though she thought for a long while before she spoke.

  “It has weighed on me,” she admitted. “We say we have stepped back from human affairs due to the increasing interconnectedness of the world, because even a small intervention is more likely to be noticed, because interventions are less likely to be necessary, but I wonder. I wonder if we have stepped back because we feel powerless. And I wonder if our abdication of our duty means that someday we will be needed, and we will not be there.”

  There was silence. Even James, who had come prepared to argue for expanding their ranks, had not thought such dire things. Over the millennia, thaumaturges had intervened rarely but impactfully, aiding scientists who attempted to cure diseases, helping isolated groups of soldiers who might turn the tide of a battle, and sometimes turning wildfires or storms away from highly populated areas.

  As the interconnectedness of the world grew, the number of isolated groups cut off from human aid shrank, as did chances to intervene without someone noticing.

  And now, without thirteen members in the coven, there were many spells that could not be done at all, even if there was a need and they could do so without revealing themselves.

  James nodded quietly and swallowed.

  Lauren did not let him recover from her bombshell. “We all agree that this is an urgent need,” she said. She did not spare a glance for Mary Mitchell, and her tone suggested she would brook no argument. “Tell us what your plan is.” She gave a small smile. “I assume you have one.”

  James hid his own smile as he turned to LeBlanc. “Madam, with your leave? My idea might take several minutes to explain.”

  Though not formally their leader, she served as their spokeswoman and held some degree of authority over how the discussion would proceed. Since his idea was unorthodox in the extreme, he needed every iota of respectability he could garner.

  The two of them had planned this in advance, and everyone knew she would say yes from the way she hesitated, drawing out the moment. If she were planning to say no, she would have said so instantly. Still, James found himself waiting anxiously for her assessment.

  She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Lovecraft,” she pronounced. “Make your pitch.”

  “Excellent.” James sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Society is changing around us; each day, it’s a new world out there.” His background in advertising had taught him the value of dramatic, attention-grabbing statements. “If we are not only to thrive but even exist in the decades to come, we must rebuild our ranks. We need a proper coven again, and we need apprentices to carry on our legacies.”

  Mary and the other more conservative members narrowed their eyes at this. Old, stuffy, and absorbed in their own affairs, they were less than amicable to the prospect of having to accommodate newcomers.

  James, however, was not prepared to stand by and watch thaumaturgy die out. “I propose a solution that is at once new and old: publishing. In this unprecedented age of literacy and with the recent advances in e-reading devices, a grimoire could be easily distributed.”

  “Write a new grimoire?” Mary Mitchell objected. “That is your grand plan?” She looked at the others, contempt plain on her face. “We cannot even find new recruits, and you want to rewrite our grimoire?”

  “No.” James took a deep breath. This was the place where his idea was the most unorthodox. “My plan is to release the grimoire to potential recruits. To self-publish it in the hope that some of those who find it have the will and talent to practice the spells.”

  There was a long silence. Damian looked shellshocked, Lauren was sitting back in her chair with her eyes focused on the middle distance, and Mary was fuming. The others wore expressions of disbelief.

  Only Mother LeBlanc seemed calm. Her half-smile adorned her face as usual, and she leaned lightly on one arm, watching the others.

  “You mean,” Mary asked finally, “give out our secrets to the entire world?”

  Everyone looked at James.

  “Yes,” James said simply.

  His calm acceptance made Mary look like she was about to have an aneurysm. She glanced around at the rest of the table for support, but no one seemed to know what to say.

  “For those who cannot use magic, the book will seem like nothing more than a novelty.” The voice was a surprise. Even James swung his head around in shock.

  He had not expected Mother LeBlanc to weigh in.

  “But some will,” Mary snapped. “For God’s sake, will none of you say how insane this proposition is?”

  “I have concerns,” Damian admitted. “While my knowledge of the …social internet is not good, I cannot imagine how you mean to track who has downloaded the book and who has not. Are you able to do such a thing?”

  LeBlanc looked at James curiously. She did not yet know about this piece of his plan.

  “A good question,” James said. “I have created a method by which I will be able to find new thaumaturges. In fact, it’s sitting in front of you right now.”

  The Twelve leaned forward. The heavy silver bowl in front of them was filled with water, and, now that they were looking, a map of the United States lay at the bottom.

  “Watch,” James told them. He activated the spell that would utilize th
e scrying bowl and a golden dot appeared over upstate New York, along with smaller ones in several other areas of the country. “We are able to scry for thaumaturges.”

  “You have to know what you’re scrying for,” Mary Mitchell objected.

  “We are scrying for magic,” James told her. He was proud of this invention. It had taken weeks of thought to come up with a way he could find the new recruits once they had tried the spells. “As we know, manifesting and drawing upon magic happens after the art is being consistently practiced. This will not show us potential recruits—it can’t—but it will show us those who begin using magic after the book has been released.”

  There was a moment of silence. Damian was smiling now, as was Lauren.

  Mary wasn’t. “When has anyone become a great thaumaturge simply by reading a printed tome?”

  “It is unorthodox.” James suspected she was using tradition as a pretext to avoid having to deal with the work that would go into processing new recruits, but he held back from disagreeing with anyone just yet. He had learned to take the opinions of the others into account, and the other attendees were still contemplating her words.

  “I must agree with Ms. Mitchell,” Lauren said. Her tone was regretful but firm, and her earlier smile was gone. “Magic is only mastered through a long apprenticeship of hands-on practice guided by a master. This would be like trying to learn martial arts from a book without ever sparring with a real-life opponent, or trying to learn to drive by reading a manual but never getting behind the wheel with someone who’s done it before.”

  Others nodded, but no one spoke.

  Seeing his opening, James cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. There was truth, however unwelcome, in what they said, but he had considered the problem while coming up with the idea.

  “Lauren and Ms. Mitchell bring up a good point,” he said. “Thaumaturgy is an art beyond words, relying as it does on the proper understanding of magical forces. We have all had apprentices, and we have seen that all minds understand language differently—and, therefore, must find unique ways to conceptualize the forces with which they work.”

  Everyone nodded now, even Mary, who had a look of triumph on her face.

  She wasn’t going to like what was coming next, James thought.

  He worked to keep his face straight and shrugged. “A book that has only a few ways to describe each concept will not reach every prospective student. We will fail to reach those whose understanding would have been gained by using different language or in-person instruction.”

  “If we will miss so many,” Mary riposted back at once, “the plan is fundamentally flawed.”

  James tried not to smile at his triumph. She had set him up perfectly to hit a home run.

  “However,” he said gravely, “at this time, we are finding no candidates. Finding any allows us to begin growing our ranks again, and with more thaumaturges out in the world, we will have a better chance of reaching the others. But we must start somewhere.”

  Mary fell silent. She was indeed quite unhappy with him, but she could not refute his point. In addition, the others were now paying more attention.

  “The idea is to rope them in,” James said. “Lay out the basics so they are drawn in the direction of traditional instruction methods.”

  Nods went around the table.

  “We will make it difficult to see who has published the book,” James continued. “That will make it easy for us to find them before they find us. My background in advertising, meanwhile, will help me with the branding and so on that will allow the book to reach the widest possible distribution.”

  Damian snorted. “I have to say, I’ll be amused to watch you try to advertise thaumaturgy to today’s youth.”

  “We haven’t agreed to this yet,” Mary Mitchell snapped.

  “Ms. Mitchell makes a very good point,” Mother LeBlanc said gravely. “James has presented his idea but has also agreed to abide by the decision of this Congress. We should now put it to a vote.”

  James sat back in his chair, his heart beating fast. He trusted Mother LeBlanc’s instinct on when to have the vote, but it was still very sudden. He had been working on this idea for months, and now…

  Now, it was going to happen.

  Or not.

  Mother LeBlanc waited as calmly as if she had no stake in the matter.

  “Aye,” Lauren said after a moment.

  “Aye,” Damian agreed with a nod.

  James’s heart leaped. Four more and this was in the bag.

  “You’ll make me say it?” Mary asked them. “This is a ridiculous idea. Nay.”

  “Aye,” Carter Brooks weighed in, his voice deep.

  “Aye,” Rosa Sanchez agreed.

  “Aye.”

  Every head swung around. James had not expected Mother LeBlanc to indicate her preference at this point. She inclined her head to him. “Your plan is well-thought-out, and our need is great.”

  After that, the matter was as good as settled. There was one other nay, somewhat of a surprise, but the rest agreed. Mary Mitchell left soon after, her face set in a scowl, and James tried not to worry what might come of that.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Carter advised him. The older man nodded and clapped James on the shoulder. “A new era calls for new techniques. It is uncomfortable for all of us, but it is necessary.”

  “Agreed,” Lauren added. She smiled at James as she slipped out the door.

  “How close are you to publishing?” Damian inquired.

  “Very,” James admitted. “I collected the grimoire materials just in case. It’s surprisingly easy to publish an e-book. Creating a bestseller is more difficult, but I’m looking forward to that challenge.”

  “Yes, and to get back to my question, how are you going to advertise it?” Damian was laughing.

  “You don’t think Being A Noble and Solemne Studie of Thaumaturgy will appeal to the youth of today?” Rosa teased.

  The others laughed and looked at James, who hesitated. He knew this last idea was going to be just as uncomfortable for them as the rest of it.

  “Actually,” he said, “I, uh…I came up with a title, too. I want to call it How to Be a Badass Witch.”

  Chapter Three

  Present Day

  Kera yawned. A scalding shower had helped her wake up, as had two cups of ridiculously strong coffee, but she was still feeling the lack of sleep.

  Thanks a lot, Mom.

  She padded into the main part of her living area, combing her still-wet hair with her fingers. When searching for apartments, she had found a converted warehouse. Judging by the bare-bones nature of the bathroom, this place had been meant to be used as a workshop of some kind, allowing someone to clean off engine grease or sawdust before heading home, but Kera had seen the potential in it.

  The bathroom and shower were separate from the rest, but otherwise, her home was all one big open space, which was fine with her. She’d cleaned things up and brought in a handful of furnishings, though most were as bare-bones as the bathroom: wooden pallets to go under her futon, a serviceable butcher block table that had been hellish to get up here, a work stool that was too high for the table, and an office chair that was too low.

  On the side of the warehouse pierced by huge double doors were her motorcycle and a pile of used workout equipment she’d gotten as an insanely good deal but hadn’t yet put up. Kera stared at that area for a moment and tried to come up with the energy to hang up the punching bag and clean the weights.

  “Maybe I’ll be a better person tomorrow,” she muttered finally and headed for the fridge, where she pulled out a pre-packaged salad and an iced mocha.

  She settled into the office chair and looked around as she ate. Choosing this apartment had been one of the first things that was entirely her own selection, and working at the bar had been another.

  Her mother didn’t approve of either.

  Kera ate quickly, keeping an eye on the time. It was 3:09 when she finished, wh
ich meant she had time to do an oil change on her motorcycle, Zee. She threw away the packaging from her food and got out the oversized grease-covered t-shirt she wore for motorcycle repairs.

  Zee was a 2017 Kawasaki Z900 and by far her most prized possession. After the classic Z1000, Kawasaki had downgraded to the somewhat half-assed Z800. It was a good enough bike, but it had been rushed to market, in her opinion. Plus, why would they count down rather than up?

  She wasn’t the only one who’d had reservations, and Kawasaki had plugged the gap between the two with the Z900, intended as a replacement for both. It was a relatively no-frills model compared to recent high-end motorbikes, with things like electronic aids being kept to a minimum.

  As far as she was concerned, the Z900 was a bike for people who appreciated the history and tradition of bikes. It wasn’t for short-term trend-chasers.

  In keeping with the model’s focus on the basics, Kera had opted for the black-on-black version. It wasn’t as striking as the ones with the green accents, but flashy colors weren’t necessary. The ride was the important thing.

  And at that, it excelled. Smooth to ride at lower speeds. Nice and easy for driving around town, but capable of revving its way up to something far more ferocious on the freeway or the back road in the boondocks.

  Zee was five years old and she took good care of him, as well he deserved. Right now, he needed an oil change. That was a quick enough job.

  “Don’t worry, Zee,” she said in a soft voice, “today’s the day. I promised you wouldn’t have to wait any longer.” Over the years, nearly everyone she met had rolled their eyes at her habit of speaking to inanimate objects.

  Kera didn’t care. In her experience, things worked better when you spoke to them. She regularly thanked her alarm clock, her microwave, and Zee, to name a few things. She thanked her phone less often, but that was because it was what her mother used to get in touch with her.

  She knelt next to Zee with a smile and set the motorcycle up for the task, spreading out the necessary tools, the oil, and towels and rags. All of those were stored in a large wooden box, which kept the area reasonably neat. Given that she lived in a warehouse, she wasn’t worried about making a mess or spilling a drop of oil, but as her father liked to say, you should do something correctly or not do it at all.