Chapter One - The 13th of the Moon
Cyrene
I stop for a second while crossing the road to light my cigarette, when a blue Fiat Punto screeches to a halt and starts honking. I get it, the signal was red and I should have waited, but there is no need to honk like your life depends on it—such behavior pisses me off. “Learn to be patient,” I shout at the woman inside, louder than I intended. I flip her the bird and then walk away. Just so you know, I never walk away, I only walked away because that’s what I was already doing. With three kids in the car, you’d expect a woman like her to have more patience. She honks again as she passes me by.
“Fuck you,” I shout back in return. What a bitch!
I am cranky, I know, it’s that time of the month. No, it’s not what you think. It is the night before the full moon, the night of the coven meeting. I absolutely despise coven meetings. I loathe all the other witches—more like bitches, especially Minerva, the head witch. I don’t see the point of these meetings, what they accomplish and why the fuck are they always held on the night before the full moon. At this point in time, in this century, all witches know that the phase of the moon has no impact on the meeting, none whatsoever. Yet I’m the only one who has the balls to say it. And, obviously, all witches are required to attend.
As I wait for the bus at the station, another bus waddles away and my eyes land on the ad on it: ‘Models Wanted - Apply Now.’ I save the address from the ad on my phone and wonder whether or not I should apply. I know I am beautiful, I have always known that, but I am not sure if I am “model beautiful.” For starters, I am not stick-thin, or thin, at all. I workout and I am fit, have a stunning bosom that makes people gawk, a flat stomach, and long red hair that make me stand out. I also have light freckles on my face, nothing that I can’t cover with some powder. When my bus arrives, I shoulder my way in and head home.
After I am done with my household chores, I get to my computer and type in the address I saved earlier. It turns out that the ad was from Glance, a prominent modeling agency. And I meet the minimum height requirement: I am 5’11! All they ask for is a photo, so I pull out my phone and take some photos. None of them satisfy me and I take some more. I finally settle for a very neutral one because I think that’s what they will really want to see: not pouts, not me flipping birds, just a neutral expression. I email the photo and head to bed, tired down to the bone. Working two jobs isn’t easy. Try it sometime if you don’t believe me.
At about three in the morning, there’s some fierce knocking on my window. I lazily open my eyes and see Bats in the window.
“I am not going,” I say, pulling the duvet over my head.
“That’s not an option, Cyrene,” Bats says. “Come on, honey, it won’t be long.”
“Go away! I have to wake up for work in three hours.”
“Then let’s get going. I’ll have you back within the hour.”
“Tell the head bitch I quit being a witch.”
Bats taps on the window full force, rattling the window frame. “Open up or I’ll break the glass.”
I ignore her, curling up in bed. She smashes the window with the back of her broom, shattering the glass to pieces.
“Bathilda, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?” I scream as I jump out of the bed.
“Told you. Get your broom before I break the rest of the stuff here,” she warns in a saccharine way.
I know by now that she means it, so I whistle to my broom and it flies to me.
“God, what did you do with your broom,” Bats asks, “don’t you ever clean it?”
“No, Bathilda, I don’t clean my broom. I clean with my broom. You know, that’s what brooms are for.”
Since I am calling her Bathilda instead of Bats, she knows I’m pissed, so she doesn’t make any more conversation. As I step out the window, she sighs loudly. I know she can’t hold it in, and she finally speaks.
“Are you really going to go in your pajamas?”
“I only dress up for Halloween,” I say, hopping aboard my broom.
We shoot straight for the pitch-black sky and stop a little above the clouds. The rest of the coven is already gathered. There are eleven witches to be precise, standing in rows of three like an assembly at school. Minerva is sitting on the opposite side, facing them.
“So good of you to finally join us, Cyrene,” says Minerva in her calm, therapist-like voice that makes me want to pull my hair out. What’s worse is that she isn’t being sarcastic at all. As Bats and I take our place, there are only two witches standing out: Minerva with her green velvet cloak, her polished broom, her old-hag botox-hungry face and her floral crown with a mix of thirteen ever-fresh flowers; and me, with my straight-out-of-bed hair and pajamas, standing in stark contrast with the other eleven witches who are all dressed up in black cloaks and hats.
Minerva completely ignores me. I know she’s a prude and hates me for not dressing up, but she doesn’t say a thing about it. Although I can see her disdain for me in her violet eyes. She drones on and on about things that I have no interest in so I doze off. Then she clears her throat loudly, waking me up before she finally gets to the important stuff—all witches are given a task during every meeting that they have to complete before the next meeting. Given that my coven is the guardian of nature, our tasks are usually stupid so I won’t bore you with them.
I am the last one in the last row and I hadn’t paid any attention to what the meeting was all about, so Minerva decides to hand me the death sentence.
“Cyrene, as you know that the only remaining and the most important ingredient is—I have no idea what she’s talking about—dragon hairs, it falls upon you to procure them for the potion before the next meeting of the coven.”
“What?” I say, unable to believe what she had just said.
“Dragon hair, my dear, it’s not that hard of a task,” Minerva says.
“You are kidding, right?”
“No,” she says seriously.
“That’s a death sentence. Why not just kill me now?”
“Cyrene, my love, I would never put you in danger. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t know you could—”
“How am I supposed to find a Dragon Shifter? How do I know it won’t kill me?” I begin protesting.
“I am sure you will find a way,” she smiles. I know she’s cackling inside, the evil bitch that she is.
“Why don’t you give me an easier task? Ask Bats to get dragon hair. Ask someone else. Give me an easier task.”
“Have faith in yourself, my dear Cyrene.”
“But I don’t know how to…” I begin to protest again, but the bitch turns her broom around and swooshes away.
“Fuuuucccckkk!”