When I came back to myself, I was sitting on the freezing floor of the morgue with charred bodies around me. My lungs burned for air. I choked loudly, suffocating.
I had been holding my breath since those memories swallowed me, for who knows how long.
Cold sweat clung to my clothes on my lower back.
What were those images in my head?
Why did I suddenly remember something my mind had blocked for years?
My mother’s death had not been caused by cardiac arrest, as I had been told. She died because I touched her. Because whatever magic was inherited by the women of the Dyer bloodline had awakened in me that night, when I was only seven years old.
And it made me kill her with my own hands.
I wasn’t a witch.
I was a monster.
My magic wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. A burden that had been
