Grachi — __hot__

“Correction,” Grachi said, feeling the spark in her chest wake up. “One professional witch-hunter team. And one witch who is very, very tired of being afraid.”

“I followed the trail of fried vending machines,” he said, sitting down next to her in the muck without hesitation. He wasn’t scared. His dark eyes were calm. “So. You’re a witch.” grachi

The next morning, she woke up to find her hair floating. Not in a cute, wind-blown way. It was levitating, a dark curly halo of static defiance. She screamed, slapped it down, and it sprang right back up. Her mother, a pragmatic nurse, chalked it up to “humidity and teenage hormones.” “Correction,” Grachi said, feeling the spark in her

Gracia “Grachi” Alvarez was not supposed to be special. She was a sixteen-year-old whose greatest ambition was to pass her pre-calc final and maybe, just maybe, get Diego Reyes to notice she existed. But on the night of the freak electrical storm, as she walked home through Coral Way, the air smelled of ozone and burnt sugar. A crack of green-tinged lightning struck the streetlamp above her. He wasn’t scared

The obsidian beads scattered like dark rain. And the world screamed .