Bring Me Your Midnight

by Rachel Griffin

Genres: YA Paranormal; YA Romance

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Nature of Witches and Wild is the Witch comes a lush romantic fantasy about forbidden love, the choices we make, and the pull between duty and desire.

*Featuring an exclusive case only available on the first print run!

Tana Fairchild's fate has never been in question. Her life has been planned out since the moment she was born: she is to marry the governor's son, Landon, and secure an unprecedented alliance between the witches of her island home and the mainlanders who see her very existence as a threat.

Tana's coven has appeased those who fear their power for years by releasing most of their magic into the ocean during the full moon. But when Tana misses the midnight ritual—a fatal mistake—there is no one she can turn to for help…until she meets Wolfe.

Wolfe claims he is from a coven that practices dark magic, making him one of the only people who can help her. But he refuses to let Tana's power rush into the sea, and instead teaches her his forbidden magic. A magic that makes her feel powerful. Alive.

As the sea grows more violent, her coven loses control of the currents, a danger that could destroy the alliance as well as her island. Tana will have to choose between love and duty, between loyalty to her people and loyalty to her heart. Marrying Landon would secure peace for her coven but losing Wolfe and his wild magic could cost her everything else.

 

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Release date: August 1, 2023

Publisher: Sourcebooks Fire

Print pages: 405

Sample

one

My mother once told me I was fortunate I’d never have to find where I belong. Being born with the last name Fairchild on a small island due west of the mainland meant I had already found it before I even knew to look. She’s right, the way she is about most things, but I’ve always thought that if I needed to find my true north, I’d find it in the depths of the sea.

The piercing cold of salt water and the thick silence feels more like home than the ornate five-bedroom house perched just two blocks from the shore. The water welcomes me as I wade in and submerge myself, the sounds of the island fading away until they are swallowed whole. My long hair floats out in every direction, and I push off the rocky bottom and swim, keeping my eyes open. The currents are getting stronger, and I watch for any signs of restlessness or agitation, but the sea is quiet.

For now.

I float on my back. The sun rises above the horizon, chasing away the dawn, and the hazy gray of early morning is replaced with rays of golden light that sparkle on the surface of the water. I’m the only one out here, and I can almost fool myself into believing I’m insignificant, a tiny speck in an impossibly vast world. And while the latter is certainly true, insignificant I am not. My mother made sure of that.

I roll over and dive toward the seafloor, deeper and deeper until the water cools and the sunlight fades, entirely unreachable. I pause close to the bottom, reveling in the way expectation and duty can’t follow me here. Reveling in the way my life feels like my own. My chest aches and my lungs beg for breath, and I finally relent, kicking toward the surface. The sea ejects me, and I gasp for air.

It’s still early, but the Witchery is coming to life in the distance. Many of us rise with the sun to take advantage of every minute of magic we can. The days are getting shorter as winter draws near, and the long nights of our northern island mean we will soon have even less time with our magic.

I take another deep breath as soft waves lap against me. I’ve already spent too much time out here, and I turn toward the shore, but something draws my attention. It looks like a flower, light and delicate as it rises through the water to greet the sun. I swim toward it and watch as it surfaces, gently floating an arm’s length away, inviting me to reach out and take it.

I blink, and the flower vanishes. I scan the water for any sign of it, but there is none, and I realize I must have imagined it. My mind is hazy with the upcoming ball, playing tricks on me in my favorite place. But it’s enough to undo the peace of the morning, and I swim back in, knowing there is too little time to recover it.

When the bottom is close enough to scrape my knees, I stand and trudge up the rocky beach, fighting the urge to look for the flower one final time. I wring out my hair and grab my towel from my bag. Salt clings to my skin, so familiar that I no longer rush to rinse it off. I slip into my sandals and twist my hair back in a low bun, then gather the rest of my things.

“Better hurry, Tana,” Mr. Kline calls from the sidewalk. “Your mother is on her way.”

“Already? She’s a half hour early.”

“You weren’t the only one up with the sun today.”

I give him a grateful wave and rush toward the perfumery, thoughts of the ball and the stress of being late mixing in my stomach, turning it sour. I should already be in the shop, getting ready for the stream of morning tourists, but the first ferry doesn’t dock for another forty-five minutes, and I’ve never revered the schedule the way my mother

wishes I would.

I turn onto Main Street, where dozens of magical shops line the cobblestone road like wildflowers in spring. Storefronts in baby pinks and sky blues, soft yellows and minty greens stand out against the often-overcast haze that blankets the Witchery, inviting people in, gently reassuring them that magic is as sweet and delicate as the colors of the doors they walked through. In an hour, this strip will be full of tourists and regulars from the mainland who visit our island for perfume, candles, tea, baked goods, natural textiles, and anything else we can infuse with magic.

Dense green vines climb stone walls, and clusters of wisteria hang above doorways, every detail meant to convey that this place is special, but not threatening. Peculiar, but not frightening. Enchanted, but not dangerous.

An island so lush and lovely, one might forget it was once a battlefield.

Large daphne shrubs encircle bronze street lanterns, their strong floral scent filling the air with more magic than we ever could. I sprint over the cobblestones until the perfumery comes into view on the corner. My best friend is waiting for me, leaning against the door with a cup of tea in each hand.

She raises an eyebrow at me as I bend over and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

“Here,” Ivy says, shoving the tea in my face. “It’s our Awaken blend.”

“I don’t need your magic,” I say, ignoring the tea. I push my key into the lock and open the door, ducking under a waterfall of lavender wisteria.

“Really? Because you look terrible.”

“How bad?” I ask.

“There’s seaweed in your hair and salt crusted in your eyebrows,” she says.

I grab the tea from her and take a long sip. It feels good as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, its magic working instantly. My mind clears and energy moves through me. I rush into the back room and change out of my wet clothing and into a simple blue dress.

“Sit down,” Ivy says, and I give her a grateful look. Her dark brown eyes glimmer as she moves her hands over my face. I feel the salt lift from my skin and light makeup settle in its place. I don’t have a talent for makeup the way Ivy does; mine usually comes out too dramatic for my mother’s taste, but Ivy gets it perfect every time. As she works, I tame my hair, drying it instantly and letting it fall in loose waves down my back.

Ivy holds up a mirror.

My dress brings out the blue of my eyes, and my chestnut hair doesn’t look quite so plain with curls in it. Nothing about my appearance reveals that I was recently in the water, and while my mother will be pleased, I like the way I look when touched by nature and slightly disheveled, a person instead of a painting I’m afraid of messing up.

“Thank you for your help,” I say.

“How was your swim?” she asks.

“Not long enough.”

The small bell on the door rings just then, and my mother flits into the shop.

“Morning, girls,” she says as she walks into the back room. I sit up straighter when I see her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fairchild,” Ivy says with a smile.

My mother looks polished as always, her blond hair pulled back into a simple knot, her tanned skin glistening with whatever new makeup she’s trying from Mrs. Rhodes’s skin care shop. Her lips are stained pink, and her blue eyes are rich and vibrant.

Always put together. The perfect new witch.

The floor is wet and littered with seaweed, and my mother looks down. “Ivy won’t always be here to cover up your failings, Tana. Clean this up,” she says, leaving the room.

I grab a mop from the closet and wipe up the mess, ignoring the sting of my mother’s words. I throw away the bits of seaweed that followed me into the shop and make sure the tile is dry before putting the mop away. Magic is tied to living things, and unfortunately, that doesn’t extend to the floor.

“We almost had her,” I whisper. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime,” Ivy says, taking a sip of her tea. She’s always put together as well, never late for work at her parents’ tea shop, never disheveled or groggy when she arrives. Her brown skin glows without magic, and her dark curls bounce lightly over her shoulders as she moves.

I grab a bunch of dried lavender from a glass jar on the wall and take out a mortar and pestle from the cupboard beneath the island. My dad and I made the work surface from a large piece of driftwood we found on the shore, and I run my hand over the smooth wood grain.

Early morning sun drifts in through the store’s front windows, stretching into the back room and illuminating all the varietals of plants and herbs. Ivy enjoys her tea as I create the base of a bath oil, closing my eyes and picturing how it feels to fall asleep, the heavy calm and gentle sinking of it. I let the feeling tumble into the lavender until

 the petals are drenched. Practicing magic is my favorite thing to do, and though I’m creating an oil to calm others, it has the same effect on me. This is when I’m happiest, when I feel most at home.

The bell rings again, and I reluctantly open my eyes. I recognize Mrs. Astor’s voice before I even look up, a regular from the mainland who comes to the Witchery for two things: magic and gossip.

“Good morning, Ingrid,” she singsongs to my mother, taking her by the hand, a gesture of friendship my mother likes to remind me is only possible because of the sacrifices made by the generations of witches who came before us.

“How are you, Sheila?”

“I should be asking you the same question,” Mrs. Astor says, giving my mother a significant look. “There are rumors circulating on the mainland, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Oh?” my mother asks, busying herself with some glass bottles on the counter.

I turn my back to the door and try to focus on the lavender.

Ivy nudges my arm and nods toward the woman. “Listen,” she whispers.

“Don’t play coy with me, dear. Something about your daughter and the governor’s son?”

I hold my breath, waiting to hear how my mother will respond. The rumor is true, of course, but timing is everything, as my mother says.

“You know as well as I do that I don’t like to share anything unless it’s settled.”

“Can we expect a… settlement anytime soon?”

My mother pauses. Then, “Yes, I should think so.”

Mrs. Astor lets out a tiny shriek, then congratulates my mother and gushes as she buys two new perfumes.

I quietly shut the door to the back room and rest against it, closing my eyes.

“News travels quickly,” Ivy says.

“News travels as quickly as my mother wants it to,” I correct her.

I just swam, but I want to run from the shop and dive into the sea, silencing Mrs. Astor and my mother and the expectations that weigh on me.

Ivy sips the last of her tea and hands me mine. “You should finish this.”

I take it from her and

 drink it down.

“Before I go, how are you doing with all this? It was one thing when your mom decided it was time to start your courtship with Landon. It’s another thing now that it’s truly happening.”

“This is huge for us,” I say. “It would be the most high-profile marriage between a witch and a mainlander in history. It would completely solidify our coven’s place in society.”

Ivy rolls her eyes. “I didn’t ask how your mom persuaded you. I asked how you’re doing.”

I exhale, moving closer to her. “Did you read any articles about the dock fire?”

The words are so quiet I’m not sure if Ivy heard me, but after a moment, she slowly shakes her head. “Only what was in the paper here.”

“I went to the mainland and read every newspaper I could find,” I say, watching the door to ensure my mother doesn’t walk in. “And you know what? There was hardly anything.”

A look of confusion settles on Ivy’s face. The fire happened one month ago, when a mainlander who didn’t trust magic or witches rowed to our island in a wooden boat and set our docks ablaze, trying to destroy the ferry route between the mainland and the Witchery. Trying to cut us off. As soon as my mother learned the details, she said it was time to begin my courtship with Landon.

“Why did you go there?” she asks me.

“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see how the mainland felt about it, how strongly they would condemn it. It never occurred to me that I’d find just three short articles that never even called it what it was. I know it’s a small subset of people who feel that way, but things like this will continue to happen until the mainland takes a firm position on the Witchery, and what better way to do that than the future ruler marrying a witch? It’s the most powerful statement they can make. If Landon and I were already married and the mainland had officially written their protection of the Witchery into law, would our docks have been burned? We don’t even know how harshly the man who did it is being punished, if at all. It’s easy to feel like we’re protected with the sea separating us, but we aren’t.”

Ivy nods along to my words. “Mom locked our doors that night. It was the first time I could ever remember her doing that.”

“It’s time for Landon and me to announce our courtship. I’m ready.”

The truth is that the fire only affected the timing. My life has been mapped out for me since the day I was born. This is my role—keeping my coven safe by cementing our place among the mainlanders. It’s a role I’m proud to play, even though it isn’t up to me.

“Well, then,” Ivy says, wrapping her arm around my shoulders, “I suppose it’s a good thing he’s handsome.”

“He most certainly is

,” I say, laughing.

Ivy takes my cup from me and walks toward the door.

“Thank you for asking,” I say. She turns. “It’s nice to be asked.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, because I’m going to keep bringing it up.” She grins and walks out the door, saying goodbye to my mother as she leaves.

I’ve known my parents’ plan for this wedding since I was a little girl, and Landon is a good person. He’s decent and kind. We will formally announce our engagement on the same day as my Covenant Ball, when I will bind myself to my coven for the rest of my life. It’s the same ritual every witch must go through, a choice that can never be altered, can never be undone. I must choose my coven or the outside, seal it with magic, and never look back. Without that choice, magic becomes volatile and dangerous.

Even magic needs a home.

In many ways, I’ve been preparing for the ball for nineteen years. It makes sense to share it with Landon.

My mother has never sat down with me to ask my thoughts on the plans my grandparents set in motion, to find out if I would be okay with leaving the Witchery and becoming part of the mainland’s ruling family. If I would trade my magic for jewels, my swims for social calls.

Every so often, I think it would be nice if she asked, if only so I could look her in the eye and tell her with absolute certainty that yes, I’m committed to this path we’re on.

I love my parents and my coven with my whole heart. I love this island with my whole heart. And I will do whatever it takes to secure our place in this world, even if it means marrying a man I don’t love in order to protect all the  things I do.

 

two

I always take the long way home. I like to breathe the salty air and feel the rocks under my feet, listen as the waves roll onto the shore over and over again. The eastern edge of the Witchery disappears into the Passage, giving way to the arm of the sea that separates us from the mainland.

The mainland rises in the distance, countless buildings and crowded streets stark against the horizon. A large clock tower anchors the city, and while we can’t hear the bells this far out, its presence is undeniable. It’s an impressive sight to behold, and from the shores of the Witchery, it looks almost fanciful, like something from a book.

It’s hard for me to picture what my life will be like when I marry Landon and live on the mainland. The Witchery is my home, with its rocky beaches and cobblestone roads, old stone buildings and plants that cover every inch of them. I love it here. And even though the mainland is only an hour-long ferry ride away, it feels too far.

I’ll still come here, of course. I’ll help my parents at the perfumery, and I’ll be here every full moon for the rush, but I want these moments of walking home, stopping on the beach, looking out at the mainland in the distance.

I don’t want to look at the Witchery in the distance instead.

I shake my head. It’s not that I don’t want it, I tell myself. It’s just that I’ll need to get used to it. I take comfort in knowing the earliest witches lived on the mainland, that they moved only to preserve their magic. If they could build lives there, so can I.

Sunset is in one hour, and the last ferry out will leave several hours after that. The island will rest, breathe in deep after a long day of busy streets and eager tourists and delicate magic. Magic that can’t meaningfully change a person’s life or even make much of a difference, in the grand scheme of things.

Magic that is only a shadow of what my ancestors practiced. But that’s the price of being accepted in society, of having our hands shaken instead of bound, our cheeks kissed instead of slapped, our island celebrated instead of burned.

I’ve never known more than the gentle magic of the Witchery, but I’ve heard rumors about what our ancestors were capable of. Controlling the elements. Cheating death. Compelling others. Sometimes it scares me, knowing the same magic that ran through their veins runs through my own, that there is something inside me far stronger than the perfumes in our shop or Ivy’s most potent tea.

I sit down on the shore, not caring that my blue dress will get damp and dirty, not caring that my mother will comment on my appearance when I arrive home, the way she always does. She wants me to be more put together, more polished, more presentable.

More like her.

But she doesn’t see what I see: the most beautiful things are wild.

I push my fingers into the rocks and sand, feel the jagged edges and rough grains. Our shore is smaller than it used to be, the angry currents carving away at it, carrying it off to other parts of the island or swallowing it altogether.

My mother says I spend too much time worrying, that she and the other coven leaders have things under control. But the currents are getting stronger, and it won’t be long before they snatch a boat from the surface and pull it to the bottom of the sea.

We’ll see how fully the mainlanders accept us when our currents drown one of their own.

But once I’m married to Landon, his father will extend the government’s protection to us, not only in promises spoken at fancy parties but in written law. There will be no going back after that, not even if a ship sinks in our

 waters or our currents grow more violent.

This is the kind of security my ancestors only dreamed about, the kind of security that not even moving off the mainland could afford them. Because as soon as the witches made the island their home, fear among the mainlanders ran rampant. The only thing more terrifying than seeing our magic on their streets was not seeing us at all; we could be doing anything on the island.

At first it was an idea born of pure desperation, that magic could be something to delight in instead of something to fear. That this island could be a place mainlanders wanted to visit instead of a hideaway for witches and evil. Out of sheer force of will, my ancestors created an entirely new order of magic, softening their power and tending to the island so they could survive. They only practiced magic in daylight, never hiding it in darkness. They gave up the terrifying parts of magic and magnified the wondrous parts. They were kind to the mainlanders who monitored the island, smiling when they really wanted to curse them to the depths of the sea.

And it paid off.

The waves are coming quicker now, rolling up the shore and licking at my legs. I close my eyes and listen, let the rest of the Witchery fade away as I imagine myself under the water. Most silence is unbearably fragile, stolen by a single voice, a shattered glass, a muffled cry. But the silence underwater is thick and sturdy and impenetrable.

The sky is turning orange and pink, as if Mrs. Rhodes has taken her brightest eye shadows and smeared them across the horizon. I’ll be scolded for more than just my appearance if I’m not home for dinner, so I push myself off the ground and stretch.

I take one long, deep breath and let the salty air fill my lungs, but I stop when something in the water catches my eye.

A flower, exactly like the one I thought I saw this morning.

The world is getting darker by the minute, but I’m sure of what I’m seeing. Without thinking, I rush into the waves and dive under, swimming toward the bloom that bobs and sways with the rolling of the sea.

It stays put as I get closer, as if it’s anchored to the bottom somehow. The waves still and the flower comes into sharper focus, my entire body tensing as it does. I gasp and thrash backward.

It can’t be real. I’ve never seen one in person. My heart slams into my ribs, fear seizing me.

The flower rocks side to side, only unfurling with the arrival of evening or in the presence of a witch. The trumpet-shaped bloom has stark white petals that almost shimmer, reminiscent of the moon at its fullest.

Moonflower, deceptively beautiful and fatal to witches.

It doesn’t look threatening, though, with its long, white petals tightly curled together. It looks beautiful.

But I suppose we’re meant to think the most dangerous things are lovely.

The flower slowly unfurls, opening up to me as I shake with terror. The sea is stirring, and my breath catches when the flower gets caught in a current and swirls around in the water, going faster and faster until it’s finally sucked below the surface. I kick my legs and shoot my arms out in front of me, pulling with everything I have, trying to create some distance between the current and me. I swim as fast as I can and beg the shore to meet me halfway.

Land is getting closer, and I reach for it, stretching my arms as far as they’ll go. I finally touch the bottom and pull myself the rest of the way up the beach, ignoring the jagged rocks that cut up my knees.

The moonflower is gone, but I’m certain it was there, so mesmerizing that I can’t quite bring myself to see it for what it is: a harbinger.

Before the witches moved here, the island was used solely for harvesting plants and herbs, and only rarely. Endless fields of the poisonous flowers made it a perilous task, but when the mainland outlawed the use of magic, the witches chose to move to the island, a refuge just beyond the reach of the mainland’s laws. It took years to get rid of the flowers, and I wish I could go back in time and tell the witches who came before me that one day the mainlanders would help us get rid of the deadly blooms, help us create a home here after all but banishing us so many years ago. And they would do such a good job of it that there would be a generation of new witches who would never see a single moonflower in person.

Until now.

A sharp, prickling sensation begins at the base of my neck, crawling all the way down my spine. I turn my back on the water and run the whole way home. Every light is on in the two-story house, the tall glass windows framing my father cooking dinner and my mother pouring a glass of red wine.

She puts the glass to her lips and closes her eyes, creating her own kind of silence.

I walk around to the back of the house and quietly slip into the mudroom. As soon as I’m inside, I pull my soaking-wet dress up and over my head, wrap a towel around me, and quietly walk up the back staircase.

“Tana,” my mother says behind me. I jump. “Where have you been?”

She asks the question even though it’s obvious where I was. “I thought I saw something in the water,” I say. My dress is dripping on the hardwood steps, and I roll it into my towel to stop the mess.

“I told you to come straight home and help your father with dinner. Why were you there in the first place?”

I don’t answer because nothing I say will satisfy her.

My mother sighs. “Go get cleaned up, and then you can tell me what you saw in the water.” Her wine sways from side to side as she turns and walks away.

I hurry upstairs to dry off, shuddering as I catch a glimpse of the sea. The sea is my safe place, my refuge, my haven. But tonight, it was dangerous. ...