The Poisons We Drink

by Bethany Baptiste

Genres: YA Dystopian; YA Contemporary

Synopsis

In a country divided between humans and witchers, Venus Stoneheart hustles as a brewer making illegal love potions to support her family.

Love potions is a dangerous business. Brewing has painful, debilitating side effects, and getting caught means death or a prison sentence. But what Venus is most afraid of is the dark, sentient magic within her.

Then an enemy's iron bullet kills her mother, Venus's life implodes. Keeping her reckless little sister Janus safe is now her responsibility. When the powerful Grand Witcher, the ruthless head of her coven, offers Venus the chance to punish her mother's killer, she has to pay a steep price for revenge. The cost? Brew poisonous potions to enslave D.C.'s most influential politicians.

As Venus crawls deeper into the corrupt underbelly of her city, the line between magic and power blurs, and it's hard to tell who to trust…Herself included.

The Poisons We Drink is a potent YA debut about a world where love potions are weaponized against hate and prejudice, sisterhood is unbreakable, and self-love is life and death.

 

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Release date: April 30, 2024

Publisher: Sourcebooks Fire

Print pages: 474

Content advisory: Several triggers included in this book. Please be mindful of these topics and triggers. Self-care is essential if you’re sensitive to any of the above.

Sample

CHAPTERZERO

An internal gift exists within all breathing things to recognize where one stands in the food chain. Witchers are what humans could’ve been, but according to scientists, a missing link in the evolutionary chain sent the two species in separate directions. However, magic doesn’t make witchers superior to humans. For what humans lack in magic, they make up for it with something even more dangerous. Power.

—Candis Joyner, a witcher journalist for The Societal Mirror

JUNE 4, 2023

He shouldn’t have come here. He stopped just past the doorway’s mouth, squinting his aging eyes behind his thick spectacles. Even in the dark, he sensed them all weighing his worth.

Witchers.

The old man gulped, his heart doubling in pace.

A row of thirteen light bulbs dangled above the bar and aimed a spotlight on a dark-skinned Black man enjoying a wood-tip cigarillo. He had fine dreadlocks woven into two thick braids. A white bar towel swirled across the counter’s marred surface without a single hand to aid it.

“Uh, good evening, sir,” the old man stammered.

The bartender’s closed eyelids didn’t twitch or peel up at the pathetic greeting.

“I have an appointment with,” the old man swept his eyes for eavesdroppers, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Prospero.”

The bartender brought the cigarillo to his lips for another draw. Two puffs of wispy gray rushed out his nostrils and muddled together in a cloud. His eyelids opened to unveil cold dark irises.

The old man shrank back as the bartender planted his hands on the counter and leaned in.

“Does it look like I’m a fuckin’ receptionist?” His teeth clenched the polished wood tip. The dull golden light revealed his muscular arms and the inked rattlesnake on his right forearm.

The old man shook his head quickly.

Not at the question but in disbelief as the snake moved.

Before his brain could properly process the sight, the tattoo snapped forward as if to strike. He stumbled backward, earning the bartender’s deep-chested chuckle.

“Don’t be so mean, Bram,” an Indian American woman said, feigning disappointment as she sat on a nearby barstool.

The lime-green parakeet perched on her shoulder so still that he might have mistaken it for a toy. Until it turned its head to stare him down. Its eyes glowed and flickered like embers as it scrutinized him before the incandescence petered out.

A familiar. 

Taking flight, it glided across the bar area, disappearing through the mouth of a corridor.

The woman shot him a charming smile as she lifted her whiskey glass to her lips, ice clanking inside the confined sea of dark liquor.

“You weren’t—you weren’t there a moment ago,” he said, his tone full of self-doubt.

A sudden ache of confusion pulsed in his head.

The woman winked as she placed her tumbler down, tracing stiletto-nailed fingertips around the rim.

“I’m a bit of an opportunist for making fashionable entrances,” she said. “I’m sure a gentleman such as yourself understands that.”

The old man stuttered, “I’m not one for fashionable entrances.”

And though he was more than eager to make an unfashionable retreat, he understood it was too late for that now.

He was too deep in a lion’s den to scurry away like a mouse.

She giggled at his expense.

“No need to be ashamed,” she assured. “We won’t judge.”

Bram snorted his disagreement. “I judge.”

The woman ignored the bartender’s comment. “Our mutual friend sent me here to collect you, Mr. Mou—”

“Mouse,” the old man sputtered.

A human’s true name had more worth than money in dealings such as these.

“Mr. Mouse it is, then,” she said, nodding once.

“And what might I call you?” he asked, hesitant.

She downed the rest of her drink in one go and uncrossed her legs. Her silk-ruched gown the color of plums rippled as she slid off the barstool.

“Nisha,” she replied, her finger beckoning him. “Now, please follow me.”

Mr. Mouse trailed behind her and kept his attention on her head of loose inky-black curls curtaining down her back, too afraid to lock eyes with other witchers not as kind as the one in front of him. He didn’t consider them animals, but they scrutinized his movements like predators.

“Good luck,” Bram said. “You’ll need it.”

Nisha guided him down a hallway, leading him past an odd fixture.

A wooden phone booth.

The sight made his eyebrows scrunch together.

In a thriving age of wild youth and technology, that phone booth didn’t belong.

It was a relic of another time—like him.

An old testament to a world that died when the new millennium took its first breaths and witchers willingly made themselves known to humans. The Great Discovery. That’s what historians coined that period when the truth split society at the seams.

The metallic creak of rusted hinges reeled him back to the present, the door yawning to reveal the manager’s office filled with a mighty mahogany desk, quilted leather chairs, and an imposing bookshelf brimmed with dangerous knowledge.

His escort rounded the desk and leaned down to whisper in the ear of their mutual friend. A slow turn revealed a man in his late twenties with green hair parted and slicked back. His sepia eyes had a weary wisdom to them as if he were the oldest thing here.

Prospero’s lip quirked up at the old man’s arrival.

“Please, come in and join us, Mr. Mouse,” Prospero said, gesturing to an empty seat before his grand desk. “I won’t eat you.”

“He already ate,” Nisha quipped, remaining at her employer’s side.

Mr. Mouse peered from beyond the doorway before he complied. He jerked his head around, startled as the door creaked shut on its own. Timid steps led him to a quilted leather seat—his spine as straight and rigid as a steel rod.

“Very few humans have the nerve to walk into the Golden Coin and utter aloud a name many fear. I commend you for your bravery,” Prospero said.

“I’m not brave,” Mr. Mouse said urgently. “I’m desperate.”

A dreadful cough crawled up his lungs and throat. He emptied it into his arm’s crook. When the fit passed, he swallowed bloody spit like a bitter, coppery pill.

“It’s not impossible to be both,” Prospero returned as Mr. Mouse caught his breath, “but I understand that time is of the essence for you and your delicate situation. However, I assume you have my fee before we begin this consultation.”

“Yes,” Mr. Mouse.

wheezed out. His shaky hand yanked the meaty envelope from his jacket’s pocket, dropping it onto the desk.

Nisha’s sharp nail opened it with a surgical slice.

A melody of rustling paper filled the office as the crisp hundred-dollar bills traveled through a counting machine. A pleased smile etched her mouth.

Prospero snapped his fingers, and a crude gold coin materialized in his hand. The coin swayed as it rose and rolled across his palm.

“There are many options to choose from, but all come at a cost—”

“Money isn’t an issue,” Mr. Mouse said, his unexpected boldness surprising himself. He softened his tone, his stiff backbone relaxing as if he were indeed among friends—and not natural enemies. “I have enough of it. Had had enough of it. It won’t help. I’ve accepted that.”

The coin stilled on Prospero’s pale knuckles. “Then what is it you desire?”

“I want—” Mr. Mouse hesitated as his old sins surfaced like faded scars and peeled open to bleed out guilt and regret. “I want love from someone that no longer wants anything to do with me.”

Prospero chuckled.

Softly at first, then louder until the sound melted away and the only evidence of his amusement was the widening ancient smile of a trickster.

“You passed a phone booth in the hallway. It’s home to the Black Book, a phonebook for every need and greed you desire. Step inside and search for the Love Witcher,” he instructed, flicking the coin.

Mr. Mouse’s fumbling hands reached out to catch it, but it halted midair directly in front of his face. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he grabbed it.

Tiny vibrations of magic soaked into his fingertips, bloodstream, and bones.

He felt light-headed and liberated all at once as he grasped the key to his problems.

“Thank you, Prospero.” He bowed his head as he got up, feeding off the sudden energy surging through his veins. Was this what hope felt like?

The door immediately opened for him.

Prepared to leave, he froze at Nisha’s voice.

“Be careful, Mr. Mouse,” Nisha said. “The love you seek will glitter like gold to

draw you in, but it’s nothing more than a mirage, and mirages always fade. If love is what you desire, a familiar’s love and loyalty are unconditional.” She folded her arms on the chair’s crest. “I can summon the perfect one for you.”

In search of hers, he glanced around the office. “If they’re so loyal, where’s yours?”

A soft smirk of mischief curved her lips. “Oh, he’s around.”

Briefly, Mr. Mouse considered the offer of a magical companion, but his heart refused to budge. He wagged his head, turning to leave. “When you’ve done the things I’ve done and seen the things I’ve seen, a mirage is a welcome change. Pretending gives a comfort I don’t deserve.”

As he exited the office and the door began to shut behind him, Prospero said, “As long as you know it for what it is.”

Mr. Mouse did, and he always would.

He entered the phone booth. A fat leather-bound telephone book waited for him. Peeling back the cover, he dove into a world of advertisements and lofty-priced promises glowing like stars against the black pages.

His eyes combed hungrily, searching for any mention of a Love Witcher in a bewildering sea of witchery trades he didn’t understand.

He huddled over the monstrous book, sweat glistening on his brow.

His heartbeat throbbed in his achy tight throat.

“There,” Mr. Mouse blurted, jabbing a fingertip at the full-page ad with a border of pulsing hearts.

He found it.

A trembling hand brought a phone to his ear as he jammed a coin into a slot and dialed.

“How did you get this number?” The answerer’s sharp words possessed a heavy accusatory air, inducing his guilt before he even dared to open his mouth.

“From the Black Book. I need your expertise.”

“And what expertise do you think it is?”

This call was dangerous. They both knew it.

“Love,” he uttered.

He suffered a long, painful pause.

Finally, she spoke.

“I’m listening." 

CHAPTERONE

A negative empath can detect, feel, and sometimes even feed on others’ negative moods, emotions, and temperaments. However, this ability can be unpredictable: both strong and subtle emotions might occasionally go undetected. Despite its inconsistencies, the negativity from others can cause the negative empath either pain or pleasure, and for magical adepts, it can even amplify their power temporarily.

—Witcherpedia, an online witchery encyclopedia

JUNE 5, 2023

Venus Stoneheart didn’t need to read Mr. Lionel’s mind to know he couldn’t stand her ass. All the things he wanted to do and say to her broadcasted loudly in his glare as they stood on their respective sides of the street. His hatred for her swept across her skin like a tide of pinpricks.

“Good morning, Mr. Lionel.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, hawking a wad of spit in her direction.

The glob splattered onto the street, glistening like a hideous jewel. He greeted her with this when he moved in three weeks ago. His first attempt promptly dribbled down his chin. The sight made her bite her inner cheek until she tasted blood to hold in all her laughter.

Every morning since, they bound themselves in this odd morning ritual.

Venus believed it was rewarding to help him get better at something. She also had a running bet with her uncle and little sister that she could get the old man to spit in the shallow pothole two feet and seven inches from his curb.

Today, he was about a foot off.

She refrained from congratulating him on his new improvement as he straightened the skewed Iron Watch signage on his front yard.

An emblem of witcher hatred.

Deanwood, a witcher enclave in northeast DC, had its fair share of vacant houses. Several were abandoned by witchers who fled to California or Canada for safety.

Some families got forced out by banks or landlords. That was the case for the family that once lived in the house Mr. Lionel now owned. Like most gentrifiers, he probably thought being here would help clean up the neighborhood.

But Deanwood didn’t need cleaning.

It wasn’t dirty.

When she blew him a kiss, his hatred sharpened against her skin, pinpricks intensifying to jabs as punishment.

In her robe’s pocket, she clenched a fist at the pain.

Some empaths could feel everyone’s everything. Others could only sense shades of happiness or the depths of confusion. As for Venus, the universe played in her face by making her a magnet for negative emotions.

A beacon for anger, fear, hate, and worse to find their way out of the dark.

Having had enough, Mr. Lionel shuffled back to the porch with his newspaper and slammed his iron-barred door shut.

Iron, a witcher’s natural enemy, kept him safe.

She relaxed as the link between them severed.

“Good morning to you, too,” Venus muttered, swirling on her bunny slippers to go back inside. Her cousin Tyrell snored loudly on the living room couch, belly-up and head dangling off the cushion edge.

She strolled into the kitchen, claiming her usual spot at the table.

Her half-awake uncle entered right after her, wearing his ribbed tank top, basketball shorts, and a satin robe. His slippers slapped the tile floor with every step. Occasionally, he’d crash here after all-night shifts, using exhaustion as an excuse not to drive five miles south to Anacostia.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, his real reason was loneliness.

“Hey, Uncle Bram,” she greeted, slipping the newspaper out of its thin plastic sleeve.

He shot her a tired grin. “Morning, Pinkie.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname, alluding to her cotton-candy-pink dye job.

A fresh batch of morning joe waited in the coffee maker. At Uncle Bram’s doing, invisible hands prepared two mugs and carried them toward the table. He trailed right behind the cups, spiking his coffee with a splash from his trusty flask.

She combed through shiny sheets of grocery coupons and sales, always searching for things she needed for her main hustle. All the while, her pastel-purple mug found its way to her.

Uncle Bram nodded his gratitude as she offered up the newspaper she had no use for.

A comfortable silence fell between them until one of Tyrell’s gurgling snores reached the kitchen.

Uncle Bram brought his mug to his lips but paused at the sound.

He arched a thick eyebrow at her. “Again?”

Again, as in after another fight with his mom, Tyrell decided to claim their couch as his for a few days.

“Yup,” she answered, shrugging.

Uncle Bram took his first sip, his eyes bulging as he rattled out a cough. 

Acute concern edged her voice. “Um, you okay?”

He blinked away tears as he let out a wheezy chuckle. “Yeah, this is good stuff. It’s waking my ass up.”

“Naw, sounds like it’s beating your ass.” Venus drew in her brows, unconvinced.

Janus, her younger sister, dragged herself through the back door, looking like a cross between roadkill and a hangover personified. Her mane of ombre gray curls was a frizzy mess. Smudged mascara adorned her eyes. The loose blue crop top she wore had questionable stains.

Venus closed her eyes briefly, relief whispering through her. Then she went for a sip. “Good to know you didn’t die last night.”

Translation: Thanks for not returning any of my texts, you bitch.

“It’s not my time to go yet,” Janus croaked. She stole the mug from Venus’s hands and gulped from it boldly.

“Oh, thanks for the coffee, Vee. No problem at all, Jay,” Venus said, feigning annoyance to disguise her amusement.

“I’ll say thank you for the coffee after I drink it all,” Janus replied matter-of-factly as she plopped into her designated spot and propped up her glittery Converse sneakers.

Uncle Bram brushed her feet off the table, and she whimpered in protest.

Another loud snore from the living room garnered Janus’s attention.

She blinked. “Again?”

“Again,” Venus and Uncle Bram chorused.

Then their uncle eyed Janus over the edge of his newspaper. “Since you made it back in one piece, I suppose it’s safe to assume the SWIGs didn’t raid your little party?”

SWIGs, an acronym for Security for Witchers-in-Gathering, was the name of an iron-armed police tactical response unit. The law prohibited witchers

from holding social assemblies or occupying public establishments in gatherings of thirteen or more. And to enforce said law, the SWIGs used brutal tactics to bring witchers in or take them down.

Venus no longer had an appetite for parties. Parties, no matter the size, seemed too intimate for her now. Too many bodies and emotions in one confined place made her claustrophobic. Aside from dodging iron bullets and avoiding arrest, a raid was the worst place for somebody like her. A breeding ground for negative emotions as witchers ran for their lives and SWIGs took lives.

Only adding more oxygen to a fire bottled up inside her.

A fire that ached to be an inferno.

If it broke free, everyone was fucked.

“Yup, different party.” Janus hid her smug smile as she drank more coffee. “Not that it matters anyway. I’m pretty sure I’d get away without breaking a sweat.”

Three years ago, she could barely open a portal to go two streets over. Now, she could go to familiar places within a city radius and open a doorway as quickly as twisting a doorknob.

Uncle Bram frowned, lowering his newspaper. “Don’t get cocky, Jay. All it takes is a split second for a Swigger to pull a trigger while you’re trying to summon a doorway. Callings aren’t bulletproof.”

All witchers possessed two things: a birthright and a calling.

A birthright was innate magic typical to all witchers, but callings were unique abilities awoken on thirteenth birthdays. No one truly knew how many callings were out there, though. Some were common or hereditary, and others were rare. Each had its struggles and limitations that only time or luck could sort out. Uncle Bram could crush bones and lift cars with his superior strength. So, he kept his touch gentle, used his magic to handle things his hands couldn’t, and avoided giving hugs. Sometimes, he even enchanted fragile possessions he found joy in, so they wouldn’t break. Like his coffee mug and flask. Tyrell inherited shapeshifting from his mom. For him, change brought nothing but pain. So, he preferred to be himself even if bodily urges wanted the opposite for him.

As for Venus, sensing emotions was only the iceberg tip of her calling.

Janus pursed her lips. “I’m better than you think, Uncle Bee.”

“I ain’t doubting that, but someone out there will always be better than you at something,” Uncle Bram said. “For us, it’s humans that like aiming guns loaded with iron bullets.”

Janus darted her eyes over to Venus as a silent petition for support.

“Uncle Bee’s right. The SWIGs are busting too many parties. I don’t think it’ll kill you to be a homebody until everything cools down.” After saying her piece, Venus noticed the subtle wince of betrayal glitch across

Janus’s face.

Guilt sat heavy in her stomach, forcing her to revert her attention to the coupon pages.

Janus snorted a bitter laugh as she stood. “I’m sorry if I’m not scared shitless by humans.”

Venus cast her gaze to the kitchen ceiling, her lips crimping in slight irritation. Not enough caffeine was in her system to deal with this back-and-forth, but she set the record straight anyway.

“I’m not scared of them either, Jay. I just know what they’re capable of.”

“If humans do terrible things, then why do you work for them and take their money, Venus?” Though delivered as a question, Janus’s words felt like an answer and opinion all rolled into one.

“To pay the bills. Electricity, food, and clothes aren’t free. Without money, you wouldn’t have a home to stumble into hungover and looking like a hot mess.” Venus levied a play-with-it-if-you-want-to glare at her sister.

Uncle Bram mouthed the word damn.

Then their mom, Clarissa, entered the kitchen. Long, brown microlocs spilled from her high ponytail, framing her oval face. She wore a red T-shirt and mom jeans ironed to perfection. Her seven-year-old white sneakers looked brand new.

Already ready for the day.

“Janus, shouldn’t you be trying to recover properly from your nightly escapades?” she asked coolly.

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” Janus gave a two-finger salute and departed, taking along the stolen coffee.

Venus felt a foreign annoyance flare up in her rib cage.

Janus’s annoyance.

Her sister invaded the living room and sat crisscross before the flat-screen, hiking up the volume obnoxiously loud. A tiny act of rebellion everyone else ignored.

“A potential client called last night,” Clarissa said, fixing herself a cup.

“How did he get our number?” Venus asked.

“Prospero,” Uncle Bram answered, his magic turning a page.

Clarissa claimed her seat at the head of the table.

“I’m assuming you’ve met him,” she asked her older brother, mild intrigue tingeing her tone.

“He came into the bar last night looking for Prospero. Nisha had a bit of fun

beforehand,” Uncle Bram said, shaking his head. “He insisted on being called Mr. Mouse.”

Venus restrained her snicker.

With an alias like that, the dude was asking to be played with.

She cleared her throat. “And how did that work out for him, Uncle Bee?”

He whistled, hiking his eyebrows. “I’m surprised he didn’t faint. I’m sure Prospero didn’t mind one bit. That finder’s fee of ten grand’ll probably go toward his expensive-ass wardrobe.”

“I don’t mind, either,” Clarissa said. “Clients like him are the best. They’ll pay just about anything to get what they want.” She smirked, resting her elbows on the table.

Venus didn’t blame her mother for searching for silver linings. Money made shit a little easier to swallow, but running an illegal operation was tricky.

And deadly.

Once, Clarissa was the Love Witcher, but her greed backfired and sent her to early retirement. For a long time, their family struggled until Venus was old enough to help.

After all, bills didn’t pay themselves.

Venus hustled as a brewer, a maker of potions. Brewing possessed more risks than rewards, resulting in a near-dead trade. Human fairy tales and movies always depicted misconceptions about brewing. Tossing a few oddly named ingredients into a bubbling cauldron and chanting a spell didn’t equal a voilà.

Brewing required a price.

Brewing demanded a pain so excruciating that if you lived, you’d wish you died. The culprit was called the degree of recoil, a potion’s chemical blowback.

Brewing was a fatal art, but doing what she did helped keep her calling at bay.

“Are you thinking about me, sweet girl?” A croaky voice breezed into her mind’s depths.

Go away, she whispered into the dark of her mind, sounding so meek and unsure she immediately hated herself for it.

“Venus Genevieve, are you listening?” Her mother’s words sliced through her thoughts.

Venus blinked, startled for a moment. She made a quick recovery but steeled herself far too late. Though Uncle Bram gave her a concerned look,

she dreaded her mother’s critical regard, always trying to find a crack in her foundation. Always in search of a glimmer of weakness, no matter how minuscule.

Clarissa cradled her WORLD’S BEST MOM mug, clicking a manicured fingernail on the porcelain. “Did you take your reinforcement potion this morning?”

The question hung in the air like a rancid odor, and Venus wrinkled her nose accordingly.

“Venus,” Clarissa drawled out the syllables in the way only disappointed mothers could. “You promised to be more consistent.”

“I’m sorry if it wasn’t on my mind before my first cup of coffee.” Venus massaged her temple as a headache wafted in.

“It should be. We can’t leave anything to chance.” Her mother’s anger crept in slow, snaking around Venus’s limbs and tightening ever so slightly.

“I don’t think the world will end if I don’t take it right now.”

“Would it be so bad if it did?” The voice whispered to her and only her.

Shut the hell up, Venus ordered within herself, adding more boom and authority to the command, which pleased her.

“I guess we’ll never know because that’s exactly what you’re about to do.” Clarissa marched to the fridge and slung open the door, retrieving a polished oak box with a golden buckle lock. She withdrew a corked glass vial brimmed with fluid the color of crushed mulberries, muttering about low supply.

As Clarissa’s hand delivered it, resentment burned in Venus’s chest.

“How does it feel to know your own mother doesn’t trust us?” The voice taunted.

“Do you even trust…me?” The word us singed her tongue’s tip, and she bit down hard as a tiny punishment to herself.

“I don’t trust It,” Clarissa replied, holding out the vial.

Such a simplistic, deceiving name for her deviation.

Sentient parasitic magic that imposed will as It sought fit. And as Its host, she was a deviant, merely a vessel to administer and infect. Most witchers could not bend another’s will without the help of a potion, but for the rare unfortunate few like Venus, swaying, bending, and breaking a prey’s volition was as easy as breathing.

To be a deviant meant she and It were dangerous and unpredictable.

Especially when It made others want to hurt each other and worse.

Much, much worse.

Her mother and Uncle Bram peered at her intently as she took the vial, watching her as if she were an animal expected to do a trick.

“So pathetic. Go on. Show both of them how you’re such a good girl,” It taunted.

Venus uncorked the vial, guzzling swiftly. The reinforcement potion slithered down her throat like curdled milk, tainting her taste buds with an awful combo of citrus and copper.

She coughed violently, tears swelling in her eyes. Her stomach lurched with a wave of nausea. Hugging her belly, she hunched forward. Her body trembled as the potion seeped into the fabric of her being to reinforce a cage for It.

It quieted down, but she still sensed It like a secondary heartbeat.

Steady and unwavering.

A constant reminder It would die when she did.

“As I was saying, Mr. Mouse will schedule a pickup at the usual spot. Techie’ll meet him beforehand as your buffer,” Clarissa resumed. “Are you listening?”

A terrible ringing echoed in Venus’s ears. She barely heard her mother underneath it, muffled but understandable, as if her head were underwater.

“Yes,” Venus rasped out.

“Oh, and we’re out of—”

A fed-up Uncle Bram growled, “Rissa, shut the hell up for a minute. Give the girl some time to recover.”

Clarissa exhaled sharply. “She’ll be fine. The effects will wear off in two minutes.”

“That ain’t the point.” He rose to offer Venus his coffee as a chaser. An ineffective method for washing away the harsh residue of magic that coated her throat, but she appreciated the gesture.

“Thanks, Uncle Bee,” Venus croaked, gathering her strength to take a great gulp.

His eyes cut over to his younger sister, and he requested tightly, “I wanna talk to you for a sec.”

Clarissa’s narrowed

eyes locked with his, her thinning patience matching his, but she stood nonetheless. They both exited through the back door.

Venus didn’t need to be a fly on the wall to know the topic of discussion unfolding outside. Clarissa’s love was odd and jagged. It never quite fit as it should, but there was no other place for it to go. Uncle Bram argued with her about it, hoping his words would sand down hers, but it never worked. Her mother’s love was here to stay.

Too embedded in her chromosomes to evolve.

After the potion’s side effects subsided, Venus tested the strength of her legs and wobbled toward the living room as Janus flipped through the channels while Tyrell snored.

A beautiful older Afro-Latina anchor stared dead straight at them.

“…believed to be the latest victim in a string of murders plaguing DC. Bringing the body toll to ten witchers. During a press conference, the chief of police asked for patience from the witcher community during this ongoing investigation. This prompted a response from the Witchers Against Species Persecution cofounder Malik Jenkins.”

Janus’s slumped spine perked up at the mention of her dad. She untangled her crossed legs and crawled a little closer to the screen, engrossed as the segment played snippets of his response video.

“…we will continue to fight for equality for witchers and h—”

Humans. Malik was going to say “humans,” but the video switched seamlessly to another incomplete statement that fit just as well.

Venus rolled her eyes at that, gripping the couch’s cushioned arm for support.

“…hold law enforcement responsible for their poor efforts in this investigation while a ruthless killer targets innocent witchers. Justice will be swift, kindred and allies. We’ll fight to ensure it.”

Janus appeared so childlike and eager at that promise.

Then the TV switched off.

Behind them, their mom stood there with the spare remote in her hand. “What have I told you about watching that nonsense?”

Clarissa often used the word nonsense and her ex-husband’s name interchangeably, which always, always, always set Janus off.

Venus bit her 

Venus bit her bottom lip hard, bracing herself for the explosion.

“It’s not nonsense!” Janus said, jumping to her feet. “There’s a killer out there hunting down witchers, and the police don’t care at all! WASP wants to change how humans treat us. Why is that such a bad thing? How can you shoot down something you helped—”

Two bolts of ire lit up Venus’s insides, clashing together.

The battle made her body a battlefield.

Her heart punched and her blood incensed.

“That’s enough, Janus!” Clarissa snapped, her tone vicious and eyes bright with authority. “Fighting against the system is like going against a house of cards. The deck will always be stacked against you!”

Tyrell jerked awake, his brow wrinkling deep in confusion.

Instinct pushed Venus to stagger before her sister to act as a shield.

Janus flinched, her boldness shrinking back. Her anger gave way to a spike of fear. A point that drove itself into Venus, making her grimace.

Uncle Bram threw his hands up defeatedly, casting his sister a disappointed glance before he walked away.

Clarissa composed herself, pointing to the hallway. “I think it’s time for you to rest in your room. You’ve had quite a long night. Your sister and I need to handle business.”

“Even if the deck’s stacked against me, I refuse to fold,” Janus retorted, storming out of the room.

“As I was saying earlier, we’re out of burner phones. You need to make a store run,” Clarissa informed coolly, peeping at her wristwatch purchased with blood money. “You have little time, so I suggest you hurry.”

Venus clenched her jaw, watching her mom return to the kitchen.

“What the hell’s going on?” Tyrell asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” Venus said. “It’s over with now.”

 

CHAPTERTWO

Brystle isn’t just a witcher-friendly rideshare app. Its existence is an ongoing protest against the Limit-12 Law. We offer a safe, affordable alternative to public transportation. As the country’s largest witcher-owned employer, we pay our drivers fair wages and are 100 percent committed to their safety. Movement is progress. That’s our motto. Join us for the ride.

—Khalil Robinson, CEO of Brystle Audio excerpt of a 2019 commercial

To survive the outside world, Venus needed to blend in.

To be forgettable.

She gazed into her vanity’s mirror, ...