I woke up screaming for the third time that week, and honestly, I was getting tired of my own dramatics.
The dream clung to me like smoke, all fire and shadows and a woman's voice calling a name that wasn't mine but felt like it should be. I pressed my palms against my eyes, willing my racing heart to calm down, willing the phantom smell of burning to leave my nostrils. The same nightmare had been haunting me for weeks now, getting worse as my twenty-fourth birthday crept closer. Two more weeks. Just two more weeks until I turned twenty-four, and something about that felt significant in a way I couldn't explain.
"Sera?" Luna's voice drifted through my bedroom door, soft with concern. "You okay? That's the third nightmare this week."
I shoved myself out of bed, grabbing my threadbare robe against the November chill. Our radiator had died around Halloween, and I couldn't afford to fix it. Being a witch who sold protection charms and herb bundles at an occult bookstore didn't exactly pay the bills, but it was honest work.
"I'm fine," I called back, forcing brightness into my voice. "Just weird dreams. Too much coffee before bed."
"You don't drink coffee after three," Luna said, her don't bullshit me tone clear even through the door.
I opened it to find Luna Martinez standing there in cartoon cat pajamas, her dark hair in a messy bun, concern written across her face. She'd been my roommate and best friend for two years, the closest thing I had to family. She was human, blessedly normal, with no idea that the girl she lived with could coax plants to grow with a whisper or accidentally set things on fire when angry.
"You look awful," she said, brushing hair from my face. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine. Just need coffee." I squeezed her hand and headed for our tiny kitchen before she could ask more questions I couldn't answer.
An hour later, I was walking through Chicago's winter cold toward The Grimoire, the occult bookstore where I'd worked for the past three years. The shop sat wedged between a vintage clothing store and a vegan café in Wicker Park, its weathered sign hanging crooked above a door that stuck in humid weather. Inside smelled of incense, old paper, and the herbs I kept in jars behind the counter.
My boss, Marcus, was already there, restocking candles in the front display. He was sixty-something, gray-bearded, and had owned The Grimoire for thirty years. He knew I was a real witch, one of the few people who did, and he'd given me this job when I aged out of foster care at eighteen with nowhere to go.
"Morning, Sera," he said, glancing up. "You look like hell."
"So I've been told." I grabbed my apron from the back room and tied it on. "Nightmares again."
Marcus's expression shifted to something like concern, but he didn't push. That was one thing I appreciated about him. He understood boundaries, understood that some witches carried secrets that weren't meant for sharing.
The morning passed slowly. I helped customers find crystals and tarot decks, mixed custom herb bundles for protection and clarity, and tried not to think about the shadows I'd seen moving in my apartment last night. Tried not to think about how my magic had been acting strange lately, doing things without my permission. Lights flickering when I was angry. Plants growing too fast when I touched them. Small things. Weird things that shouldn't be happening.
Around noon, the bell above the door chimed, and three women walked in. I recognized them immediately. Celeste, Morgan, and Diana from the local coven. My stomach tightened. I'd been attending their monthly gatherings for a year now, hoping to find community, hoping to belong somewhere. It hadn't worked out the way I'd hoped.
"Seraphine," Celeste said, her tone cool as she approached the counter. She was in her forties, the coven leader, with red hair and sharp eyes that always made me feel like I was being judged. "We need to talk."
I set down the inventory clipboard. "About what?"
"About you." Morgan stepped forward, younger than Celeste but just as unwelcoming. "We've been discussing it, and we think it's best if you stop attending our gatherings."
The words hit like a slap. "What? Why?"
"Your energy is off," Diana said quietly, almost apologetically. "It makes everyone uncomfortable. Your magic feels different. Wrong. We can't have that kind of instability in our circle."
Wrong. The word echoed in my head. I'd heard it before, in every foster home that couldn't deal with the weird kid who made lights flicker. In every school where I didn't quite fit. Now here, in the one place I'd hoped might accept me.
"I haven't done anything," I said, hating how small my voice sounded.
"It's not about what you've done." Celeste's expression was firm. "It's about what you are. Whatever power you're carrying, it's not like ours. It's something else. Something darker. And we can't risk it contaminating our work."
They left without buying anything, the bell chiming mockingly as the door closed behind them. I stood there, hands gripping the counter edge, trying to breathe through the familiar ache of rejection. Of course they didn't want me. Nobody ever did. I was always too much or not enough, always wrong in ways I couldn't fix.
"Don't listen to them," Marcus said quietly from across the shop. "They're scared of what they don't understand. Always have been."
But his kindness couldn't erase the truth. I was different. Even among witches, I didn't belong.
The rest of the day dragged. I went through the motions, smiled at customers, pretended everything was fine. But underneath, that familiar feeling grew stronger. The feeling that I was waiting for something. That something was coming for me, and I couldn't run from it much longer.
When I finally got home that evening, Luna was in the kitchen making dinner. She took one look at my face and pulled me into a hug without asking questions. That was Luna. Always knowing exactly what I needed.
"Rough day?" she asked.
"Something like that." I sank onto our threadbare couch, exhaustion hitting me all at once.
"Well, I have news that might cheer you up," Luna said, bringing me tea. "I'm planning a party for your birthday. Just small, a few people, nothing crazy."
"Luna—"
"Don't even try to argue." She grinned. "You're turning twenty-four. That's practically a milestone. We're celebrating whether you like it or not."
Twenty-four. Two weeks away. That number kept circling my brain like a vulture, carrying a weight I didn't understand.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to Luna's soft snoring from the next room. The shadows in the corners seemed darker than usual, moving in ways shadows shouldn't move. And in my chest, something stirred. Something that felt like power waking up after a very long sleep.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the dreams, about the coven's rejection, about the feeling that my entire life was about to change in ways I couldn't possibly prepare for.
Two weeks until my twenty-fourth birthday.
Two weeks until everything I thought I knew about myself would shatter completely.