Page 13 of Watch Me Turn
"A potion?"
"Something like that."
I inspect the dried herbs—feverfew, white willow bark, peppermint, yarrow—and start measuring them into a mortar. The familiar ritual of grinding and mixing calms me. I pound the stalks to dust and try to imbue the pieces with cooling energy. I picture myself in the arctic, floating on a glacier, the chilled wind whipping strands of my frosted hair across my face.
"So if you're not a nurse, what are you? Some kind of witch?" he teases.
I feign outrage. "Me? A witch? What gave it away?" I laugh and gesture to the table of magical accoutrements. "Hey, listen. If you're going to watch, you should at least make yourself useful. Hand me that mugwort, would you? The green jar right there."
With a dramatic groan, he reaches for it and drops it in my palm like the exertion might kill him. I pay him no mind and scatter in a pinch before resuming my grinding.
He settles back into the couch, rubbing his temple as he speaks. "A witch, huh? Is that why you're watching over me? Someone paid you to put a hex on me?"
I scoff. "Goddess, no. Nothing like that. We're protectors, not enforcers. We look after precious things or valuable things. That's our whole deal."
"We?" he asks, shifting closer.
"The Malditas."
He cocks his head. "The cursed ones?"
"It's a bit of a misnomer. We Malditas are just witches who choose to become vampire. We straddle the line between living and dead. We're guardians, watchers. Women with witch blood who use vampirism to amplify our power."
"You went through this willingly?"
"I did. When I was twenty-two. My family didn't approve of me becoming one. They thought being a bruja was enough. They didn't understand why I'd want to...die."
I finish grinding the herbs and spit a good amount of saliva into the mixture so I can turn it into a paste. When I glance back at Angel, he's practically gagging, so I give him a wink.
"Why did you want to die?" he asks, looking away from the repulsive concoction.
I pause, pestle hovering over the mortar. Outside of my fellow Malditas, no one's ever asked me that before. My family certainly never did. They begged me to reconsider, threw every argument at me except the one that mattered: understanding why.
My dad came closest—told me he'd be proud of me whatever I chose—but even he couldn't quite hide the grief in his eyes. My mom and sisters were worse, so consumed by the idea of losing me to a gang of vampires that they couldn't hear anything I tried to say. No natural death. No place on the ofrenda.
"It was never about dying. I just wanted to fly," I whisper.
"What does that mean?"
"I just knew I was destined for more," I say, letting the mortar rest in my lap and shifting to face him. "I grew up hearing the stories about Las Malditas. A gang of legendary motorcycle-riding vampire witches who protected the most precious things on earth. Who were feared and revered for their strength, their skills, their superior magic. I wanted that. I wanted to be morethan just another bruja in Tucson doing revenge spells for scorned housewives."
He raises an eyebrow. "People fear you?"
"Some do. Mostly they respect us. When you see a Maldita coming, you know shit's about to get serious."
"Sorry, but you don't exactly scream 'fear me.' Even with that scar through your eyebrow, you look like a...muñeca. A tough muñeca, but a muñeca all the same."
My cheeks warm as I flash my fangs at him. "Give it time."
He actually smiles at that, and something tingly blooms in my chest. It's nice talking to him like this. When he's not screaming insults or trying to escape, he's almost...likable. Almost.
"Okay, Sophia the witch. How did you become a vampire? You have to ask someone to bite you or something?"
"It's not that simple," I say, shaking my head. "You can't just decide, and it's always so much more than just a bite. There's a whole ritual element. You need to be bitten, drained, drink from a vampire, and be branded with their mark for it to stick. La Madre—she's our maker, the first vampire bruja, the one who turns all of us—she doesn't accept just anyone. Women come from all over the world asking to join Las Malditas and be turned. Wiccans, voodoo practitioners, Nordic völvas, Slavic vedmas. She turns almost all of them away."
"But not you."
I chomp into my palm, and a gush of blood rushes to the surface. I hold it over the bowl and let it drip into the magic mixture, each drop coloring the contents in rich crimson and turning everything into a thick, red paste. I run the tip of my tongue along the wound and hold my hand up to Angel, who watches in fascination as the flesh seals together in an instant.
