Page 76 of Boss Witch

I’ve attached photos I took in the archives, secrets I was never meant to know. This is what they’re concealing from the rest of the witch hunters—­there’s no holy calling.

Around the time of the first trials, there was a schism in the vivimancer line. They hired us to hunt their rivals to extinction. Those purges came down to money and power. At some point, our predecessors decided they didn’t like our origin story and they excised it. Apart from that copy I found, the original histories have all been burned or rewritten, casting us as heroes who fight against evil.

That’s not the case. It wasneverthe case.

At best, we were brutes and bounty hunters who sold our power to the highest bidder. You can read the details for yourself, though you may need to adjust the contrast if you try to print those pages. Camera phones were terrible twenty years ago, but it was all I had access to at the time.

They’re not chasing me simply because I fell in love with a witch, my lad. They’re hunting me because I know the truth, and it has the power to destroy them.

Witches need not fear us. We have no authority, no gifts they don’t already possess. We’ve simply spent centuries honing our talents for harm. Hunters have been the hounds for the order while the enforcers sever a witch’s connection to magic, taking away their identity, and they do it for profit. The order seizes a significant portion of each witch’s assets after each “successful conversion.”

It needs to end.

Perhaps you can succeed in this where I’ve failed. I have no ideas, only the certainty of what I’ve seen and experienced.

Please do the right thing.

Love always,

Grandad

Gavin stared at his screen, hardly able to credit what he was seeing. Then he fiddled with the images until he could make out the faded, crabbed writing in the journal. It was a personal account from one of the first witch hunters, and from what he could piece together, the man had been a vivimancer named Jeremiah, who took contracts to eliminate magical rivals.

He was a hired killer. That’s our glorious legacy.

Immediately, he wondered if his father knew about this.He must.But all Jase’s power and prestige was wrapped up in running the order. It would require a certain flexibility of mind to acknowledge that he was wrong—­that his worldview was bent and biased—­and that he needed to make amends.He’ll never admit to anything. He’ll never stop on his own.

This changes everything.

So many emotions whirled in Gavin’s head that he scarcely knew what to think or feel. Irrationally, he wanted to talk Clem about it, but she probably had no desire to ever see or speak to him again. He couldn’t blame her either. Before he lost his shit entirely, he wrote the email to Clem that he’d planned to send initially.

Sending a heads-­up. There are strangers in town, looking for you. I’ve given them nothing, but you should be watchful nonetheless. I’ll do whatever I can to help. It may not be enough.

There was so much more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the right words. His head was a messy place, too full of pain and echoes. So Gavin finally just added,Take care of yourself.And signed off as “English.”

Half-­dazed, he wandered outside. He knew about witches, of course, and their magical gifts. He’d studied the types of magic and the sorts of spells he might face if he stumbled into an ambush. Never once had he considered that his hunting senses or the powers he’d used to track them down stemmed from the same source.

Is that true?

It was late, the residential neighborhood quiet as the grave apart from a dog that wouldn’t settle down. The poor fellow kept barking, signaling a loneliness that Gavin shared, as it ripened from agitation into a mournful howl. Mina had hydrangea bushes planted alongside the house, and some of the blooms had wilted in the summer heat. Or maybe it was just the natural life cycle; Gavin didn’t know enough about gardening to be sure.

Feeling a bit silly, he plucked a dead blossom and cupped it in his palm. The petals were brown at the edges, fragile as a butterfly wing. He had no idea how to go about this, as it was nothing like his original training, but he wrapped his fingers around the flower and focused, imagining it flush and whole, pink as a sunrise. At first, nothing happened.

This is ridiculous. Maybe Grandad got it wrong? I’m not—­

Energy swirled up some long-­dormant part of him, trickling out through his fingers in a pleasurable shiver. This was nothing like the predatory and punitive skills he’d learned from his father. No, it was sweet and wholesome, like offering generously of himself to a creature in need. When he opened his hand, the hydrangea was furiously fuchsia, vibrant as the ones still attached to the shrub. It even smelled sweeter than the others, gently transmuted into a magical artifact.

I brought it back.Stunned, he stared at the fresh bloom in his hand.

“Grandad is right. I’m a witch. I’m a fucking witch,” he whispered.

Finally, a tiny voice said, or rather—­Gavin heard it with his mind, not his ears. Benson popped his head out of Gavin’s pocket and gazed up at him with bright, black eyes.

It’s been so boring and lonely waiting for you to figure things out, but now we can have a proper chat. My name’s not Benson, by the way, but I’ve gotten used to it.

“This cannot be happening,” Gavin said faintly.

The mouse went on as if he hadn’t spoken.Anyway, I’m your familiar, and I havesomuch to teach you.

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