Then a deep-red light glides across the sky like a satin streamer in a gymnastics routine, impossible to miss.
I drop the mugs. They hit the floor and shatter.
I sprint out of the cabin with Josh right behind me.
The instability in the atmosphere stings my skin as soon as we’re outside, thousands of tiny shocks burning my arms and causing the hairs to stand on end. The light show continues overhead as we run toward the gardens. Colors dance across the night sky in waves of green and blue, spirals of purple and yellow, as if the Sun herself is finger painting on the upper atmosphere.
The aurora borealis lights up our campus, drenching us in amazing color. But we aren’t in Alaska or Norway or Iceland. We’re in northern Pennsylvania, nestled up against the Poconos.
The aurora borealis is the last thing we want to see.
Students were already in the garden to celebrate the equinox, but anxious whispers and nervous silence have replaced the laughter and cheering from earlier. Cups of cider and cinnamon tea lie abandoned on the cobblestone paths, and everyone has their heads tilted toward the sky. Josh stands next to me, his usual loose stance replaced with a straight spine and clenched fists.
“Have you ever seen this before?” His eyes are wide, and there’s wonder in his voice. Wonder and fear.
“No.”
A band of neon green arches across the sky, pulsing upward into shades of red and pink. Someone behind me gasps, and a shiver runs up my spine.
For the past twenty years, witches have been stationed at both poles to help direct the sun’s charged particles. We’re immune to the radiation the particles carry, but if they were to get through the atmosphere, the rate of radiation poisoning in the shaders would soar.
The shaders insist that magic is our area of expertise and that they don’t want to get involved, don’t want to be in our way. That’s what they don’t understand—they are in our way, a huge barricade so wide we can’t get around them, their indifference so toxic it’s destroying the only home we have. Magic is a stopgap, a stabilizer. It isn’t a solution. We need the shaders’ help, but no one wants to hear they’re part of the problem—that they are the problem now.
We’re doing all that we can do, but the rest is up to them.
“What the hell is happening?” Josh keeps his eyes on the lights above us, and I’m not sure if he wants an answer or not.
“There aren’t enough witches to temper all the places the shaders have developed. Magic was never meant to be used this extensively—the Earth needs untamed territories, free from humans and free from control.” I keep my head tilted toward the sky. “Now it’s fighting back, and we can’t handle it all.”
Another burst of solar wind hits the atmosphere, and violet light glides across the sky, momentarily illuminating the garden where we’re standing.
“We should be strong enough to stabilize things,” Paige says from beside me. I didn’t see her walk over, but I’m not surprised she’s here.
“What do you mean?” Josh asks her.
Paige looks him up and down. She frowns before turning her eyes to me. “Haven’t you heard? Our generation has been blessed with an Everwitch.”
“Don’t do this, Paige.” Heat rises up my neck. I glare at her, but she isn’t fazed.
“Do what? Don’t you think he has a right to know that you’re willingly putting us all at risk by not using the power you have? It’s no coincidence that the first Ever in over a hundred years was born now, when we need her so badly. Only we got one who doesn’t want anything to do with magic.” Paige practically spits the words out.
That’s the problem with letting someone see your insides: they still know your secrets long after the relationship ends. They still know exactly what to say to hurt you.
“She has her reasons.” It’s sweet of Josh to stand up for me, but it won’t do any good.
“I know her reasons a hell of a lot better than you do.” Paige’s tone is so biting that Josh closes his mouth and swallows the words he was about to say. Paige looks at me. “The game has changed, and if a few people have to die in order for you to help, it’s worth it.” She says it like a true winter, but the smallest hint of sadness softens her words.
“I’m not sure Nikki would agree with you.” My voice is so quiet only Paige can hear, and I watch as the words slap her in the face. She recoils slightly and swallows hard.
I want to take it back as soon as I say it. Nikki’s death hit Paige as hard as it hit me. The three of us had been inseparable, Nikki’s passion and spontaneity a perfect contrast to Paige’s candor and precision, both of their steadiness a perfect balance for me.
When Paige and I started dating, Nikki was never weird about it. Paige and I spent hours planning how we’d tell her, agonizing over every word. When we finally told her, she burst out laughing and shrieked, “You both look terrified!”
She was laughing so hard she started choking, tears streaming down her face, and soon I was laughing with her. It was the kind of laughter that was so unbridled, so utterly ridiculous, that even Paige couldn’t keep a straight face. And that was that. We never brought it up again, and Nikki never let herself feel like the third wheel because she never was.
I blink the memory away and look at Paige. “I will not let you or anyone else tell me what I should be doing with my life.”
Paige’s eyes turn from angry to sad. She shakes her head. “What a waste,” she says.
Solar wind strikes the nitrogen atoms sixty miles up, bathing Paige’s back in a vibrant blue glow as she walks away.
What a waste.
I try to shake it off, but her words
