Chapter Two

Rita

"Blackthorn wasn’t built for the weak," Gogo said, stirring a steaming cup of rooibos tea with a long, carved bone spoon. The scent of cinnamon and earth filled the kitchen as Rita leaned in, listening.

"Three founders—a witch, a werewolf, and a vampire—came together in a time when our kind had to hide or be hunted. They made a place where magic wasn’t just tolerated. It thrived."

Rita traced the rim of her own cup. "So it was always a school?"

"No." Gogo’s dark eyes gleamed. "At first, it was a refuge. A secret. Then, as more of us were born into power, it became something greater." She set the spoon down with a deliberate clink. "But remember this, Sthandwa—no matter how polished the halls or how sweet the smiles, everyone there is still a predator in their own way."

Rita’s fingers tightened around her cup.

"Witches covet power. Werewolves hunger for dominance. Vampires? They crave control." Gogo reached across the table, pressing a beaded bracelet into Rita’s palm. "You will attract them. Your magic is a beacon. Choose your allies wisely."

 

"A coven is more than shared spells," Gogo continued, slipping into Zulu as she often did when speaking of sacred things. "It is a bond of blood, trust, and fate. To break it is to fracture a piece of your soul."

Rita hesitated. "You were in one, right?"

A shadow crossed her grandmother’s face. "A twelve. The strongest kind. Eleven sisters and one brother—a rare bond." She touched the beaded necklace at her throat, the one Rita had never seen her remove. "But one betrayed us. For power. For a man." Her voice hardened. "I spent years in KwaZulu-Natal, bathed in the rivers, cleansed by Sangomas. The betrayal clung to me like a curse."

Rita’s stomach dropped. She’d always assumed Gogo’s trips home were nostalgia. Now, she understood—they were healing.

"So… no covens?" Rita asked weakly.

Gogo’s laugh was sharp. "No. You must form one. But you must also be sure." She tapped Rita’s forehead. "Use this. Not just your heart."

 

Over the next week, Gogo armed her in subtler ways: Herbs tied in muslin—imphepho for clarity, umhlonyane for protection, beaded bracelets woven with charms against compulsion and a thick Basotho blanket, its geometric patterns hiding older, deeper wards.

"These will help," Gogo said, folding the blanket into Rita’s trunk. "But you are your best shield."

The night before Rita left, under a swollen full moon, Gogo led her to the field behind the house. A circle of salt, crushed herbs, and candlelight waited. Gogo wa;led right into the middle of the circle and Rita followed.

"Breathe in," Gogo commanded, pressing a smoldering bundle of imphepho to Rita’s chest. The smoke curled around her, thick and sweet. "This will cling to your spirit. It will turn away ill intentions."

Rita closed her eyes, letting the heat of the flames and the chill of the night sink into her bones.

 

The school rose from the mist like a castle from a dream—towering stone walls, arched windows glowing with inner light, and an iron gate etched with runes that hummed as they passed through in Gogo's truck.

Rita’s skin prickled. The air here crackled, alive with magic. Rita had never felt anything like it.

"Wow," she breathed.

Gogo smirked. "Just wait."

As the truck rumbled to a stop, Rita caught a flicker of movement in the shadows near the entrance—a pair of glowing eyes watching her.

Then, gone.

Her pulse jumped.

No, she thought, grinning. Definitely not boring.