Grachi — _hot_

She raised her own hand—and a black, viscous smoke poured from her palm. Anti-magic. The hunter’s curse.

The first rule of being a teenage witch in Miami-Dade County, she quickly learned, is that magic hates a schedule. She accidentally turned her history teacher’s chalk into a gecko during a lecture on the Spanish Inquisition. She made the school’s entire vending machine dispense nothing but pastelitos —which, frankly, made her a legend for about six hours. But the worst accident happened during cheerleading tryouts. A rival, the icy and impossibly perfect Mía Valdez, had sabotaged Grachi’s pom-poms. Grachi, in a flash of instinct and rage, flicked her wrist.

She didn’t have the bracelet. She didn’t have control. But she had something better: a reason. grachi

“How did you—” she started.

“And what’s that?”

“Abuela, I’m kind of freaking out—”

Grachi ran. She didn’t stop until she reached the mangrove preserve behind the school, a swampy, tangled place where the city’s lights couldn’t reach. She collapsed in the mud, sobbing, electricity crackling off her in erratic, painful arcs. She raised her own hand—and a black, viscous

“Path of Heart,” she whispered.