Chapter 1
With a gasp, Joan wakes in the dead of night. The dream still lingers—your fingers caressing her skin, the whispers you leave in her ear are like angels singing down from the heavens. She grips the crucifix around her neck like a lifeline, willing these sinner's thoughts out of her pious mind.
It's you. Always you.
The witch. The woman who plagues her dreams. The blasphemy she can't stop thinking about.
Joan knows that it’s wrong, but she can’t stop herself from looking at you. The way your mouth curves when you smile, the way your hair shines when it catches the light. You look like an angel. Her angel, even if you don't know it yet.
She slips from her bed, trembling she slips to her knees beside the bed with her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles pale beneath the strain.
“O Lord, grant me the strength to cast out this temptation,” she whispers, voice unsteady. The room is dark save for the moonlight spilling through the open window, silver and soft—a cruel imitation of divinity. Her crucifix hangs heavy around her neck, the chain biting into her skin as she presses it to her lips. Purify me. Deliver me. Make me clean. But no matter how fervently she prays, the warmth of the dream lingers.
Your touch still ghosts over her skin, trailing down her arms like a benediction. The scent of something unholy—herbs, smoke, you—fills her lungs with every breath. Your voice curls around her like a serpent, whispering something sweet, something damning.
"Joan."
Her whole body tenses. It’s not real. It’s not real.
But it feels real.
Her grip tightens around the cross. "Get thee behind me, Satan." The words come out hoarse, almost desperate. But even as she speaks them, she feels the lie laced in each syllable.
Because the truth is, Joan doesn’t want you behind her. She doesn’t want you gone.
She wants you closer, and when she wants something she gets it.
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The next morning after she’s gotten dressed she moves towards her bedroom window like she always does. It's become a ritual now, one she refuses to acknowledge for what it is. Peeling back the curtain, she tells herself it’s only curiosity. She expects to see you through your bedroom window like she always does. But instead, her breath stalls in her throat.
Her son is standing with you on the front porch of the academy.
A sharp tension coils in her chest, something colder than fear, hotter than rage, jealousy. She watches as he speaks to you, his posture relaxed, open. And you—you’re smiling, it sends a pulse of heat down Joan’s spine. You should be looking at her like that, smiling at her like that. Not her son. He doesn't deserve it, no one but her deserves it.
Her fingers tighten around the curtain as she strains to hear, but the glass and distance keep the conversation a mystery. What could he possibly be saying to you? Worse—what could you be saying to him?
Joan knows she should step away. Should close the curtain, say a prayer, and push the memory of last night’s dream from her mind.
But she doesn’t.
She stays, watching, waiting—until, as if sensing her gaze, you lift your head.
And look straight at her.
With that, she slams closed the curtain and marches from her bedroom and across the street.
The air between you and Luke turns thick, charged with something tense and unspoken.
You glance at Luke, confusion knitting in your brows as his expression tightens. The easy smile he wore just moments ago has vanished, replaced with something wary. You don’t have to turn to know why.
Joan Ramsey is coming.
Her footsteps are sharp and purposeful, the kind that would make people step aside in church pews. The kind that demands obedience.
Luke stiffens beside you, eyes flicking toward the ground. "You should go inside," he mutters.
But before you can ask why, she's there.
"Inside. Now."
Her voice is ice, and it takes a second to realize she isn’t speaking to you—she’s speaking to Luke. He hesitates, his jaw clenching, but ultimately nods. Without another word, he brushes past you and disappears across the street and into the house.
You blink, watching him go, before turning to face the woman before you.
Joan Ramsey looks at you like she already knows every sin you’ve ever committed. You've never even met her before.
You swallow, fingers twisting together. "Mrs. Ramsey?" you offer hesitantly, voice soft. "Is… something wrong?"
Her lips press into a thin line, eyes scanning over you like she’s searching for the devil himself.
"You tell me," she says coldly.
You frown, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. "I—I was just talking to Luke. We weren’t doing anything wrong, I promise." Joan exhales sharply through her nose, jaw tight. She steps closer, and suddenly, you feel small.
"You think I don’t know what you are?" she murmurs, voice low, dangerous.
Your breath catches.
What you are?
"I—I don’t understand…" Your voice wavers slightly, but it’s the truth.
Joan scoffs, shaking her head. "Of course you don’t."
For a moment, she just looks at you. You, standing there in the soft morning light, wide-eyed and unsure. Nothing like the wicked thing she imagined you to be.
Something flickers behind her gaze. Something almost like hesitation.
And then, just as quickly, it's gone.
Her grip is iron as she seizes your arm, fingers pressing into your skin with enough force to make you gasp.
"H-Hey—!" You stumble as she drags you forward, her stride unrelenting.
"Enough," Joan snaps, her voice sharp as a blade. "You’re coming with me."
Your heart hammers. She’s stronger than she looks, her grip unshakable as she hauls you through the academy’s doors. The other girls barely have time to glance up before she’s marching you down the halls, past the grand staircase, straight toward the woman you fear almost as much as the one currently holding you.
Fiona Goode looks up from her place in the sitting room, whiskey glass in hand, eyes flickering with interest at the sight of Joan Ramsey shoving you inside like she’s caught you committing some unspeakable crime.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, Fiona exhales a slow, amused breath.
"Well," she drawls, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "To what do I owe this lovely surprise?"
Joan releases you roughly, pushing you forward like she doesn’t even want to touch you any longer.
"This girl," Joan spits, voice dripping with contempt, "has been speaking to my son."
Fiona raises a perfectly sculpted brow. "And?"
Joan stiffens, nostrils flaring. "She’s a witch. A snake in the garden. A—"
"A fragile little thing, from the looks of it," Fiona interrupts, her gaze dragging over you like she’s appraising something insignificant. Her lips curl, amusement dancing behind her eyes. "Really, Joan? This is what has you in a righteous fit? I was expecting fangs. Claws. At least a little brimstone."
Your cheeks heat, shame curling in your stomach. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or utterly humiliated.
Joan crosses her arms, her glare unyielding. "Keep her away from my family," she says, voice sharp as cut glass. "This is your only warning."
Fiona exhales, slow and unbothered, taking a lazy sip of her drink. "And if I don’t?"
Joan steps forward, lowering her voice, but the weight of her words is suffocating.
"Then I’ll handle it myself."
The air in the room shifts—a tension that sinks into your bones.
Fiona’s smirk falters, just for a flicker of a second. A knowing look passes between the two women, something unspoken but heavy.
Then, without waiting for a response, Joan turns on her heel and storms out, her presence lingering long after the door swings shut behind her.
You swallow hard, glancing at Fiona. But she only watches the space where Joan had stood moments ago, her expression unreadable.
You swallow hard, glancing at Fiona. But she only watches the space where Joan had stood moments ago, her expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, she exhales through her nose and shakes her head, a dry chuckle slipping past her lips.
"Religious nuts," she mutters, bringing her drink to her lips. She takes a sip, then tilts her head, finally setting her sharp gaze on you. "Tell me, dear—what exactly did you do to get under her skin?"
You frown, shifting uncomfortably. "I—I don’t know. I didn’t do anything. I was just talking to Luke."
Fiona hums, unconvinced. She studies you for a long moment, tapping her nails against her glass.
"Well, whatever it is, you’ve certainly got her," she says, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "And trust me, sweetheart, that woman doesn’t lose sleep over just anyone."
That doesn’t feel like a comfort.
You glance toward the door, where Joan had stormed out just minutes ago, her presence still lingering like a shadow.
"She hates me," you murmur.
Fiona scoffs. "Oh, please. If she really hated you, she wouldn’t look at you the way she does." She takes another sip, then leans back in her chair, watching you over the rim of her glass. "I’d say she’s got a different kind of sin on her mind."
Your breath catches. "That’s not—she wouldn’t—"
Fiona laughs, tilting her head. "Wouldn’t she?"
You don’t answer. Because you don’t know.
But as the weight of Joan Ramsey’s words settles over you, the lingering burn of her touch still ghosting on your arm…
You realize something, you have a crush on her. The woman who hates you for something you were born with, something you still don't fully know how to control.