Neon light burned against the night, bathing Carrietta Tabitha Moore in a sickenly sweet rainbow of technicolour. The heat was murky and thick, causing sweat to bead along her arms, down between her shoulder blades. But the witch didn't mind the heat, didn't mind the sweat, for it reminded her of a certain hellish boy with the face of an angel.

Screams ricocheted off the vintage theme park rides on Santa Cruz's Boardwalk, mixing with the crash of the ocean and the joyful chaos of a Saturday night. The Giant Dipper rollercoaster arched over the horizon like a beast made from wood and metal and people blurred at the edges of rogue witch's mind.

"Tabby," Antonia Grey called out as the world transformed into a dripping and spinning mess of colour. Carrie Moore didn't go by her birth name anymore, not after trading Los Angeles for Santa Cruz, she only answered now to Tabitha. And Tabitha's favourite ride at the rickety, oceanside amusement park was the Looff Carousel—first constructed in 1911, with gleamy and colourful hand-crafted horses that bopped and bucked along to carnival tunes. Tabby craned her neck, focusing her eyes on Antonia as the world continued to spin in an addictive whirl that made her dizzy and craving for more, always more.

Antonia was a Vietnamese witch that had been adopted by Americans when she was two. Now, she was nineteen and milled around on beaches in oddly-matched bikinis and chipped nail polish, with hair that shifted colour like the wind. At the moment her bobbed hair was a soft baby blue as she waved at Tabitha from the popcorn and sand littered ground, flocked by two other teenagers. Antonia was an empath—she could sense and feel other people's feelings—but her power hadn't completely developed yet. So, for now, Antonia Grey was practically a human mood ring with hair and eyes that changed colour sometimes to mimic other's emotions.

"We're gonna get ice cream," Mina Daneford bellowed happily, unapologetically boisterous, voice and body. The teenager had a glossy mane of dark hair that spilled over her round curves and wide doe-eyes that sucked in every person she met, making her rather compelling and extremely enchanting.

"And corn dogs," Tobias Tellman added with a wolfish grin. Tobias was the youngest at seventeen, though he was the tallest and had run away from a three-story house in Portland. He had a wave of hair that framed his earnest face, and his giant and sharp-toothed grin was the only menacing thing about the boy who liked puttering around in garden beds and breathing life into flowers and herbs.

The teenagers made a motley coven of four, which was fitting seeing as each one represented an element. Tabitha was fire, something that had become a permanent fixture in her dreams since the prom. Antonia was water, skin always smelling of salt from the ocean. Mina was air, a beautiful and powerful gale that could knock you off your feet. And Tobias was earth, dirt always trapped under his fingernails and petals in his hair. And each was a lost kid in one way or another, finding a new family and magic on the golden-white sand of Santa Cruz. Tabitha wasn't sure she even believed God was on her side anymore, but she certainly believed someone with unearthly powers had brought the coven together.

She waved a hand toward her coven before they rushed off, blending into the crowd like phantoms. Wanting more speed, wanting more wind to tear at her now tanned skin, Tabitha closed her eyes and saw the carousel in her mind, a giant spinning top of colour and little blubs aglow with colour against the balmy night. Her pulse soared as the carousel picked up speed rather dangerously, the bulbs flickering and shuddering as other riders screamed and clutched at the poles as they spun faster and faster.

Speed picked at her hair, creating miniature whips that lashed at her face and throat and she threw her head back with a wicked laugh. A laugh so stark against the crying and the screaming from the others around her. The ride operator was trying his best to slow the ride, but his efforts were useless, for Tabitha had full control on the carousel and she wanted to fly.

She imagined witches on broomsticks with pointed hats and bats at their coattails, striped stockings and hair thread with spider silk instead of lace or ribbon. A moon at their backs, wide and yellow, a toothless mouth in the middle of a black sky. Carrie Tabitha Moore didn't have a broomstick, didn't have striped stockings or a night sky to glide through, but the urge for speed and the feeling of complete weightlessness that threatened the impossible, threatened the magical, was rooted deep within her heart. For now, she made do with a rocketing carousel with shuttering lights and wailing children and panicked parents.

Tabitha gave is a few more splendorous minutes before calming the carousel down. She dismounted the ride as mothers patted at the wet cheeks of their children and fathers waylaid the ride operator, who could only mutter that it had been a freak accident. No one suspected the teenage girl with golden blonde hair—she'd dyed the red out of her hair six months ago because the colour had been too similar to her dead mother's, her reflection too painful to glimpse in a mirror—with the face of an angel, and she bled into the thickening crowd easily. She breezed through the amusement park, knowing where each lane led, knowing what filled every corner and crease, and breathed in the salt in the air, letting it fill her lungs. The salt reminded her so much of blood and she licked her lips with a new urge she didn't care to fight off. Tabitha had once been Crazy Carrie with a thing for blood, and she had embraced that wholeheartedly.

—

Fire licked at her skin hungrily, like the flame itself was starving, wanting to fill an insatiable stomach. It leapt from her ankles, devouring her whole as the wood behind her snagged at her, leaving a trail of splinters on her burning flesh. Tabitha didn't buckle or fight, just angled her head to the dark sky with a laugh that should've been a scream or a wail. Instead, the wicked laughter bubbled up her throat with purpose, with a plan.

Turning her eyes away from the sky, away from the glowing red moon—a drop of blood against a black canvas—she saw that she was wearing a soft gown of pink, the silk the colour of the sweetest blush, the ends of the fabric withering away to ash and dust. It was her prom dress, unbloodied and still picture-perfect. She could even feel the strap of a white rose corsage against one wrist. The corsage Tommy Ross had given her before his untimely death. He'd been so sweet and kind to her, and even lost in a dream, Tabitha wished she could have saved the soft jock. He, unlike some many people, including herself, hadn't deserved his death.

"Burn the witch! Burn the witch. Burn the witch!" a crowded chanted. She searched the edges of her dreamscape desperately, but Tabitha could see anyone, only the flames that were reaching higher and higher, up her legs with scorching teeth and claws, up her thighs and over her stomach.

Since the prom, Carrie Tabitha Moore had been dreaming of fire and flames, and the dreams were getting more, getting more vivid and demanding. The nightmares of her burning alive were getting more urgent, so urgent that she'd wake with blotchy skin and smoke in her lungs, salt from evaporated tears clinging to her eyelashes. Tabby didn't know what they meant—what the flames meant—but she had the dreams every night now. The fire was inescapable.

She jolted awake, one hand clutching at her throat as she coughed and coughed in the shadows of her bedroom. A pedestal fan hummed quietly, turning and spinning warm air around, and underneath the lazy but steady hum, the ocean rolled in the distance. Tabby and her coven lived in an old four-bedroom beach house with a slight Victorian influence. The place was perfect, and it hadn't taken much for Mina to enchant the elderly owners into leasing it to four teenagers as they retired to a life of caravanning around the country. Mina Daneford could be very compelling, all with a demure smile and blazing eyes and a twitch of her nose or a wiggle of her soft shoulders.

Shadows clung to her like a dress as Tabby pushed her sheet back and stole from her bedroom, bare feet padding against the wood. Still feeling smoke clogged in her lungs, she headed for the kitchen. She wasn't surprised to find that she wasn't the only lost soul awake in the hour after midnight.

Tobias was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, repotting tiny succulents with patient and tender hands. Antonia was propped up against the opposite counter, hip resting against the corner as the kettle boiled. Her hair was a calm shade of green, like grass after a good dowsing. Both teenagers watched as Tabby dragged herself to the fridge to retrieve cool water.

"Do you smell smoke?" Tobias questioned, sniffing at the air as he toiled with potting mix. Stars sprinkled the dark windows, and the air was warm, so deviously warm. Michael Langdon would love this old, groaning house that was littered with sand and salt. It didn't have much of a garden though, and poor Tobias had to make do with a makeshift greenhouse in the domed parlour that was always bathed in sunlight.

Tabitha groaned a yes, chugging at a jug of cold water, letting the water and the cool air from the open fridge drown the heat on her skin, the heat in her throat and the heat in her stomach.

"The fire dreams again?" Antonia asked next, her hair shifting into orange and red, the colour of the fire that devoured Tabby whole very night. Tabby had never concealed anything to her coven. Antonia, Mina and Tobias knew about the prom, knew her real name was Carrie and that she'd murdered her whole school and her mother. And they knew about Michael Langdon, the boy king that would bring the apocalypse. They trusted her anyway, loved her anyway. Besides, none of them were innocent either, and they all knew what blood tasted like.

She wiped at her mouth, closing the fridge. "Yeah. They're getting worse. I was burning alive again," she confessed.

"Could it be a premonition?" Antonia guessed. "Maybe the dreams are trying to tell you something?" If the dreams were trying to tell her something, Tabby had no idea what. The fire only reminded her of the night of prom, which felt like a lifetime ago now. She supposed six months could be a lifetime to some people.

"Have you ever been burnt alive before?" Tobias wondered almost nonchalantly, like burning alive was common in this century. He barely looked up from his little plants, a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone.

"What kind of question is that, Toby?" she exclaimed, settling beside Antonia, her hair sparking with such ripe and destructive colour. "Of course, I haven't been burnt alive. I'm standing right here."

"Dreams can sometimes be repressed memories," he pointed out, patting at soil, packing in a bud like he was tucking a child into bed. The kettle screamed on the stovetop, steam billowing.

"Whatever they mean, you still need sleep," Antonia said, twisting around to fill two cups of lavender tea. She passed one to Tabby tenderly and with all the world's concern blinking in her almond-shaped eyes. "Drink this and a sweet dream will find you," she added. The porcelain was delightfully warm against Tabby's fingers and she stared at the purple flowers floating on the surface, spinning in a slow and almost hypnotic dance.

"You promise?" Tabby asked, returning her eyes to Antonia. Some days, in rare moment, she reminded Tabby of Ava Gold, a ghost from Carrie's old life. They shared the same kindness for Carrie Tabitha Moore. A kindness that knew no boundaries, had not restrictions and glittered like sunshine through rainclouds.

"Promise," Antonia declared, sending the young witch back to her bed. Tabby had never had so many friends before, never had some many people that cared for her. She'd been a lonely child until Michael and Ava Gold, and while they were mostly out of Tabby's reach, she now had a coven that supported her completely and truly. Lost souls had a way of finding other lost souls; there was no stronger bond, no stronger love.

—

She'd always been a good girl, a churchly girl that wore a cross like a girl scouts' badge. Now, Tabby didn't want to be a good girl, wasn't even sure she could be anymore. Not after prom, not after Michael Langdon.

A new dream developed around her sleeping mind, taking her from one world to another with a kiss, so sweetly, so easily—a kiss of a lover. And this dream was the kind that Tabitha preferred from the ones that only harboured fire and her death.

There was only snow, so white and pure. A whole world of snow for two teenagers, expanding on all sides like an ocean or a field. Tabby wasn't blinded by all the whiteness and her heart tugged at the boy standing before her. She hurried forward, not feeling the coldness that bit into her toes, the cold softness that clung to her long skirt—a bland piece of clothing from her past, and not something she'd ever wear now. No, now Tabitha wore colour in the way of sundresses and thinly strapped tops with denim shorts. Her mother would turn over in her grave if she could see what her good but damned daughter wore now; clothes that a young Margaret Moore used to wear in Santa Monica before she fell in love with the wrong boy and before she fell pregnant with baby she couldn't kill underneath the red glow of a blood moon.

He was waiting for her on the endless snow in the black uniform of the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men. Straight lines of black cut with a stiff white collar. He looked handsome with neat curls and a smile only reserved for her.

"Carrietta," he greeted her, his voice brilliant with something new—confidence and cunning. "I've missed you." Michael Langdon was the kind of boy that came alive at midnight, in the absence of the sun, but shone like a dying star always.

"Oh, Michael," she breathed, reaching for his hand, needing his touch. Michael cradled her hand like she was the most precious thing in the world. "How're things at the school going?"

"Excellent." His grin was diabolical, but his touch was angelic. "They think I'm the next Supreme."

"All going as planned," Tabby noted, sticky and sweet pride swelling in heart. In truth, she was the next supreme, but she'd never find that out and would never need that sort of status; she'd have a crown of her own, forged only for her. Michael Langdon had his own destiny, but Tabby wasn't she sure believed in destiny, not anymore. But no one, not God nor the Devil, had control over her life anymore. She'd made her own rules, just like how she made her own coven instead of finding safety in the grand and ancient one in New Orleans.

"I wish you were by my side," he confessed, fingers tracing over her knuckles. "But I know you're liking your freedom," he added, ducking in closer, letting his lips breathing along her neck, but not touching her. "Little Tabby," he mused out, hands snaking around her hips.

It had only been six months since prom, but Michael Langdon already seemed so much older and his tastes were enriching, sharpening. He was coming to understands his own desires, coming to embrace them wholly. He'd never seen Carrietta Tabitha Moore's skin as a sin, but the way he wanted her, the things that he wanted to do to her and for her, would surely make his underworldly father blush. And he was his father's son, through and through, the son of a fallen angel. Michael Langdon didn't belong to Tate Langdon, but Lucifer.

She was breathless as Michael's grip tightened, hands gliding up her spine. "Do you much about dreams?" she wondered, feeling heady and dizzy, and she tilted her head backwards, giving Michael free range of her bare throat. He rewarded her with a nip of his teeth.

"Why do you ask?" His teeth scraped over her fragile skin, his tongue brushing a wet stroke over her jugular. She felt deliciously lightheaded and braced her hands against his shoulder to steady her capricious balance.

"I keep dreaming of fire, of being burned alive," she said, voice sweet and thinly stung like a moan.

Michael pressed a kiss to the pulse point drumming under her jawline. "Dreams can be wishes and crafted unspoken desires. All spun together in a sleeping fantasy."

"I don't have a death wish, Michael," she replied, trying to keep her mind on point, but she was slipping, eyes fluttering closed as he sucked at her throat, almost teasing her, working her into a frenzy. He wanted to see her come undone, shattering into a million perfect pieces in ecstasy before building herself back into a blushing and panting composure. But this was still only a dream.

"They can be memories too, repressed or lost," he announced, humming lust into her skin, lust the same consistency as honey.

Her lips parted with a sigh, blood surging as warmth pooled low. "That's what Tobias said, but that doesn't make any sense. I've never been burnt alive before," she whispered, not trusting her voice to be louder than a whisper with Michael's mouth hot on her throat.

He pulled away then and Tabby's heart sank, already missing him. "Not in this life you haven't," he proclaimed, voice wise and cool. He examined her with all-seeing eyes. Seeing her as a powerful maiden in Puritan attire, a bloodied prom queen and a goddess fully raised and realised and glorious in purple lace.

She halted, her lust melting away like the snow at her feet. "Do you know something that I don't?" she demanded to know. It was a silly question, for of course Michael Langdon know more than she did—he knew everything.

He stepped away, the whiteness of the snow draining into black. This dream was at an end. "Look to the blood moon, my Carrietta Tabitha Moore," he said with a wink before dissolving into shadow.