The boardwalk burns.

It isn't the current reality but as I stare at my reflection in the candlelight of my room, it's all that my mind's eye sees.

People run as I walk among them with flowers in my arms, of, the most beautiful sunflowers and roses, of daisies and morning glories. I walk, with no aim in mind as the oakwood planks fall into the ocean, as the spirits swallow the beach and the attractions. As it swallows mankind.

And I feel alive as Mother Earth does.

In my mind, the earth trembles in the savagery of her laugh, of her revenge. The night lights blur, all the colors one as I walk like a bearer of demise. Like a death witch.

A figure, large and full of daunting energy hangs in the air at my back but I don't turn to face it. It's a piece of me. It's very much me as my soul is and it reeks of fire and sweat, of the bitter stench.

I angle my head as the vision fades and I return to brushing my hair, detangling the thick and tight curls with gentle but firm tugs at the roots, bringing forth the gold and midnight blue highlights of glamour magic.

The sun here is much different from that of Alaska, turning my already dark skin darker but I like it. My magic in the icy lands had been repressed as the sun, the eye of mother earth blinked for way too long most days. Magic lived at night there and with an African American family who devoted themselves to Christianity and were always home by nightfall, my chance to use my gifts were little to none.

Here it thrives.

Sometimes I wonder did they know of their gifts, the gifts that had saved our ancestors over and over. I wonder had one of my ancestors loved a vampire as I do.

Generations of dog sledders, it wasn't until my first sled that I found out about my magic when I woke up in below five temperature with some Jesus Christ looking spirit standing over me. My team of dogs left me but the spirit stayed until I passed out on my porch on Christmas morning.

Angel's family, deep in their roots had practiced the magic of their African and African American ancestors, so much so that they had been the biggest and strongest empire of practitioners in New Orleans before they were wiped out like the Bluff witches. What had allowed them to be killed so easily was a mystery.

Darla works with Norse magic while Star was all over the place, more of a green witch and glamour witch as her family practiced nearly everything and were proud of that. Ruth never shared her traditional magic with us, but we knew it was powerful.

Her wards, as powerful as they had once been are already starting to fade. I can feel myself feeling weaker, more human. Soon our coven will need a leader, someone to reset the wards and appeal to the gods and goddesses. Even Dwayne had crossed them without as much as a pain.

Without a familiar, I wouldn't even be a choice.

With gentle strokes of my brush, I finish my hair, turning my attention to perfecting the liner on my eyes and the burnt orange eyeshadow. It's a small jester of thanks to the magic in my blood, to the color of my soul.

"Veni ad me, veni, invenio me, fac mecum."

I repeat the Latin request for my second soul, as I do every night to no avail. It falls off my tongue perfectly but without results.

Standing, dressed in nothing fancy, just a simple Metallica tee and bell bottoms that are way out of fashion but somehow fit just right over converses that look like they'll fall apart in a second, the soles already worn down flat and covered in dirt and tar as I head for the door.

Nearly tripping on a pile of CD cases, I take a look back to my junky room and turn back around in an attempt to ignore it.

A health hazard but my health hazard. If anything, it's like my own personal wards.

I head out without my sisters, ready to drink in the crisp night air and find Paul even though I knew it wouldn't be hard as he's probably waiting at the door with Marko and David.

Young witches and vampires on the night, a threat to both us and the ones who hunt us. Though, it's quite hard for them to know us from the hundreds swarming the boardwalk. We look like humans, not some nightmarish creatures in young skins.

That makes us lucky.

Out of the stuffy beach house and into the night, I come eye to eye with olive eyes and down-turned red lips. Curly black hair dips down her face glistening with sweat and pale powder makeup.

"Maybe we can talk in private?" Darla rips her gaze from mine, frowning deeper at the boy in front of her.

The boy's eyes darken for a moment after a wave at me that I return with a respectful nod. Standing with Darla, it puts his short height into perspective. Marko was just as handsome as his brothers, with curly blond hair and a nearly permanent playful smirk.

But with Darla, sometimes it seemed more cold than friendly.

"If you want that, Darla." He croons, looking towards the three motorbikes hiding under the bushes.

Darla shakes her head. "Yes."

Marko extends his hand to her, to which she reluctantly takes as the two leave me alone under the dim light of the porch. Holding on to the ancient railing, I let the ever-fading magic of Ruth move up my wrist and warm me.

It nearly brings tears to my eyes as soon as the fact that I'll never feel it again will become the norm. Soon when I touch the thick white plastic, it will have no signature but the history long gone. We'll be left unprotected as a glowing neon target for any hunters looking for a use for their firewood.

If a coven of nearly twenty had no chance against them, whoever they may, how would we?

"The doll is in her thoughts." I glance up from my shivering hands to find Paul crossing the sandy beach with quick strides. A softness hangs in his powder blue eyes, thoughtful which is rather strange for the blonde. "Your hair looks beautiful, the color suits you."

He looks the same as usual, the same leather jacket over a fishnet top. His hair seems more teased and fluffy, cascading down his back as the salty winds nearly topple me with a gust.

"Not hardly." I lie.

He knows that I wallow in my sadness, in my memories but he doesn't need to know that it's getting worst, dragging me around on a leash I can't seem to break.

"That's good if we're talking about your thoughts because that hair color, y'know, looks great."

I sigh, leaning against him as the waters dance in the distance, the spirits asleep.

"They took a body bag today." I look up at him, looping my arm through his.

"I smell death on the air."

I sniff the air but gag at the smell of the ocean.

He laughs, one eyebrow arched. "You wanna smell it?"

"What does it smell like?"

His eyes gleam in the yellow light of the porch flares. "Dying. To me, it's sweet, to you-."

Paul stops himself, nails tapping on the rails. His finger finds my nose, softly tapping three times on the bridge in a way that makes me sneeze.

I slap his hand away and force away a chuckle as he breaks into a laugh. He's trying to distract me but all the thoughts on my mind, I'll never be able to break away from them.

"You're thinking again, Kimora." He whispers.

"Everyone thinks, Paul. This porch is full of her, this house, this beach, all of it. She's everywhere." I drag his palm across the stone balls hanging up on the arches.

He doesn't react to the wards.

"I never met her."

"I know and soon it'll be as if Ruth never existed."

He fights with his words, lost for just what to say. I let him, I don't stop him because, in all honesty, I'm lost too.

"Oh come on. You remember her, Angel remembers and so does Darla."

"But it isn't the same. It'll never be the same."

Paul looks at me sadly. "I'm sorry. I know the witches tell you my brothers and I can't feel but that's far from the truth. If anything, I've felt more. I've thought more even though that might seem like a joke. But honestly, every time I feed I feel pure ecstasy before the fall."

"I thought it was because you were newly turned?"

"No." His breath catches on to my hair. "Max aches for love, Dwayne aches for peace, Marko aches for his family, David aches for fame and I ache for you. Those are all pretty damn good human yearnings."

"You have me." My lip trembles.

"But I'll always be hungry. I'll always be a monster."

"Yet only you can quench my hunger. I always knew you were just as human as me."

"A human with bad manners and a pretty harsh temper when I'm hungry." He chuckles.

"Hey!" His sharp bark of excitement breaks us away from the somber mood. "Kimora, you're gonna love this."

He starts digging through his jacket pockets, searching for something within the folds. The rattling of coins and other trinkets is silenced as he pulls out something.

"Was gonna get you one of those funky-looking seashells but I found something much better."

Opening his hand a small blue guitar pick lays in his palm, unsigned and empty of any identifying mark of the owner. I run a single finger along the shiny material, falling in love with the piece in almost an instant.

Paul had always gifted me picks since the start of our relationship, even a few rock songs on his beat-up guitar but something about this one is special.

A memory passes me, sinking through the bones of my fingertips like ice.

A boy with ginger hair and wide blue eyes plays his guitar on the sand, flicking his pick across string A and then string D. The tune sounds much like that of a Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars song.

He gasps at the view fizzes out, the sun blazing on the yellow sand replaced with the uneven shift of the sea, monotonous waters trapping him as his head bare bobs above the waves.

The terror in his heart grips me, pulling me down with him through the crash of cobalt slowly growing darker as his breath slows. Darker and darker. Slower and slower to nothing.

I snap out of it, finding myself in Paul's tight embrace. He towers over me, engulfing me in the smell of the sugary perfume he took from my bag on the boardwalk. I don't even remember the name, I just call it our signature scent, the tang of strawberries, cherries, and peaches with vanilla musk reminding me I'll never be alone.

The boy's terror-filled eyes flash in my mind and I wish I could have dived in the waters after him, calming the souls. I am their sister but in rage, they wouldn't have acknowledged me.

"How sweet." Angel's soft voice follows the yawn of the screen door. In a lavender blouse and flowing floral skirt, she graces our presence.

Yet, her eyes tell me that she's been blood-slaving again. A darkness that her foundation can't cover makes a ring under her eyes and leaves her skin with a cast of ash.

Even her magic ebbs weak.

Dwayne hangs behind her with lost eyes. He's always silent but now, it is not his natural quiet, it's ridden with the same emotion as always after their ordeal. Even though we have our own history, a history of romance in the past, I remember that look.

Shame.