That was the day Grachi learned the second rule: magic has consequences. And Mía Valdez, it turned out, was not just the daughter of a real estate mogul. She was the granddaughter of a woman who had been burned—literally and figuratively—by witches before. Mía’s grandmother, Doña Sofía, was a cazadora . A hunter.
She came to the parent-teacher conference wearing a cream suit and a smile like a razor. She found Grachi by the lockers after school. grachi
The next morning, she woke up to find her hair floating. Not in a cute, wind-blown way. It was levitating, a dark curly halo of static defiance. She screamed, slapped it down, and it sprang right back up. Her mother, a pragmatic nurse, chalked it up to “humidity and teenage hormones.” That was the day Grachi learned the second
“Sit,” Abuela said.
“Accidents are for children. And you,” Doña Sofía said, stepping closer, “are a liability. There is a reason we hunted your kind. You cannot control what you are.” Mía’s grandmother, Doña Sofía, was a cazadora