Mere seconds after becoming a witch and I’m already burning alive. I would call it just my luck, but this is excessive even for me.

Bright green fire erupts spontaneously and swirls around my body like serpents of living flame. It gathers around my hands and courses up my arms, over my chest, and down my legs, until the whole of me is surrounded. I’m drowning in flame and I try to scream but the air in my lungs has already been devoured.

And yet, true to Pandora’s word, I feel no pain. No scalding heat, and no ache in my chest from the pressing lack of oxygen. I’m burning, but it doesn’t hurt.

My vision blurs, and then I’m looking at my body from an outside perspective, staring up at myself through another’s eyes as the transformation begins.

The neon green flames sink into my skin and spread beneath the surface, lighting me up from within. My bones shift and crack and reform, flesh tearing and resealing, and changes happen in rapid succession.

My hands elongate and sharpen, my nails extending from my fingertips to become deadly claws. The flame sinks into my body and I can feel new strength in my limbs, a new firmness to my flesh. Imperfections are washed away, weaknesses adjusted until only pure power remains.

The green fire flows into my clothing, too, and I watch my hoodie and jeans burn away and reform into something altogether more… well, I don’t know whether it says something about me or about the powers changing me, but the result is a very revealing outfit.

I’m wearing a dress that starts below my shoulders and pushes up my cleavage, a silken garment in gorgeous, dark, almost royal purple. It flows down my body like ink until it splits open at my thighs and fans out into a feather pattern and almost glows with brighter color. Satin darkness flows up from wrists and ankles past elbows and knees, glinting luxuriously as they cover much of my limbs but leave thighs and shoulders exposed.

In short, I’m baring a lot of skin that I haven’t since I was a teenager. The claws are new, though. I wonder if that would make me more or less popular with the girls?

It seems like my body is done transforming, but now my face is undergoing changes. The irises of my eyes blaze to life with a brilliant fuchsia purple. A deep, abyssal black colors my lips and my once-brown hair, the latter lengthening and straightening out until my messy mop of tangles has become sleek and picturesque. Pointed ears poke through my new hair, now elf-like knives of cartilage, and my canine teeth elongate to become fangs. A dozen little changes join the major, my features sharpening and smoothing into something more elegant and less Rachel.

I look like a goth princess, or a vampire, or—

The last of the green fire travels down my back and splits into two masses of flame that fan out as massive feathered wings, plumage stretched and flexing. The feathers start black where they meet my flesh and stay that way along the heights of my wings, but the color shifts to a searing infernal green in a gradient toward the wingtips, just like the flames that made them.

—like a fallen angel…

A new wave of fire washes over my body, but this time I watch fuchsia flames thin out into gossamer strands before crystallizing as gold chain and shining emeralds. The delicate chains decorate my shoulders in three loops to each side, united in the center with a green gem. More gold appears around my hips, a choker around my neck, and a crown top my brow, all dotted with glowing green jewels. A corset tightens around my waist, purple and gold, and golden heels appear snug around my feet.

The jewelry finishes materializing, and in that instant the void falls away and my perspective snaps back into my body, transformed and standing tall. The street around me is normal again, but who cares? I have claws! I have fangs! I have wings!

My new existence hits me in waves as my attention darts from detail to detail, marveling at the changes to my form and attire. I knew magical girls and witches both transformed for combat, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be experiencing one of those transformations. I didn’t think I’d look like this, either, but somehow it feels… right.

There’s a warmth beneath my skin that pleases me, something comfortable and familiar yet completely and utterly alien. Just like my heels, which grind into the asphalt with a satisfying weight despite their slender appearance, or like my claws, which seem perfectly suited to ripping through supple flesh. My new fangs fit perfectly in my mouth, and just the feel of them is enough to make me hungry. I want to take a bite out of a magical girl more than I’ve ever wanted a juicy burger. This is the form of a hunter, a killer, a predator.

My wings are like a second pair of limbs, following my movements with the natural grace of something I’ve had all my life. I can flex them like arms and feel every pinion, and now I suddenly know what a pinion is. I reach out and run a few fingers through one wing, and the texture is so soft I let out a little gasp. I could fly with these or swaddle myself in these, and I’m not sure which would be more enjoyable. Eat your heart out, Tobias Animorphs.

The dress is more scandalous than I had ever expected to wear again, but I feel like a work of art. I look amazing. I look like a succubus, some kind of fallen angel turned wicked seductress, and I like it. Monster. Demoness. Witch.

I’m a witch, and it feels good.

Pure, unadulterated, overwhelming joy bubbles out of my chest and swims through my brain. I laugh—no, I cackle—with maniacal glee. I exalt in the hungers and sensations of my monstrous, glorious, ravishing new form.

I feel ecstatic. I feel majestic. I feel powerful.

I want to see what this body can do. I want to see what my magic can do. Every witch has powers, so what are mine?

Immediately, as if summoned by the thought, something answers. The warmth beneath my skin intensifies in my chest. My heart blazes with two bundles of colorful energy. For some reason, my chest feels almost like a blacksmith’s workshop, the heat of a forge paired with tools and anvil. Or maybe it’s a kiln, firing clay shaped by my hands. The bundles of heat are blades to be drawn, or a hammer and tongs, or a pair of pottery knives.

A name sears itself into the deepest recesses of my memory. The name of my power, the source of my strength as a witch: Prometheus.

I was never the most avid student of Greek mythology, but the name rings a bell. Prometheus was a trickster god, I think, or maybe a progenitor god? He stole fire, I’m fairly confident about that, and I have some recollection of him making humans out of clay.

“I don’t suppose you could just tell me what you do?” I ask, doubtful it’ll be that easy.

The blaze in my chest pulses in a way that feels strangely apologetic. Again the imagery of a workshop comes to mind. My hands shape statues and bowls from clay, then I paint them in shades of green. I pull a sword from the forge, its metal shining purple.

Interesting. There’s some kind of empathic link here between my consciousness and my power, but Prometheus doesn’t seem to be able to translate complex concepts into human speech, only imagery and sensations.

I could sit around trying to interpret its meaning all day, but there’s a far more exciting way to figure out what spells I can cast: experimentation.

I give the area a quick sweep just to make sure I don’t have any uninvited spectators, but the alley is empty and ends in a brick wall. The street I came from is fairly quiet, so I shouldn’t have much to worry about, but should I find another place to practice anyway? No, I want to do this now.

I concentrate on the heat in my chest, those two bundles of power, and reach for the one that feels more like a forge than a kiln. Bright fuchsia flame flickers to life in the palm of my right hand and dances around my clawed fingers.

Magic. That’s real magic. That’s my magic. I made that happen.

I wave my hand through the air and watch the flames follow, purple fire hugging my skin without burning it. I look around for anything flammable and settle on a disposable cup someone tossed aside. I point my hand at the cup and grin.

“Burn!” I cackle. Nothing happens.

My grin drops. Prometheus? Hello? Are you just taking your time or can I not actually incinerate stuff with my fire magic?

The apologetic feeling is doubled this time as the heat pulses in my chest. Apparently I cannot, in fact, burn things with my power. That is… more disappointing than I’d like to admit.

With a sigh I examine the imagery from Prometheus a little more closely. The two colors it showed me in the second vision, purple and green, are the two colors of flame that appeared when I transformed. The latter seemed more involved in the actual transformation aspect, the physical changes I underwent, while the former added clothing and jewelry as a final touch.

So, alteration and creation? Shaping and making?

As a test, I fix the image of my fancy jewelry in my mind and will it to appear in my hand. The web of gold and emerald appears in my mind’s eye with more clarity than I’ve ever been able to imagine anything else in my life, and just as suddenly the fire flares and I’m left holding a second copy of the necklace that’s draped across my chest.

My previous disappointment is washed away by a wave of delighted greed. Is this an infinite money glitch? Can I make a hundred of these and pawn them somewhere? Do they go away when I transform back to normal?

I already have a billion ideas of what to do with this usage alone, but there are other limits I can test before any of that. I switch the image I’m focusing on from the necklace to a stack of dollar bills, since that would be way easier to liquidate just by taking it to a bank. Unfortunately, the mental image loses its unnatural clarity and blurs back to my normal level of imagination. Trying to force it into my hand does nothing.

I cycle through a dozen other useful objects before giving my dress a try. That one shows up in crisp detail, and a push of will makes it appear with another flash of fuchsia flame. I make a second one, and then a third, finding each just as easy to conjure as the first. I drop them all in a pile at my feet and chew on the details.

This would be a pretty lame power if it could only conjure jewelry and a dress, though admittedly useful for my finances. Prometheus showed me a sword when it tried to explain what the purple flame does, so I have to be able to make one. Maybe I just need to teach it the pattern, or the template? Like researching a new recipe or schematic in a video game.

“Well, Prometheus? Care to enlighten me how I do that?”

The image of the forge appears again, and the sword, only this time the sword is ordinary steel and I’m feeding it into the fire rather than pulling it out.

Well, that’s relatively straightforward. I guess all I have to do is—

—jump back in surprise as a magical girl slams into the street and makes a crater from the force of the impact.

Ah, right. The other half of the deal.

The woman who rises from the impact is tall, fit, and as tan as you can get in a city that only sees sunlight a third of the year. She looks like the kind of person who actually enjoys exercising. I bet she has a gym membership, the showoff.

Not that I mind what’s being shown off, to be clear. Her costume is sporty, not skimpy like mine, but she’s still baring a nice span of skin. The poofy sleeves of her bright yellow jacket cover her arms fully, but the blue spandex underneath cuts off at the waist to reveal perfectly toned abs. A combination of shorts, sneakers, and kneepads gives a fantastic view of firm calves and the delicious reason we call this gal “Thunderthighs” on the forums.

She’s also pointing a double-bladed sapphire battle axe in my direction and glaring at me, but frankly I consider that a bonus.

“Halt, evildoer!” she booms with a sense of authority that I have no intention of respecting. “Flaring your dark energy like a beacon of malevolence was an act of arrogance you will sorely regret. Tremble and repent, for you face—”

“Thunderclap, the Storm Axe!” I interrupt with a level of glee I’m only barely faking. “Oh wow, it’s so cool to meet you, you’re like easily top five Vanguard for me. I watched your fight with Riddlemaster the other day, that was hilarious! Hey, can I have your autograph?”

Thunderclap is a member of Pacific North Vanguard, a loose network of magical girls who form task forces to deal with dangerous witches across the state of Washington. If Visage is the face of magical girls here in Forks, the Vanguard heroines are the bloody fists.

I’m guessing that being a fist doesn’t really prepare you for gushing admiration from the witch you came to murder, however, because Thunderclap’s reaction is to gawk at me, stupefied, as I wiggle in place and flap my pretty wings. Her axe lowers a little and she’s clearly trying to think of something to say, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, but she’s too stumped by my fangirling to respond.

I ratchet up the ditz in my voice and thread my hands behind my back, putting pure puppy energy into wide eyes and a guileless smile. The fallen angel body is probably undercutting me, but hey, maybe she’s into that. “You’re like, really really cute. I’m sure you hear that from all the girls but I totally mean it! If you don’t want to sign something for me—and I’d totally understand, no pressure—then how about a photo together? I’d treasure it forever and ever, promise!”

I bring my hands together in front of me in the rough shape of a heart and grin even harder. I tilt my head, close my eyes, and lift one leg behind me to really sell the effect. When I open my eyes again, Thunderclap’s cute confusion has settled quite unfortunately into a scowl.

She raises her axe and says, “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, witch, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I won’t be deceived by this cutesy bimbo act of yours. Face me with pride or fall with disgrace!”

Well, shit. No, it’s fine, I can still recover this. “Well, I mean, if you get me high enough the bimbo thing won’t be an act anymore,” I say with a wink and a waggle of eyebrows. I drop some of the saccharine innocence and inject a bit of dirtbag charm into my leering gaze. This dress does fantastic things to my tits, so I lean forward to give her a better view. “I can be whatever you’re into with a bit of prep time. That might literally be true, now that I have magic transformation powers. Take a bite, cutie.”

Her hands tighten on that big blue weapon and I raise my hands in surrender as I take a step back. The heroine doesn’t look tempted or amused, and the scowl on her face is only worsening. A few sparks of bright blue electricity crackle across the blade. So flirting is out, noted. Readjust and fire again.

I quickly toss another line her way before she can start getting ideas about violence. “I get the feeling I’m being a little forward here, hah. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, really not my intent here. Listen, before you take my head off with that nice big axe of yours, why don’t we sit down and have a little chat? Skip the autograph, skip the photo, just two gals with magic powers who really don’t need to try and kill each other, yeah? I get that your whole raison d’etre is smacking down witches but I’m barely a witch, for reals, cross my heart and hope to not get cleaved. This whole thing kinda just happened to me a few minutes ago. Promise. I was just standing here when you showed up, after all. Do you really need to attack someone who isn’t hurting anyone?”

Thunderclap breathes in, nice and deep, and lets it out with meditative focus. The frustration on her face settles into a cold, firm resolve.

“No truce with the enemy,” she says, and then she’s on me.

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