The elders described them as angelic, with feathered wings and pearlescent hair. No one mentioned anything about fangs. But now, under the glow of the moon, I saw them gathered—hundreds of them—feasting like animals. More kept coming. Here, behind the warehouse, their once-elegant wings hung tattered like old dish rags. They had ink black eyes, that gleamed from faces gaunt and feral. I had to get out of here. If they saw me, I wouldn’t be able to outrun them—at least, not all of them. I just had to make it three more days, and then it would be over.

This was Fiesta Del Asesinato, or in English, The Feast of Murder—a spirit-driven festival that occurs once every 207 years. Luckily for me, it falls on the eve of my 13th birthday, which, for any other birthday, might not matter. But for a Witch, there is no more important day than the day she turns 13. Today, I should be granted my powers and given my family’s spellbook. Instead, I’m in a storage room, hoping these murderous little Fairies don’t notice my prying eyes.

Savage untammed, little beings, not at all like the textbooks described, wistfully floating around, glowing an ambient, beaming light. Occasionally, someone would catch a glimpse of one in a forest or near a stream—a fleeting glow, just zooming past your peripheral vision. The Fairies were shy, humble, and good-natured forest dwellers who loved snacking on berries. Small in stature, the tallest one recorded was no more than 12 inches off the ground. These magnificent creatures were worshiped across the Everworld, even more so among the Witches and Elves. This was because the glow each Fairy held was the fuel that generated our magic. Without the Fairies, none of us would have powers. But to get their glow, they first need to feast.