Tarot Academy 1: Spells of Iron and Bone

by Sarah Piper

  “I’m aware.” I roll my eyes, but I totally deserve the ire. She doesn’t climb much anymore and hates when I go alone—too dangerous, she says. On top of that, I’m late as hell—I was supposed to be here to help open the café hours ago. She had to manage on her own.

  Still, my best friend’s temporary anger is nothing compared to the morning I’ve had.

  I drop onto a stool at the café counter and rest my head in my hands, taking a deep breath for the first time since I sailed off that rock.

  Sailed is the only word for it, too. Through the storm, down the sheer drop, my magick protector glided along the air currents, deftly spiraling until we reached the misty desert below.

  The moment my feet touched the ground, the owl energy vanished, taking that strange desert mist with it. Seconds later, a bolt of lightning struck one of the smaller owl rocks behind me. I leaped out of the way just before a huge slab smashed into the ground where I was standing, pulverizing instantly.

  I couldn’t help but think of the Tower card again.

  Not knowing what the hell else to do, I sprinted up to the road and ran the two miles into town in my climbing shoes, my pack and gear slapping my thighs, not daring to slow down until I reached Guadalupe Street and the Kettle Black sign came into view.

  Now, as I sit here in my parents’ old café surrounded by the sweet, familiar scents of Jessa’s baking and the pretty display of teacups behind the counter, the whole morning feels like a dream.

  I press a hand to my chest, my heart still jackhammering. A faint glow pulses around my fingers—all that’s left of the magick.

  Magick.

  How did I manage something so epic? I must’ve channeled it somehow, or conjured it… But how?

  Hauling my pack onto the counter, I pull out the grimoire. The book is damp, but thankfully it survived the worst of the weather.

  I flip open the cover just as Jessa emerges from the kitchen, balancing a tray of fresh maple-glazed scones on one shoulder and a chip the size of Arizona on the other. Her apron is covered in flour.

  “You’re two hours late,” she snaps, fiery gaze raking me head to toe. “And you’re bleeding, which is definitely a health code violation.”

  “I’m fine, though, thanks for asking.”

  To be fair, it’s not the first time I’ve rolled into work late, muddy, and bloody. Spend enough time defying gravity in the Santa Clarita, and injuries are bound to happen. Fortunately, mine heal quickly.

  “Is it yours?” she asks, and I know she means the blood staining my shirt.

  “Half and half. Well, sixty-forty, at least.”

  She sets her tray on top of the pastry case, a bit harder than necessary. “Who’s the forty in this equation? Do I even want to know?”

  Ignoring the question, I page through the grimoire, locating the section I was working on before the storm hit. This morning, I thought it was just a simple scrying spell—something Mom might’ve used to amplify her divining ability. But her spells are never straightforward, full of symbols and metaphors and Tarot references far beyond my limited understanding of the Arcana, so there’s a good chance I got it wrong.

  Why are you still hiding from me?

  From the moment I found the book, stashed in a box of romance novels and cheesy sci-fi DVDs in the attic of our old house, I’ve been trying to decipher it. Not to recreate her magick—never. It’s just… I want to understand it. To understand her.

  “Are you seriously stonewalling me right now?” Jessa fumes. “Stevie, your freaking hands are glowing!”

  “I know. I’ll tell you everything. Just… just give me a minute. Please.”

  “You’ve got two minutes. I’m counting.” Turning back to her task, she slides open the pastry case and sets the still-warm scones on a platter, arranging them just so. Like her sleek black bob and artfully applied eyeliner, her pastry game is always pure perfection, even in the midst of a crisis.

  Goddess I hate the taste of bad news. It’s like the storm clouds outside; the longer it sits on my lips gathering strength, the more devastating it’ll be when it finally lets loose.

  I have to tell her. There’s no way around it.

  Closing the book, I take a deep breath and make my confession. “I fucked up today, Jess. Bad.”

  She slides the case closed and wipes her hands on the towel draped over her shoulder. When she meets my eyes again, the anger is all but gone from hers, replaced with worry. “Define bad.”

  “I sort of… accidentally… used magick on someone. A lot of it.”

  Jessa’s eyes go as round as tea saucers. “Where? How? Who?”

  “Up on the Grande. I got caught in the storm with Luke and—”

  “Scorpion King Luke? I thought he was in California.”

  “He was. I’m not even sure he knows how he got here—or that he got here at all.” I close my eyes, trying to make sense of the jumble of images in my head. “A dark mage got to him—it’s the only explanation. He wanted me to do magick. Like, he kept pushing and pushing… Then he got a hold of my knife. He stabbed me, Jess.”

  “Stevie! Holy shit, we need to call the cops!”

  “And tell them what?” I lift my shirt, showing her my unmarred skin, smooth and pale but for a splotch of dried blood. “It’s already healed. Besides, Luke—real Luke—would never do that. I’m telling you, it wasn’t him.”

  The rest of the story spills out—everything but the part about my mother’s last words, which I can’t bring myself to repeat.

  The whole thing sounds so wild and impossible, I hardly believe my own tale.

  But Jessa believes me. She always does.

  Concern draws her eyebrows together. “What if this mage guy—posing as Luke—calls the cops on you for magickal assault?”

  “Then I’m pretty much fucked, and I hope you really like baking, because you’re inheriting Kettle Black.” I try to laugh, but it gets stuck in my throat.

  Possessed or not, Luke is human. And unlike mine, his injuries won’t spontaneously heal. His mother is also a prominent member of the community—an artist, a patron, a volunteer—you name it, Rita’s got her hands in it. So if her son shows up at the police station with a busted nose and a story about the nasty little witch-girl who broke his face?

  No way would the cops take my word over his.

  “Protect and serve” doesn’t apply to the magickal folk among us.

  Jessa’s not laughing at my stupid joke, either. She taps her fingers on the counter nervously, her gaze darting out the front windows, then back to me. “Do you want to close up shop and head back to the estate?”

  The estate is what we call the double-wide we share—an old but perfectly serviceable mobile home situated at the edge of the Santa Clarita. And while I’d love nothing more than to camp out on our thrift store couch bingeing Netflix, it’s not going to help.

  “I’d only be crawling the walls there,” I reply. “No, I need to work. Looks like we’ll be pretty slow today, anyway—nothing I can’t handle.”

  Jessa watches me a beat longer, then glances out front again. Sheets of rain blur the view, the street gutters already flooding. No one’s crazy enough to be outside on a day like this.

  “Alright, loca. Go make yourself presentable.” She grabs a Kettle Black T-shirt from the tourist stash and hands it over, then flips our sign back to OPEN. “I’ll make us some tea. Then we’ll figure out what to do about this dark mage situation.”

  Locked in the bathroom, I strip off my climbing gear, trash my ruined shirt, and do my best to wash up in the sink. I can’t do anything about my shorts, but at least the Kettle Black shirt is clean and new.

  Jessa’s makeup bag is stashed in the cabinet over the sink, and I rummage through it for some eyeliner and lipgloss. There’s not much hope for my hair in this humidity—messy bun for the win.

  I check my reflection in the mirror. I won’t be entering the Miss Arizona competition today, but I’m no longer a walking health code violatio
n.

  No longer magickal, either. The glow is totally gone from my hands.

  My shoulders slump. I know I should be relieved, but a twinge of sadness tightens my chest.

  I try to remember the owl, the hot swirl of its energy in my chest, the powerful wings unfurling from my body, the cool snap of wind on my face as we soared through the sky, the desert floor rising to meet us.

  I hold up my hands and try to call it back—even just a flicker of that intense white light.

  But it’s truly gone.

  Five

  STEVIE

  The wind kicks up outside, the clouds I escaped on the Grande now unloading on Guadalupe Street. From my seat at the counter, I watch out the window as Luke’s mother Rita scurries from Bruno’s Bagel Shack into her adjacent pottery studio, losing her newspaper in the process. It catches on the current and flaps down the street like a drunken bird.

  There’s a quick flash in the distance, followed by an ominous rumble. The brunt of the storm hasn’t hit this part of town yet, but it’s coming.

  “Just checked the news.” Jessa’s back, handing me a mug of soothing blackberry vanilla tea. “Storm’s supposed to blow right by.”

  “And take Rita with it, apparently.” I watch as the woman runs back outside for her newspaper. Now she’s a drunken bird, too—arms flapping, obnoxious turquoise hair streaming out behind her, red dress billowing.

  “Is Luke with her?”

  “He’s probably stuck on the rock, at least until the storm breaks.” I sip my tea, grateful for the warmth. “Rita might not even know he’s in town. Judging from his clothes, he was basically plucked off the beach and deposited in that cave.”

  “Dark mage possessions. Owl spirits. Flying.” Jessa drops onto the adjacent stool and lets out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a magickal morning for a girl who doesn’t even dabble.”

  Silence descends, rain pattering the windows. No hail here yet—maybe that’s a good sign.

  Absently I run my hand over Mom’s grimoire. Jessa follows my gaze, her brow furrowed. She’s terrified for me—I can feel it in her energy. The questions are already percolating in her mind.

  But the words don’t come.

  I’ve known Jessa since Kindergarten, right after her family emigrated to Tres Búhos. She’s not a witch, but her adoptive parents are. So when we were kids, she got all the bullying and fear-mongering that comes with being part of a witch family, but none of the magick. I had the magick, but wasn’t allowed to learn about it, talk about it, or use it. The two of us bonded hard and fast, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Even when her parents decided to move back to Mexico our senior year, Jessa stayed here, moving in with my family so we could keep working at the café together until graduation, when we were supposed to figure out college stuff.

  Plans changed after the accident. I deferred enrollment at Arizona State—no way was I shuttering Kettle Black, my deceased parents’ lifelong dream. And Jessa? She stuck by my side through all of it. Still does.

  In all the ways that count, she’s my sister, and has been since the first day we met. We don’t keep secrets between us—not on purpose.

  But there’s one thing we’ve simply never talked about.

  My mother’s magickal history.

  It was always a forbidden topic of conversation in my house, and after my parents died, it felt wrong to open up the floodgates on our endless speculation. I was supposed to be forgetting about it, just like my parents wanted, and Jessa was eager to help me in whatever way she could.

  But since those early days, she’s seen me with the grimoire, sitting at the plastic patio table behind our estate, paging through it with a pen and journal at the ready as if deciphering my mother’s cryptic words might bring her back to us.

  She’s always had the grace to keep quiet about it, let me figure it out on my own.

  But a morning of dark mage possessions, owl spirits, and flying has a funny way of changing the rules—even the unspoken ones.

  “Stevie,” she finally says, “you can’t keep doing this.”

  “It’s the only connection I have to that part of her, Jess. I can’t let it go.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You can’t let it go. You shouldn’t let it go. You’re a full-blooded, natural-born witch. And you’ve never gotten the opportunity to explore your powers, or be around other witches, or even talk about magick.”

  “My parents—”

  “Your parents are gone.” Jessa rises from her stool, paces the floor before me. “Stevie, I’m sorry, but it has to be said. I understand you’re trying to honor their memory, but all you’re doing is living in the past.”

  “That’s not true! I’m just—”

  “Look around you!” She opens her arms, encompassing the entire café. “They’ve been dead for five years, and you’re still following their rules. Managing their café. Living their life.”

  “I like working at Kettle Black!”

  “Yeah, and so do I. But is this your dream? Your passion? Your true calling, like it was for your parents? If you say yes, I swear I’ll shut up and never mention magick again.”

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. She’s got me there. But still…

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth something, Jess. This place, this life… It’s their legacy. One I’m happy to uphold. They were right—we don’t need magick. It’s like Mom always said—it’s nothing more than a curse. Today proved that.”

  The words burn my throat on the way out. Even I can hear the lie in my voice.

  “Listen to yourself, girl.” Jessa shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You were attacked today—targeted by a dark mage. Targeted precisely because you’re a witch, and you know nothing about it, about how to defend yourself.”

  “I survived, didn’t I?”

  “On a fluke!”

  “On my magick! Magick I shouldn’t even be practicing!”

  “But you didn’t practice it. That owl thing—it just happened. And waiting around for things to just happen is a bullshit strategy—in magick, and in life.” She storms behind the counter, but I’m out of my seat, close on her heels.

  “Jessa, wait.”

  Ignoring me, she grabs a stack of those Kettle Black souvenir shirts, unfolding and refolding them, refusing to meet my eyes.

  “Jessa.” I yank a shirt from her hands, forcing her to look at me. “My parents spent the last eighteen years of their lives trying to put magick in the past. All they wanted—all they ever wanted—was for me to have a safe, mundane, normal life. They wanted that for you, too.”

  “But you’re not normal!” She snatches the shirt back, resuming her frantic folding. “You’re a witch! An amazing, beautiful, soulful witch. Pretending otherwise is only going to make you miserable, and possibly get you killed. And what happens to the Milan family legacy then? Spoiler alert: You all become memories—my memories. Game over, thanks for playing, have a nice afterlife.”

  Jessa turns her back on me, her whole body trembling. I don’t even have to try to read her energy; it washes over me in great big waves. Anger and fear. A fierce protectiveness. Loyalty. Sisterhood.

  The anger evaporates from my heart. She’s coming from a good place. She’s always coming from a good place.

  And she’s not wrong.

  “So what am I supposed to do, then?” I ask softly.

  She spins around to face me again, eyes still blazing with anger and frustration. “Learn your magick, for fuck’s sake! Find a mentor, get some books, apply to that magick school—something!”

  My stomach bottoms out at the mention of the school. She’s talking about Arcana Academy, my parents’ alma mater. The very place that trashed Mom’s reputation, banished them from their coven, and basically destroyed their lives—and that’s just the highlights reel I pieced together from years of hushed whispers and overheard arguments.

  The Academy is the very place I begged them—naively,
insolently—to send me.

  It was the last argument we ever had.

  Forget magick, Stevie. It’s a curse…

  I close my eyes. My anger might be gone, but the sadness isn’t, all the old regrets resurfacing from the dark ocean constantly churning inside me, washing up on the shores of my heart like oily bits of trash.

  When I speak again, my throat is tight. “It feels like… like you’re asking me to shit on my parents’ graves.”

  “No, Stevie.” Jessa grabs my shoulders, her touch warm, her sugary scent enveloping me like a hug. I feel her love pulsing outward, overruling everything else. She puts her hand on my cheek, and I open my eyes, meeting her soft, copper-eyed gaze. “I’m just asking you to stop tending those graves.”

  “I don’t know how,” I whisper.

  “Start by finding out about the Academy. From there, it’s—oh.” Her attention shifts to the windows, eyes narrowing. “We’ll have to pick this up again later.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Apparently the storm isn’t enough to keep everyone away today.” When she looks at me again, she’s smiling like a master conspirator. “You’ve got company.”

  Six

  STEVIE

  The man’s steps are confident and quick as he plows through the deluge, a paperback tucked protectively inside his T-shirt.

  Now my heart’s pounding for an entirely different reason.

  His hair falls in dark, wet waves in front of his glasses, but it doesn’t matter. I know the intricate beauty of his eyes by heart—pale green irises surrounded by a burst of pure gold, like the sun setting behind the saguaros.

  Kirin Weber isn’t from around here, but he’s been patronizing Kettle Black for months, camping out for a couple of hours every day, losing himself in an epic fantasy novel or the latest biography from Red Rocks Recycled Reads, the used bookshop around the corner. The book changes every few days, but his order is always the same: Two mini cinnamon buns and a small pot of tea, leaving the blend up to me.