Of Thorns and Hexes

by C. J. Canady

  Leaning backward in his chair, hands clasped over his belly, he says, “Vahilda.” Simply Vahilda is the answer to that question. When I press for more information, he changes the topic. “Tell me a little about you.”

  “Percy,” I say between a sip of the delicious tea, “please don’t withhold information from me. You told me you were human. I simply cannot let that one go away.”

  Percy worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “Like I told you yesterday,” he munches on the croissant, flaky bits rain on his baggy suit, “I’m kind of like her son. Kind of.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question—”

  “I understand, Elyse.” He extends his hand across the tiled table, waggles his fingers in a request to hold my hand. “I’m not ready to share that story yet.” He frowns, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’ve declined to hold his hand by keeping mine gripped on my mug of tea or if his frown has anything to do with Vahilda.

  “You lured me out of the house under false pretenses.” I struggle with keeping my tone even. How can he expect me to trust him if he can’t properly answer my question?

  “I apologize for that, truly. I do.” His hand remains on the table, fingers gone limp. “I just... it’s really nice to have someone to talk to. No one here bats an eye at me. They know I don’t belong here. The witches and wizards haven’t even tried to befriend me.”

  I know that feeling all too well. That sense of unbelonging, and the knowing that you’re different from the others around you. I’ve always existed as a wallflower among a village of towering trees in Yardenfeld. No one ever sees me so far beneath them. I’m basically invisible to them. All anyone saw me as was that strange girl who’s always jogging in the morning. Or the weird bookworm asleep on the park bench, snuggled up with a book.

  “Vahilda is your best friend.” I haughtily sip my tea and wink at him playfully.

  Percy flares his nostrils at me. “I guess.” He shrugs. “I can tell you this, though...” he peeks around the café, but no one even looks in our direction. “I signed a contract like you did.”

  I nearly gag on bread. “Y-You did? Why?”

  “Long story.”

  I scowl at him. “You should take me home.”

  “I’m sorry, honest.” His hand, still asking for mine, moves a touch closer to my hands, cupped around the mug. “I promise to tell you... soon.”

  “Whatever.” Dusting off my purple hand-me-down dress, I’m on my feet and moving toward the café’s exit.

  “Elyse.” Percy bumps into a few patrons as he barrels to me. “Wait for me.”

  Outside, I am hypnotized by the street musician, playing a dashing tune on a piano and drums. Street vendors selling trinkets and doodads beckon me with the allure of pricey, nifty baubles. Ignoring the vendors and Percy shouting my name, I head eastward back to Vahilda’s house.

  Percy is a sweet man and all, but I can’t honestly say that our short-lived date is anything special. My first date was a bust, but what did I expect? Well, for one, a lovely brunch like we had at the diner. And an exchange of pleasantries and batting of eyelashes, coyly. If it had gone further, we’d probably talk about our family. Or maybe not. I’ll skip that for now and jump right to the kiss—the perfect end to a perfect date.

  One can only dream, right?

  On the opposite side of the street, a quaint little bookstore guarded by statues of pigs on either side of the front door calls to me. It’s the lure of books, the escape to unknown worlds within the confines of each page, every word, and letter. I check both ways before I dash across the street and enter the bookstore. The smell of leather, old books, and ink warms my pitter-pattering heart. I know I should be on my way home, but I can’t help myself.

  Rows of books line the four corners of the small store, every book old and worn with time. At the front, an elderly man nods at me and welcomes me with a smile. His long silver hair is tied in a ponytail, dappled face nearly obscured by thick spectacles almost as big as carriage wheels. He wears a dusty, tattered suit that appears to have been eaten by hungry moths.

  “Welcome to the Tiny Shop of Books,” he says, “I’ve never seen your beautiful face before. How may I help you?”

  “Um...” I twiddle my thumbs, eyes leaping from book to book. I would read them all if I could, but I’d be so distracted by knights in shining armor slaying dragons that I’d never complete my training for the Flower Trials. “I’m just looking around.”

  “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right here.” He jitters in place and observes me as I do a bit of browsing.

  The bell above the door jingles, announcing the arrival of three young adults about my age. Two identical men in long black cloaks that greatly emphasize their broad shoulders, and meaty arms, are preceded by a graceful woman. The woman has long, bone-straight black hair, almond skin, emerald eyes, and outfitted in a midnight black gown. She stomps toward the counter where the elderly man, whose face was once a doting smile, is now trembling in fear.

  “It’s been a week; you bag of bones! Where is the copy of the new edition of the Floret Tome?” The grace I thought she exuded is not graceful at all. It’s pure brattiness. “The Flower Trials are in less than twelve days, and my Papa’s version is as old as your wrinkled hide.”

  “And I told you I’d have some on Monday.” The owner presses his hands together in prayer. “You never showed up to claim your copy, so I sold it. I’ll have some next Monday—”

  One of the twins jerks the old man by his shirt’s collar and lifts him off his feet. I clasp a hand over my mouth, gasping into my fingers.

  “You piece of trash. Didn’t my girl tell you how important that book was to her?” The twin rattles the man like a sack of potatoes.

  The other twin punches the man in the gut. The old man heaves a breath as the twin holding him drops him to the floor.

  “Leave him alone.” Before I can think, I’m by the bookstore owner’s side, lifting his head in my hands. A warm trickle of blood stains my hands as the back of his head leaks. “Look what you’ve done.”

  “I-I’ll be fine.” The old man groans.

  “Mind your damn business.” The woman hisses at me, a lioness ready to bite. “This is between me and my grandpapa.”

  “She’s your granddaughter?” I ask, disturbed by the senseless act of violence.

  He groans out, “Yes.”

  “If you were my grandfather, I’d treat you with far more respect than she does.” I assist the old man to stand, all the while staring knives at his granddaughter and her goonies.

  Wiping the back of his head, he shutters. “Justine. I will not hesitate to call the authorities on you and your boyfriends.”

  “Don’t you dare speak to them,” Justine woofs. “I can’t believe my only grandfather wouldn’t support his granddaughter.”

  “He’s like those other sexist wizards,” a twin shakes his head disappointingly. “All they want is a sausage fest, the weirdoes. They’re scared that a woman will take their coveted seat.”

  “My grandfather doesn’t believe in me.” Justine blinks her eyes to feign tears and forces a sad, mopey face. “I don’t need him!” She balls her hands. “I’ll be the first woman of the Elites, and, when that happens, I’ll burn this little rinky-dink store to the ground.”

  Justine’s grandfather cackles as if not fazed by the blood dripping from his head or the punch to his gut that stole his breath. “A woman will never claim a seat—”

  “You’re wrong.” I don’t know where this voice came from, but it’s a powerful voice that lurched from deep within me. Even in Parnissi, bigotry is alive and kicking. “Here, I thought you were a sweet old man, but you’re not. A woman will become an Elite.”

  “At least she gets it.” Justine looks me up and down, then rolls her eyes.

  “But it won’t be you,” I say, returning the up and down assessment she gave me. “It’ll be me.” This exchange in this tiny bookstore has provoked confidence in me
that I didn’t think possible. Someone like Justine, who’s cruel to their unjustly chauvinistic grandfather, shouldn’t claim such a title. If I were part of the Elite, I’d change the rules and fix the broken system that allows wizards to exclude witches.

  Justine rounds the counter. Her green eyes lethal, venomous. “Trash like you will never amount to anything.” My mum’s face overlays atop Justine’s, the insult too familiar that all I see, all I hear is my mum. “Have you looked in a mirror? Miss pudgy with no eyebrows?” she scoffs, a dainty hand under her chin.

  I could rip her a new one, could shatter her self-esteem the same way mum has mine. But I don’t. It’ll be a waste of time and energy and just cruel. I won’t stoop to her level and insult her. Holding my chin high, I show her my backside as I sashay away to the exit. The twins snarl at me as I pass them and pry the door open to leave.

  “Elyse!” Percy shouts from across the street. “I’ve been looking everywhere—”

  An unholy scream from the pits of hell erupts behind me. Justine shrieks at the top of her lungs, wobbles outside and collapses in front of the bookstore on her knees. “S-She attacked my grandpapa! HELP!” she points an accusatory finger at me.

  All commotion up and down the street comes to a screeching halt. Witches and wizards begin to surround the frantic woman who claims that I attacked her grandfather. Justine struggles for breath, acting as if she’s hyperventilating. Concerned gazes sweep up from the woman on the pavement to me—the woman with blood on her hands and dress.

  “It’s not what it looks like.” I hold my stained hands in defense.

  Percy forces through the gang of angry onlookers, who shake their heads judgmentally. “What’s going on.”

  “I didn’t attack him,” I say. “They attacked him.” I gesture to the bookstore’s windows where the twins carry the owner. One holds the old man by the arms, and the other balances his legs in one meaty hand.

  “Why would my boyfriends attack my grandpapa? Dana and Ashley would never do that.” Justine sniffles as she blows her nose into a handkerchief embroidered with the letter J. “Just look at her.”

  Percy whispers in my ear. “This is bad. We should run.”

  “I’m not running.” I shrug off his hand, pulling me away from the crowd. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “YOU!” A voice like nails on a chalkboard erupts from beside me. A slender man in a blue uniform approaches me and hooks his thumbs in his trousers’ belt loops. On his lapel, a jewel-encrusted, shield-shaped nameplate reads: “Harry Hollyshock, Patrol Wizard.”

  “Come with me,” Harry says before he snatches me by my arm.

  “But I didn’t attack him.” I rip my arm away and stand my ground.

  The officer licks his lips, snarls, and lunges for me. He shoves me into the glass window of the bookstore; his hand is clasped around my throat a second later. A flash of Igbob’s nasty hands on me boils my blood to hellish temperatures. I ready to fight back, to strike the officer when Percy claws at Harry like a feral cat. Percy scratches the officer’s face; three vicious swipes knock Harry backward on his haunches.

  “RUN!” Percy shouts.

  I do as I’m told. Jostling the mob that’s circled the hysterical Justine and Percy attacking an officer, I break free of the horde and run for my life. Vahilda’s house is over five miles away, but the distance doesn’t faze me. I’ve run circles around Yardenfeld for most of my life, and my thirst for the thrill of running laps around my hometown is nothing compared to this. Comparatively, the sidewalks of Parnissi are void of the obstacles that are trash heaps, mice, and pigeons who’ve grown so accustomed to humans; they clog up major throughways. Parnissi is pristine, so clean that even the air I siphon into my lungs boosts my legs to pick up speed. There must be something magically laced in the air molecules because I’m hitting my runner’s high.

  My dress, a restrictive sheath of cotton, rips down the middle. I’ll be exposed for all to see in my undergarments if this dress rips any further. However, the dress is the least of my worries as I hear the distinct sound of horse hooves to the pavement and a gruff voice demanding that I “stop.”

  Something wooden whacks the back of my head with such force that I am knocked off my feet. The magical world spins around like a cyclone of blurry, vivid colors until it all fades to black.

  Chapter 10

  PRISON.

  I’ve landed in prison yet again. I pray my stints in the doghouse don’t repeatedly occur for the entirety of my life. I don’t belong here. My first bout inside the slammer: Yes. I killed a man who put his hands on me and tried to violate me in the worst way. My second time: No. I’m an innocent woman who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d never intentionally harm anyone, and certainly not an elderly wizard who couldn’t defend himself.

  My prison cell is not like the one I stayed in briefly in Yardenfeld. Where human prisons have steel bars and reek of urine and mouse droppings, Parnissi’s definition of jailhouse is... different. Thick, green vines box me into a small space that I cannot move about in, and snapdragons, hundreds of them, jut out from the vines. The pink and white flowers emit a sort of glow that pulses through me, knocks a shiver down my spine. What magical properties are possessed within snapdragons? I’ve got to know.

  “P-Pardon me,” I say, voice hoarse, body thirsty for a drink of water.

  A female guard peers at me over a newspaper she reads from her desk. “What is it, inmate?”

  “I’m curious about the snapdragons, ma’am.”

  She sneers before she lifts the paper to cover her face.

  I guess I’ll have to do some research later. If there is a later, that is. I swear I’m innocent, and yet not one guard will listen to my plea. The guards have questioned me for hours on end about my accomplice—Percy. They wanted to know his first and last name, where he lives, and if he has any connection to someone named Buster Killigan, a rebel wizard who tried to destroy Parnissi almost fifty years ago.

  I told them the truth. “I don’t know Percy’s last name. I have no clue where he lays his head at night. And I don’t know much about him except that he frequents the home of Vahilda Marguerite.”

  Mentioning Vahilda’s name made every guard in the prison cease from asking me any more pressing questions. Whatever images Vahilda’s name stirs up in their minds surely had them retreating from me as if I foretold their coming deaths.

  A couple of hours later, the vines imprisoning me shudder, and the snapdragons shrink away inside the thick green creepers. The undulating shiver that’s been coursing through me vanishes the instant those flowers disappear. I begin to wonder if maybe snapdragons suppress magical powers when Vahilda and her cat walk to my now nonexistent cell.

  Vahilda is pissed. Veins throb in her forehead. Her lips are pinched into a thin line. Her rose-red dress flutters behind her as she stalks to me. Her cat, whose head is oddly bruised, a purple lump in the center, hangs its head almost shamefully.

  The irate witch says not a word to me as she drags me by the arm, forcefully escorts me down the corridor, down a flight of steps, past a crew of officers, and out of the jailhouse. I want to tell her that nothing that happened was my fault, but I doubt she’d even listen to me. Worse, I left her house when I knew I shouldn’t have. I could’ve been studying the Floret Tome, expanding my mind beyond what little I know about magic and flowers.

  How do I even begin to express how sorry I am?

  Vahilda and I meander through downtown Parnissi bathed in the white of the crescent moon’s light. At this time of night in Yardenfeld, all the local taverns would be alive with drunkards carousing and singing off-beat to music. Yet, in the dead of night in this magical town, the only music I hear is the nocturnal creatures’ songful racket. Every shop is closed for business and every food stall emptied of produce.

  At home, Vahilda is still giving me the silent treatment. She fixes supper, a steaming pot of vegetable stew, toasted baguettes for dipping, and sweet wine to clea
nse our palate. As always, supper is fantastic. Vahilda is a better cook than my mum, who never actually cooked but prepared jelly sandwiches because cooking was far too hard of a task for her to accomplish.

  I give Vahilda my compliments and excuse myself from the table. “Goodnight,” I say, trudging down the hall sleepily.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” Vahilda swirls her wine, inhales the floral fragrances, and sighs. “You disobeyed me, Elyse. I told you to study, and you went off with Percy and got yourself into a brawl.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” I’m too ashamed to look her in the eye. “You’re absolutely right. I should have been here studying and not on a date with Percy.”

  Vahilda raises a single brow. “A date? With Percy.”

  “Yes. He... He told me he was human and not a wizard, and my curiosity got the best of me.”

  Vahilda tastes her wine, swishes the liquid in her maw, then swallows. “Yes, Percy is human. You could’ve asked me; instead, you ran off with him on a date.” Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she gestures with the empty wine glass to her bookshelf. “You’ll be studying until the break of dawn. Is that understood?”

  “But I’m tired—”

  She slams her glass on the table. “Tired? Don’t talk to me about being tired, Elyse. You could’ve been in bed hours ago.”

  Vahilda is right. So, I acquiesce, grab the Floret Tome from the shelf, flop onto the sofa, and open the book. “I’m sorry about what happened.” My eyes are heavy with sleep, but I shake off the sandman and start reading. “I didn’t attack that man. I’d never do that.”

  “Mr. Lilly confirmed your story.” Vahilda glides across the living room floor. “He told the officers that his granddaughter’s boyfriends were the ones responsible for injuring him. You’ve been cleared of all charges. However—” she stands to her full height at the edge of the sofa “—every witch and wizard in Parnissi wants to know all about the witch living with Vahilda Marguerite. Did you tell anyone that you were my niece?”