Casters Series Box Set

by Norah Wilson

  It would be all over Mansbridge by now, the ruckus over the town square. People would be turning to iron to protect themselves. Or to wield against the Hellers. Iron hurt a caster bad enough when they encountered it passively, like when they passed through a wall and got raked by the nails. But when iron was wielded maliciously or vengefully against a caster, it hurt like hell. It was also debilitating, and if there was enough of it, paralyzing. In short, it was a caster’s worst nightmare.

  Of course, apart from a few individuals, most of the townspeople couldn’t know for sure that iron really worked. Hell, if the rumor had been that Hellers were really vampires, those same people would be sharpening stakes, making crosses, and hanging strings of garlic on their doors. They were operating on superstition, pure and simple.

  That and blind fear of what they didn’t understand.

  But it was the other homes, those in complete darkness, that really worried Alex. She couldn’t see who, or what, might lurk in the darkened windows. Shotguns ready to blast her full of iron? Bryce might be withholding his special ammunition like he claimed, but he didn’t have a patent on iron pellets, and the Walkers surely weren’t the only ones in rural New Brunswick who could reload shotgun shells.

  And who knew? Maybe behind some of those darkened windows were people ready to switch on spotlights, their cameras at the ready to capture the fleeting image of a Heller.

  They’d all seen the clips on YouTube. There were a few quick, blurry, but actual shots of the three of them out there. One of about ten seconds in duration was linked to an account called Piperman, which Alex figured was Ty Piper. Fortunately, the few real images of them that had been captured were buried in the heap of faked Heller sighting clips and poorly doctored videos people had made.

  Alex grinned at the memory of one of those clips. It was of a scrawny guy in a black Lycra body suit running through a sunny park. When he tripped—cough cough—over a flaring tree root, five young men jumped him, pretended to kick and pummel him before tossing him into a homemade cage they just happened to have on the scene. The angry Heller rattled the bars, never seeming to notice that there was no roof on the bullshit contraption. Fascinatingly, the clip was posted by someone from Wisconsin. Heller infamy was spreading.

  She only hoped she wouldn’t be helping to spread that infamy tonight.

  When she was close enough to the river running through town, Alex shot low toward it. She skimmed so close to the surface that part of her actually slid through it. She let her hands trail through the inky water. There were no ripples in her wake. Should she submerge completely?

  As soon as her mind formed the question, it formed the answer: No freakin’ way. She was better off seeing everything around her. Alex pulled her hands back up.

  Besides, there could be traps under the water. That thought was enough to keep her above the surface. Yet both her cast and her original smiled at the thought. It was caution that kept her from diving into the river, not fear, and there was victory in that. Not too long ago, the thought of submerging in the water would have freaked her out. She’d been battling claustrophobia since the rape. Slowly but surely, she was winning that battle. She was winning all the more now, since her caster consciousness had ventured into her original’s dream.

  It was too bad casters didn’t dream. That would be amazing.

  Alex executed a little mid air somersault, just above the dark water. Then she did another one, for no one’s benefit but her own.

  She’d done it. She’d taken back her dreams. She’d shoved the nightmare C.W. Stanley had left her with back down the bastard’s throat and twisted it there. Maybe there was a way it worked so that she actually could? Actually did? It was a joy to think he really might suffer at her angry hands. Energy in, energy out? Oh, if there really was such a portal, she could put her hatred into the man. Even in hell, where he surely had to be, she hoped he could feel her anger.

  Back in the cave, Alex’s original emitted a low, throaty laugh, which clearly freaked out Brooke and Maryanne, whose casts hovered watchfully above her. With only her original’s consciousness there, she couldn’t hear their caster voices, but she knew they had to be trading words. She managed another throaty chuckle just to freak them out a little more.

  Brooke, obviously realizing what Alex was doing, flipped her off.

  They had both been watching over her like hawks since they’d determined one of them would go out alone. The other two were on spider watch. But Brooke had assured Alex in an I’m-not-asking way that if Alex’s original signaled any kind of distress, she would leave Maryanne to guard their bodies alone and race to help.

  Alex didn’t doubt it for a minute.

  “And remember,” Maryanne had said. “Point A to Point B. Straight to Harvell House, then back here.”

  Alex came to the familiar spot on the river just past an easy bend where their large oak tree stood. Home again, home again.

  Alex kept low to the ground as she moved toward the house. She was like a snake made of shadow as she weaved her way across the intervening space. She stopped just below where the stained glass window had been. The flapping plastic was gone, replaced by plain glass. A sudden powerful pang of grief rocked her. Stupid. She should have prepared mentally to see a standard windowpane where the beautiful, irreplaceable stained glass Madonna had been.

  She shook off the introspection. She needed to keep her wits about her and not get distracted by emotion.

  There were a few lights on in Harvell House. Vertically aligned ones—the upstairs and downstairs bathroom lights. No surprise there in a house full of girls. But she would have expected more bedroom lights to be on, with exams looming so near. They were less than a week away and she could only hope she’d have a chance to write them. More and more, life was going on without them.

  If she went around to the front of the house, one bedroom light would be shining for sure. That would be from Kassidy Myers’s bedroom, the only single room in the place. No one would share a room with poor Kassidy anymore.

  Leah had moved out, opting to room with two other girls rather than hear Kassidy go on and on about the things she saw in the night. About the things that saw her. Plus, since March, Kassidy refused to sleep with the lights off. Ever. Not even a nightlight would do. Once, when the power went off during a heavy snowstorm, she’d woken half the house crying for someone to bring her a flashlight. Maryanne had rushed one to her.

  And they—she, Maryanne, and Brooke—were partly responsible. They’d done this to Kassidy. To Melissa Kosnick, too. And to who knew how many others in town. Directly or indirectly, by just existing. Or by existing with vengeance. But only…well mostly…when vengeance was needed. When vengeance was just.

  Like when they’d called her a whore. When they dared to treat her like a piece of meat. Like trash. To use her. Hurt her.

  Suddenly, she was suffused with white-hot anger. She felt her pulse rise and her body tense on the floor of the cave. Her caster self felt the need to soar and shriek and rip through the skies. How dare they!

  Thankfully, she had enough sense to realize she had to bring it down. And fast, before Brooke thought something was wrong. With great effort, she reined in her flare of rage.

  Damn! She couldn’t deny it anymore. The longer she was stuck out here in cast form, the harder and sharper her edge of anger grew. It rose with such suddenness, escalated so quickly…

  Was this what it felt like to be bipolar? One minute she was fine, the next looking to—aching to!— shriek someone to shreds?

  Would it only get worse with time? With a great amount of time?

  No! She refused to think that way. They’d be reunited again soon, body and cast. They had to be.

  The clouds blew past again and moonlight shone down. Alex watched, fascinated, as it sparkled against the small shards and not so small shards of glass still embedded in the ground, the ones that had escaped the caretaker’s attention. That amazing caster vision. What had escaped the old man’s v
ision in the light of day, she had no trouble perceiving by the pale light of the moon.

  Alex ran her hands through the shards, feeling that tingling tug again as she and Maryanne had earlier, before the spiders attacked. It was a wonderful feeling, that tug. Yes, it was meaningful. But dammit, what did it mean?

  If only they had more of the original glass and not just these slivers! The broken pieces might not be enough to shoot them back into their bodies, but there had to be some sort of power in it.

  The full moon once again ducked behind the windblown clouds, and Alex expected to lose sight of the precious glass. But what she actually saw was a shimmering light on her fingers. On. Her. Fingers!

  She pulled her hands close, then held them away again. Yep, her black caster palms and fingers were freakin’ well glowing. Not a lantern-bright yellow glow, but a gentler, subtler shimmer. And not from any glass that had adhered to them. Despite the tug she’d felt when she’d run her hands through the glass and soil, every last particle of it remained right where she’d found it. Her caster hands were incapable of picking them up. But somehow, from running her hands through the strangely tugging glass, she’d picked up a shimmer.

  What the hell?

  Chapter 16

  Just Askin’

  Maryanne

  Maryanne wished she’d asked Bryce to bring that clock after all. No, not the whole setting-up-housekeeping thing, but so she’d know for certain how long Alex had been gone. She shouldn’t have agreed to this solo soar, but Alex had really wanted it. She’d seemed to need it. And Maryanne knew her well enough now to know that Alex Robbins needed to sort out her thoughts alone. So when Alex made her less-of-us-to-see, less-chance-of-being-seen argument, Maryanne had voted with her.

  “God, I hate this wait!” Brooke was still watching Alex closely.

  “She’ll be fine,” Maryanne said.

  “Yeah. She’d better be.”

  “She was laughing, Brooke. I’m guessing she’s not in any trouble.”

  “I guess.” Brooke hesitated. She looked over at Maryanne. “Are you tired?”

  “No,” she said. “And I’m less heavy too.”

  Brooke nodded. “Me too.”

  They were increasingly better able to distinguish the difference between tired and heavy in their individual co-consciousnesses. They were getting used to the strange rests, and more and more they felt the rejuvenating powers of the copper. Maryanne glanced at the copper things, which now included another length of mesh which Bryce had contributed that morning when he’d brought them more fluids and fresh clothing.

  Bryce should be studying for his exams.

  He was by no means stupid, but he struggled in school. Academic life had absolutely no appeal for him. Maryanne suspected he was dyslexic, but he skirted away from the subject every time it threatened to come up. She’d never seen someone who could do math so fast in his head, but struggled with any sort of composition. Bryce wanted to work with horses, work on the family farm with his dad, and someday, take it over. Hannah and Howard Walker were very on board with that plan. But he still had to get through this last year of high school.

  And yet, she couldn’t very well shoo Bryce away to hit the books. They needed him.

  They needed his help now more than ever. Even after just two days, their bodies were feeling the effects of the near complete immobility. During the day, the girls tried to shift their bodies’ positions, rolling them onto one side for an hour or two, then the other, but it was a cumbersome job. They had to use copper implements to try to manipulate the pillows, which had to be wedged just so, to keep them from rolling onto their backs again.

  Bryce could do the job in a mere few minutes, but it usually turned out to be a fifteen minute production or more for them. But if they didn’t do it, they’d wind up with skin ulcers—ugly, putrifying bed sores. They should be so lucky as to have beds. Maryanne’s very bones ached from lying on the hard ground, even with the cushioning of the sleeping bag and foam pads. To say nothing of their muscles. The only workout they got was when Bryce wrestled them into a change of clothes. They had to be atrophying with every hour that passed.

  Of course, they needed Bryce to help with the plan, too.

  It had taken a long while, explaining with body movements and by writing words in the dirt, but finally Bryce had grasped what it was they planned to do.

  “You’re going to recreate the stained glass picture on the ice?” He’d shaken his head in disbelief. His voice had risen. “How is that even possible? How is that going to get you out of this mess? Get you back to me?”

  Maryanne had felt as if her heart were sinking. He wanted her to come back to him. The body and flesh Maryanne was the one he loved. Yet her cast was part of her life and part of her—a part she would not deny for anyone. She would always, always return to the night.

  Bryce had gone quiet as Maryanne had put a hand on his arm. He’d looked down at that black, empty hand and Maryanne knew every cell and fiber in his body was repulsed. He’d wanted to bolt. But he hadn’t. He’d nodded. He would help.

  Even more urgent as the days passed was the sun. The days were getting warmer, the sun was shining brighter. Gleaming. The ice on the pond was slowly melting.

  Cry with the gleam!

  “Vesta will help us too,” Maryanne said. Her spoken words in the darkened cave brought her drifting thoughts back to the present. She’d been talking to herself again. Yet it wasn’t one of those times when she wished she could choke the words back. Part of her wanted Brooke to hear what she was thinking. Because part of her wanted to know if Brooke believed it too.

  Outside the cave, the wind started to blow through the trees as if it too was anxious to know.

  Brooke nodded. “It feels like she’s here sometimes. Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Maryanne agreed. “And not just from the grimoire, or her marks on the cave wall.”

  “Right. Or the stones?”

  Yes, the stones. She loved the power of them. And their wisdom. She could truly hear them. Not on an audible level, of course, but she really could hear what they had to offer on a soul level.

  Maryanne looked around. Golden healer quartz sparkled up as she gazed at the crystals. Pick me!

  Okay. She would use this wonderful and powerful healing stone. Maryanne moved over to it. “This would be just perfect for the infant’s gown.” The unpolished stones were the exact color of the trim on the sleeves of the garment.

  “It would,” Brooke agreed. She pointed. “And what about that for the baby’s blue eyes?”

  She was pointing at dusty blue stones. Angelite. “Perfect.” And it was, in every way.

  With one more look back, Brooke abandoned her hovering—literally!—over Alex. Gripping a piece of copper mesh in her hand, she moved over to the angelite and started picking out pieces. She laid them on the floor of the cave, one by one. Examining each piece. It was awkward, working with the mesh, but it was doable.

  Maryanne sighed. She handed the knife to Brooke. “Here, use this. I’m going to look at the grimoire some more.”

  She’d try again.

  Both Brooke and Alex were leaving it to her, the sorting through of the maze of lines, twists and turns and tracks that led around and around through the grimoire. To words that came together that seemed to make no sense at all. Even when she did figure out what had to be a significant part, it was still so damn cryptic, and she knew more had to fall into place. There were other drawings, not just the lines of railway tracks, and even a few train bridges stuck in here and there. Some had to be significant. But others were…primitive. Nonsensical. Some were overtly sexual. Graphic. Some would think them obscene, even.

  Did Vesta mean for them to jump out? Perhaps she’d been aiming to shock and annoy her bible-thumping husband should he ever find the grimoire. Or maybe it was more than that. Beyond shock and annoyance. Piss him off? Maybe if he ever found it, he would be so obsessed with that part of it, he’d ignore the rest of it.
The good stuff. The real stuff. Miss the magic in the grimoire while he obsessed on the meaningless stuff.

  Maryanne liked Vesta Walker more by the minute. Smart lady. And Maryanne was pretty darn smart herself, she supposed, for figuring this out.

  But while some of the pictures had symbolic meaning, others unquestionably had concrete meaning. Like the one of a certain oak tree on a bending river’s edge. This was the oak tree behind Harvell House. Maryanne was sure of it.

  How much did Vesta Walker know about the secrets of Harvell House?

  Before she lowered her head to study the grimoire, Maryanne glanced at Brooke again. The other girl worked diligently with the perfect angelite. But even as she hopefully sorted through the beautiful blue stones for the ideal ones, a pang of worry churned in Maryanne’s gut.

  For all the beautiful colors of the stones before them, one perfect color was missing.

  Chapter 17

  Lights On

  Alex

  Light spilled onto the ground just around the corner from where Alex hovered. Someone had turned on a downstairs light.

  It was coming from the kitchen, and Alex bet she knew who it was, up and about at this late hour. She moved around the corner of Harvell House and heard water running, then she glided close enough to hear the gentle clang of the kettle on the burner, and to see Patricia Betts turn the stove on.

  The housemother tossed two teabags into familiar cups while she waited for the water to boil. Her visitor drummed his fingertips on the table.

  Alex sunk lower, positioning herself to see without being seen—she hoped—in the shadowed bushes by the window.

  She’d been here before, at this exact window, with Maryanne and Brooke as they’d waited for their chance to search the basement for Connie’s bones. This was also the same window at which Connie Harvell, on her most lonesome nights, had watched her mother working.

  When the kettle whistled, Mrs. Betts poured the hot water into the teacups. She put the kettle back on the stove, pulled out a chair and sat down across from Harvell House’s caretaker, John Smith, at the small table.