Spellcaster

by Cara Lynn Shultz

  “Right. About that. So, I agree with Angela—excuse me, Angelique,” Randi said, rolling her eyes in her cousin’s general direction as she overemphasized Angelique’s preferred name, “that Brendan was taken out of the way on purpose. Emma was targeted, and her attacker definitely didn’t want to go after her while her—” she eyed Brendan and blushed, a flirty smile playing on her lips “—um, strong boyfriend was around to protect her, because he totally would have.”

  “Got that right,” Brendan agreed, the determined way he spoke causing Randi to blush again. She cleared her throat and took a sip of water from the floral aluminum water bottle on the table. At this rate she was going to need a cold shower, too.

  “So, um, who would know that Brendan would do whatever it took to make sure she was safe?”

  “Anyone who reads the paper,” I said glumly. “It was all over the place just a few months ago that Brendan risked his own life to save mine.”

  “Yeah, that’s right! They put your pictures in the paper, too, right?”

  Angelique’s head snapped up.

  “Her necklace.”

  Reflexively my hands flew up to my bare throat, where the charm used to sit.

  “She doesn’t have it anymore,” Brendan pointed out. “She lost the necklace in the fight.” Angelique just dismissed Brendan with an annoyed wave of her hand, and she shot up from the table and disappeared down the hallway into her room. She returned a minute later holding her laptop. She set it on the table in front of her cousin, furiously typing on the keyboard as her bracelets clinked against the metal frame.

  “See, Miranda?” Angelique said after a few seconds. “I completely forgot about that picture. Anyone who saw that photo would know. That’s why he or she or whatever is after her. That’s what the whole ‘cutting her’ thing is about. They know.”

  Randi peered at the screen, her eyes widening. “Well, that sucks.” She sighed, turning the laptop around so we could see what she was looking at.

  There, on the screen, was a cached version of The New York Post’s famed gossip column Page Six as it looked that Wednesday in December, when the lead item was Tycoon’s Son Risks Life for Gal Pal. As if that headline wasn’t enough to make me want to puke—Gal Pal? Really?—our school ID photos gazed out from the screen. With his tousled hair and sexy smirk, Brendan looked just naughty enough to land a starring role in any girl’s fantasies. Of course, my face was slack-jawed and goofy, since I hadn’t even realized they were taking my photo. It was the photo that haunted my life.

  “Yes, it’s a very sucky photo of me.” I slumped back in my chair. “But is that really relevant, though, you guys? I mean, at least they got my name wrong so people think some Emily girl is the weird-looking—”

  “Not the picture, bonehead,” Angelique interrupted, shaking her head with an amused smile on her face. “Look!”

  “The story about Brendan saving me? So that’s why they knew Brendan would have jumped in to protect me yesterday.” I nodded, understanding what they were getting at. Or at least I thought I did.

  “You’re missing the point,” Randi said, then tapped the screen again, her crimson fingertip at my throat.

  “This is why they targeted you in the first place.”

  She pointed at my necklace. The charm caught the camera flash at a perfect angle. You could make out every carving, every detail. A unicorn in the center, with a wilted rose and a sword crossed behind it.

  Randi took a deep breath, and looked from her cousin—who wore a very worried expression on her face—back to me.

  “Well, we knew you were being specifically targeted. And now we know why,” Randi said gravely. “The person who’s after you really is out for your blood.”

  “Out for Emma’s blood?” Brendan repeated Randi’s words slowly, and his hand tightened around my fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “Her blood, your blood, it really doesn’t matter whose blood,” Randi answered. “Although Brendan, I bet this wackjob thought you’d be a harder target. After all…” She tapped the computer screen again with the tip of her nail. It was all there, in black and white, how Brendan fought Anthony nearly to the death.

  “They had no idea Emma could do the kind of spell she did,” Angelique piped in.

  “Emma had no idea Emma could do the kind of spell she did,” I muttered.

  “The point is, anyone who knows what this crest means, and then reads that story, knows that you guys—” Angelique aimed her finger at me, then at Brendan, and then back at me “—are reincarnated soul mates. The ones who broke a century-old curse.”

  “So our blood is really old and powerful?” I glanced down at the bluish veins under my skin like I expected them to spring off my wrists and go fight crime.

  “No, it honestly has little to do with the reincarnated part,” Randi explained. “That part just exposes what you have—just proves that you two are true love.” Brendan and I stared at Angelique and Randi blankly, not understanding what they were getting at.

  “So we’re in love. So are thousands of people. Millions even,” I argued, brushing my bangs out of my face. “Why are we so special?”

  “Don’t you get it? True love. Real, honest true love is supposed to be one of the purest, most powerful forces there is. That’s why there are so many epic poems and songs about it. I mean, think of all the romantic movies Hollywood churns out about true love. You don’t have to be a witch to sense something magical about it.” Angelique spoke, and I was surprised to hear her voice stripped of sarcasm. Even I thought the statement sounded a little corny, and this was coming from someone who felt like she was floating away on a little pink cloud held up by tiny baby angels every time Brendan so much as smiled at me.

  “And in your case, thanks to that little accessory of yours, they now have proof that you guys aren’t lust, aren’t infatuation—but legit, real true love,” Randi added woefully. “Anyone interested in doing a dark bloodletting spell was handed the clutch ingredient as soon as this was published.”

  She tapped the athame, and continued. “That’s why he told you ‘let me make one cut’—he didn’t want to kill you, which is good. But he got pretty pissed off when you wouldn’t give him what he wanted, which is bad. And not really a surprise, since whoever is using their athame as a weapon isn’t exactly all flowers and lollipops and rainbows.”

  Randi sat back, running her finger along the edge of the blue placemat. “There was a story in that one book, the Hadrian’s book that you lent me a while ago, that explained the presumed powers of true love,” Randi said, twisting in her chair so she faced Angelique. “You gave it back to your mom, though, right? Damn. There’s another story in one of my other books that explains it. Not as well, but it’ll have to do.” Randi stood to paw through the stacks of books on the table as I gave Angelique a pointed look. She had that book, hidden in a boot box under her bed.

  “Um, Randi,” Angelique began hesitantly. “I still have Hadrian’s. Don’t tell my mom, okay? You know how she gets—she forgot I have it.”

  “Dude, I wasn’t finished reading it when you took it back, saying your mom needed it so badly!” Randi exclaimed, flopping back into her chair, her full skirt billowing around her. “Let me take it back to school with me.”

  “No way. What if my mom remembers?” Angelique cried, but Randi just smiled condescendingly.

  “She teaches at Fordham. I go to Fordham. I can get it to her more quickly,” she reasoned—then a smug look crossed her face. “Besides, I am four years more experienced than you are. I can take better care of it. And I won’t tell your mom if you give it to me.” She leaned back and folded her arms across the front of her blue dress, beaming at her unassailable argument.

  “Fine, Miran-duh,” Angelique muttered in defeat, running into her room to fetch Hadrian’s Mediev
al Legends. She returned with the large, leather-bound book and set it down carefully in front of Randi, who turned through the old dusty pages carefully as Angelique skulked back to her seat.

  “You know, I remember this story you’re thinking of,” I said, my mind going back to the night I discovered the legend of my necklace in a different—and badly battered—copy of the antique textbook, and got lost in the flowery language of the mystical tales. “It was kind of creepy, but the last few pages were missing. I think it was in the first half of the book.”

  Randi flipped back a few pages, finding the right tale. “Here it is, in all its completed glory,” she announced, staring at a brightly embellished page. She skimmed the story before taking a deep breath and looking at me gravely,

  “You’re remembering the right story, Emma. This is really creepy. But it perfectly explains how coveted the life force of true lovers is to those with malicious intentions.” Randi paused then added ominously, “Sorry guys, but you’re really not going to like this.”

  Chapter 5

  The Dark Elixir of Ultimate Power

  Beyond the village, and over the hill,

  Under the moon, where the wind brings a chill,

  They gathered together, protecting the fire.

  The flames licked the cauldron atop the pyre,

  The bubbling liquid inside scalded those near,

  With the acrid scent of death and fear.

  “This potion will work,” the Old One said.

  Her yellow eyes surveyed the Coven of Dread.

  The dark witches feared her, in their robes they did cower,

  Afraid of her having the Ultimate Power.

  With blood still on her hands from performing the task,

  The Old One poured the potion into her cask.

  “Why is this potion so sacred, O wise one?

  Is it this night? This blood moon? What else have you done?”

  A hand to the face, the young one’s whimpering cry.

  “How dare you question me!” came her reply.

  The Old One raised the potion, and took a sip,

  The dark red liquid spilled over her lip.

  “I can taste the love, the agony, all of the pain!”

  She smiled, her broken teeth bloodied and stained.

  “The loss, the passion, the soul-crushing need!”

  She guzzled more of the elixir with greed.

  “I should thank you for gift, your contribution so dear.”

  She turned to a young maiden cowering in fear.

  Her sliced arms held her the way her lover’s arms should.

  Tears rained from her eyes since he nevermore could.

  His body rested next to her, lifeless and drained.

  His face was graceful and smooth, no longer pained.

  She sobbed on his chest, whispering to her love.

  Then she heard the cackle come from above:

  “Your blood is precious, my dear, it’s truly so sweet

  Like nectar, like honey, your blood is a treat.

  There is only one flaw that my sight can foresee,

  It’s that it stops flowing! Now bring her to me.”

  The Old One grew younger as she drank the potion,

  And withdrew her athame in one quick motion.

  Her followers forced the young maiden to stand.

  They dragged her to the Old One, who held out her hand.

  The girl lashed out, striking with a weak fist.

  But the Old One caught it, and sliced open her wrist.

  Blood poured out of her arm, and into the Old One’s cup.

  With a greedy smile she raised it and drank it all up.

  “Straight from the source, now what a delight!

  “Don’t worry, my dear, you won’t live the night.

  You’ll join your love’s eternal sleep, fear gives your blood more power.

  I’ll live on, but you shall be dead within the hour!”

  The girl’s eyes fluttered, she collapsed on the grass.

  “Finish draining her, you fools! Don’t let this moment pass.

  This is not an annual harvest, we won’t get another crop.

  The blood is rare and potent! Do not dare spill a drop.

  Her terror and sorrow make her blood so much sweeter.

  Collect all of the elixir, for I still need her!”

  The witches drained the girl as the Old One screamed with glee.

  “The blood of True Love! I can feel it strengthen me!

  Riches! Power! It’s all mine for the taking!”

  The young witch who questioned her felt her own heart breaking.

  “I have a love, my own true love so fine.

  When this potion wears off, is this fate also mine?

  Will she come for my Silas when her power begins to wane?”

  The young witch no longer continued to cower in shame.

  She stood behind the Old One, who still drank with devotion.

  And removed her own athame, in one determined motion.

  She raised it high before the Old One’s back.

  And plunged it deep in her neck, until she heard the blade crack.

  The Old One stepped forward, and turned with a smile.

  “Your rebellion is amusing, you foolish child.”

  She raised a gnarled finger and twirled it around.

  The blade slid out of her back and fell onto the ground.

  “How could you do that?” the young witch screamed out.

  “I’m invincible, incomparable, all-powerful!” came the shout.

  “I please Sonneillon as I destroy a love so true.

  He gives me power, dear girl. And my next offering, is you.”

  The old witch raised the blade with a flick of her wrist.

  And the blade took flight with another hand twist.

  The young witch was felled, another victim of the Old.

  “Simple girl. Does she not realize the power of what I hold?

  I surge with vitality, the strength the blood does give.

  All the energy I drink of this life not lived.

  Their blood soaks the ground, it rains into Hell.

  On the heads of demons who dance to true love’s death knell.

  They celebrate the pure love I so obligingly killed.

  Praise the demon Sonneillon, our bargain is fulfilled!”

  The witch raised her bloody cup and toasted the sky.

  “True Love’s blood gives me power, now allow me to fly!”

  As her coven watched, to their surprise,

  Her boots rose off the ground, before their very eyes.

  She pointed to the witches with a jagged claw

  “Swear allegiance to me! What I say now is law.

  My power is limitless, your will shall bend to mine.

  On this unholy day when the stars align,

  Nothing can keep me tethered to ground or to sod.

  Bow before me, bow now! I am a god.”

  Randi shut the book and pressed her lips together with such force they lost color. An impressive feat, given the blood-red color of her lipstick. I became aware of a tingling sensation
in my hand, and I realized I was clutching Brendan’s left hand so tightly, my hand had started falling asleep. I relaxed my grip and felt his fingers flex in relief.

  “What was that name the witch said?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “Sonneillon,” Randi groaned, letting a “blech” escape as she inspected the spines on the pile of books on the table. She pulled out a thick red book with True Demonology: Possession at Aix-en-Provence printed in gilded lettering on the spine and quickly turned to the correct page. There, a full-page artist’s representation of a crimson demon, holding broken limbs in his clawed hands, leered at me from the page, a bloody grin stretched unnaturally wide across his devil-like face. I felt goose bumps rise on my skin and clutched Brendan’s hand tightly again.

  “Sonneillon’s supposed to be one of Satan’s higher-ranking demons, according to one account of Hell and possession, that is,” Randi explained. “He’s the demon of hate—he inspires hate in the hearts of men.”

  “So destroying true love…” I began, then trailed off, staring at the illustration.

  “Is like a big present wrapped in shiny pretty ribbons to Sonneillon, I guess.” Angelique finished my statement as I stared at the symbol carved into the red flesh on Sonneillon’s chest.

  “The real problem,” Randi continued, “is that this isn’t the only story out there like this. Some are about using the blood in a spell, others, drinking it. And the lovers don’t die in every single version. But at the crux of it, spilling the blood of true love rewards the evil witch with unmatched power.”

  I spun the text back around and pushed it in front of Randi, pointing to the artwork in the book. “Remember when I said my attacker had two medallions dangling from his neck? A pentagram and one I didn’t recognize?”

  I pointed at his chest, at the jagged, bloody symbol carved into the burned skin. “That was the other insignia. So my little psycho is definitely aiming to please this hate demon.”

  “This might be a dumb question, considering I’m talking to witches and I’m the product of an ancient curse and all, but are demons even real?” Brendan asked warily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. He looked as agitated as I felt.