Spellcaster

by Cara Lynn Shultz

  Typed up your Ethan dream and emailed it to you. Add any more details you can think of. The answer has to be in there.

  I wrote Angelique back, and we made plans to rehash the dream over lunch. We’d hide out in the lab so Angelique didn’t have to brave “the pasture.” I pulled out my laptop, rubbing a polish remover-soaked cotton pad on my nails as I waited for it to load. My knuckles looked like I’d been teething on them—and every time Brendan glanced at them, he’d recoil—so I gave myself a manicure. A little cosmetic bandage on the situation couldn’t hurt, I figured. You know things are dire when the best you can do is have pretty nails.

  As I read Angelique’s email, I thought more about the dream—the way the darkness overtook the sun—and realized Ethan must have been trying to warn me about Brendan’s possession. But I couldn’t figure out the “mirror it or you’ll fall” line. I considered it, wondering if mirror was a code for me showing Brendan his true face? The eyes are supposed to be the mirrors of the soul…maybe that was it?

  Or maybe Megan was going to use a cut piece of mirror to slice me open when I met her on Wednesday as a last resort. I shuddered at the idea. I wouldn’t put anything creepy past her.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. The solution was in front of me, somewhere. Looking back, Ethan had given me clues on how to break the curse that damned me—the answer was there all along, I just didn’t see it at the time.

  I went back to reading the grimoire, but after another hour, my eyelids got heavy. This time, I didn’t fight sleep. But before I passed out, I had an idea. I’ve fallen asleep after watching a zombie movie and had dreams of the undead trying to eat my face. I’d passed out after playing video games and had the graphics pop up in my dreams. Why couldn’t I try to force the direction of my dream?

  Focus on Ethan. Focus on getting an answer. And I let the darkness take me, my thoughts of witchcraft and my twin’s cryptic warnings mingling with the subconscious thoughts that were starting to creep in.

  My soft purple sheets turned to dewy blades of grass under my fingertips, the comfy sweatshirt I was wearing turned coarse. A chilly breeze danced over my face, tickling my damp cheek.

  And then I heard weeping—but it wasn’t mine, even though my eyes felt like I’d been crying. The despairing, muffled sobs came from nearby. I braced my palms against the grass and heaved myself off the ground, looking around the dark scene before me. I was on a hilltop, staring at a large, luminous moon, the rusty color of old blood. I reached my hand out—it was so close I thought I could stroke the rough surface with my fingertip. A large fire burned and raged at the very summit of the hill, the sulfur-scented smoke stinging my nostrils and making my tearful eyes water even more.

  I stood, my cheek stinging for some reason, and my steps faltered. My robes were heavy, the thick, rough fabric weighed down with caked-on dirt as I stumbled through the grass, searching for the weeping girl. I wanted to console her. I felt like she was me.

  I shoved my way through a cluster of women in long black robes similar to my own. Some were what could have been considered pretty, if it weren’t for their harsh, hard faces. Others were aged, with deep, world-weary lines carved in their faces. But they all had one thing in common: they sneered at me with broken, yellowed teeth, as I pushed my way through to see what they were gathered around. On the ground was a grieving woman—but she was really more girl than woman. She was young, probably my age, and she clutched a young man to her breast, rocking him gently as her hands clutched the torn, brown fabric of his tunic. His sleeves were shredded, revealing arms that were bare and covered in deep cuts—but although he was bloodstained, he didn’t bleed. Because he was drained. Because he was dead. The girl looked up at me through tangled fair hair, pointing an accusing finger.

  “You did this! You could have saved him!” The maiden screamed before the horde descended on her, attacking her with their athames, her clear cries becoming strangulated, then muffled, then finally falling silent. I backed away, horrified, a nagging feeling of guilt gnawing at the pit of my stomach.

  Standing on the edge of the fire, the wind blowing her white hair around, was the leader. She stood with her back to us, holding a goblet, and viscous, dark liquid dripped from her fingers. I knew her. She was the Old One. She had slapped me earlier, I suddenly remembered—and then I remembered everything.

  Reaching behind me, my fingertips brushed an athame at the small of my back, tucked into the coarse rope holding my robe together. I gripped it in my hand, holding the carved handle as if my life depended on it. Because it did, I remembered. Our lives did—because after she killed me, she was going to kill Brendan. Only his name wasn’t Brendan here. He was called Silas.

  And he was why I was on the hill, surrounded by this sinister coven. He’s why I had pretended to go along with the old hag’s wretched plot: to protect my true love. Silas is why I hadn’t saved the young man when I had the opportunity, even though I knew him. Even though I knew his love—Agnes and I had been friends since childhood. I’d begged them to flee our village, but she wouldn’t believe me. Agnes thought my warnings were just fanciful tales, chuckling at my impressive imagination. It was only a matter of time before the old witch stumbled upon the young couple, strolling in the woods. There, she discovered their love—their true love. She swiftly ordered the coven to kidnap the young lovers to satisfy her bloodlust. My friends cried out, pleading for help as she kept them captive. It tormented me, but I couldn’t risk releasing them and being exposed before I killed the old witch. I’d been waiting for the moment to remove the Old One as a threat. I had to be selfish, ruthless, even though I’d wept over my sin, ashamed I would passively stand by and let someone die to keep Silas safe. And now, I had my chance to kill the old hag. Her back was to me. She was oblivious to the scene, rejoicing in her own gory victory. She wouldn’t see me coming.

  Noiselessly my bare feet swiftly ran through the grass. I raised my blade, aiming for her neck. But she whirled around, grabbing my arm as I held the athame high to plunge it in her back.

  “Your rebellion is amusing, you foolish child,” the Old One cackled. Her claws sliced open the cord I wore around my wrist, and the silver medallion I always wore fell into the plush grass, along with a stream of blood as her razor-sharp nails gouged the flesh on my wrist.

  “You need to bleed,” I choked out, grabbing her hand and wrestling with her. The old crone was stronger than I expected. Much stronger. The blood had already given her power.

  “Me?” she scoffed with a braying laugh. “You pitiful excuse for a witch! You should have stabbed yourself!”

  We grappled with the knife, but she had the strength of ten women. I kicked at the witch’s knees, which were locked immobile. She was like stone.

  She grinned at my feeble efforts. “I suspected all along the true reason you joined my coven.” She sneered, a delighted, maniacal grin stretching across her papery face. “Protecting your true love? Silas, isn’t it?”

  “You shall not hurt him!” I cried, beginning to panic.

  “Perhaps your rebellion should have come before I drank the elixir, you fool.” She cackled, and turned the blade in my direction.

  The Old One fell on top of me, grinning wildly, baring bloodstained, broken teeth as the blade plunged into my shoulder. I started shaking uncontrollably, until blinding slits of light appeared at the corners of her mouth, dividing her head in half. The light expanded—searing light replacing the scene before me, the witch’s gleeful face morphing into my aunt’s worried one as she shook me awake.

  “Emma, wake up,” she pleaded, shaking my sore shoulders.

  “I’m up! I’m up! I’m…on the floor? How did I get on the floor?” I asked, looking around, disoriented. My head was still half in my dream, but my body was tangled in my comforter on the floor of my bedroom, my bangs plastered to my sweaty face, and
the bright overhead light was on.

  “I heard you fighting with someone—I thought you were being attacked in your room!” Aunt Christine fretted—and that’s when I noticed the baseball bat on the bed.

  “Where’d you get the Louisville Slugger?” I pointed to the pale lacquered wooden bat, and she smiled self-consciously.

  “Your beau gave it to me after the, um, problem last autumn,” she admitted, smoothing out the collar on her pink nightgown. “At first I thought he was overreacting—”

  “He was,” I groaned, a little embarrassed. Next he’ll install a guillotine in your bedroom window. “Brendan has a tendency to overreact where I’m concerned.”

  “Maybe, but when I heard you screaming, I was glad it was in my closet.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t practice your swing on me.” I eyed the heavy bat warily as I tried to get my footing, but my sock-covered feet kept slipping on my comforter.

  “You could have used that bat in your dream, from the sounds of it,” Aunt Christine said, holding her hand out and helping me off the floor. “What was it about?”

  “I was a good witch, fighting an evil witch.” I grinned as I popped up, delighting in finally being able to tell my aunt something that was true.

  “It sounds horrible,” she observed, picking up my comforter and throwing it on the bed. I followed it, jumping back in and settling among the sheets before handing her the bat.

  “It was,” I admitted, rubbing my shoulder as I remembered how the dream ended. “I wasn’t winning the fight.” But could I have? Something the old witch said stuck in my head… .

  “Well, dear, it was just a dream,” she said, brushing my bangs back to kiss me on my forehead. “There are no witches. They just exist in fairy tales.”

  And in my high school. I guiltily looked down, pretending to be immersed in smoothing out my comforter.

  “Sorry I woke you up,” I called as she headed to the door and flicked the overhead light switch on the wall off. “Good night, Aunt Christine.”

  “Good night, dear,” she said softly, pulling my door shut. As soon as I heard the click, I got out of bed and grabbed my laptop, replaying the dream in my head. But it wasn’t just a dream—it was the story Randi had read to us, yet another past life documented in Hadrian’s. It was a past life that was threatening to repeat itself now, as I battled another evil witch looking to bleed me for her own glory. I opened up my email and began furiously typing a new message to Angelique. The seed of a plan was starting to form in my head—I just needed a few more pieces to fall into place.

  * * *

  Brendan was waiting for me the next morning, lounging against the service entrance of the neighboring building—the alcove where we shared our very first kiss. He had a stylish pair of dark sunglasses on, his black hair hanging in his face even more than usual, which I didn’t think was humanly possible. Brendan kept his hands in his pockets as we walked to the car service, so I pulled his hand out and forced him to hold mine. I could tell he was still beating himself up over yesterday.

  “No pouting,” I scolded, elbowing him with forced playfulness.

  “I’m not pouting. You make it sound so self-indulgent,” Brendan complained, frowning. “I’m allowed to still be upset about hurting you. You. Of all people, I hurt the one person—”

  “And if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t want me to keep kicking myself,” I interrupted him before he could sink further into his verbal self-flagellation. “Emo Mode better disengage, Brendan. What, are you going to start standing in the rain, taking self-portraits while you’re looking away?” I said dramatically, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile.

  “Thought so,” I said triumphantly, and he squeezed my hand before dropping it to open the car door for me. But when he slid next to me, I got a closer look at the side of his face—and it was my turn to feel guilty. An impressive purple-and-black bruise was radiating out from under his eye. No wonder my fist hurt so much.

  “Did, um, your parents say anything about your eye?” I asked hesitantly, bracing myself for their reply.

  “It wasn’t that bad last night. Just a little red and I had a baseball cap on. I don’t think they even noticed—honestly,” he assured me. “I just talked to them a little bit about their trip and went to bed.”

  “That looks so sore.” I sighed, trying to keep the guilt out of my voice and failing miserably.

  “Don’t you start with the navel-gazing sadness,” Brendan teased me as the car pulled into the flow of traffic on Madison. “What, are you going to start writing poetry in the dark? By the light of one flickering candle?”

  “Yes. And I’ll extinguish it with my tears,” I said dryly. “Fine, deal. No more beating ourselves up. We don’t need the drama. Even though I do feel like I could star as the villain in a Lifetime Original Movie,” I added.

  “What’s that?” Brendan asked, his black brows pulling together in confusion. I just shook my head, laughing. I was not about to explain the melodramatic made-for-TV movies my mom and I used to watch. But when Brendan strolled into English later, I definitely felt like the star of The Accidental Abuser: The Emma Connor Story. Even Mr. Emerson stopped in the middle of handing us back our essays to question Brendan on his shiner.

  “What happened to you, Salinger?” he asked, his eyes darting around the classroom suspiciously to see if anyone else looked roughed up. It wasn’t the first time Brendan looked like he’d been in a fight—although from what I’d heard of Brendan’s first two years at Vince A, he usually escaped unscathed and the other guy looked a little worse for the wear—but Brendan just leaned back in his chair, casually twisting the silver hoop pierced in his cartilage.

  “Caught an elbow during a pickup game last night.” He shrugged, for once managing to lie convincingly.

  “In the quad?” Mr. Emerson asked, alarmed.

  “Nah. Not here. West Fourth,” Brendan said, name-dropping the most notorious basketball court in the city, before adding nonchalantly, “We won.”

  I hid a smile and poked him in the back. Of course he’d find a way to look like a winner in this.

  After class was over, Brendan turned to me and rapped his palms on my desk.

  “Ready for some delicious cafeteria food?” He grinned devilishly. “I think today’s chicken fingers are really fingers.”

  “Actually,” I said, lowering my voice as I realized Cisco was waiting for us at the front of our row of desks. “I have to meet Angelique in the chem lab. We’re plotting some anti-Megan strategies and I have to talk through them with her.”

  “Ooo-kay,” he replied hesitantly, folding his arms across the back of his desk and resting his chin on his forearms. “Do you want me around?”

  “I always want you around,” I said, couching my reply. “But I think we might get more work done if it’s just the two of us. This doesn’t have anything to do with yesterday, and I’ll tell you—”

  “It’s fine,” he said automatically, nodding his head. I was taken aback—I’d expected more of a struggle, considering how he’d insisted on coming to Angelique’s house on Saturday. But I didn’t want him to hear my plan until it was a little more formed—and I was going to have to break it to him gently. As in, sit-him-on-a-pillow-fan-him-with-feathers-and-feed-him-grapes-while-giving-him-a-back-massage gently. He was going to hate my plan.

  “You said something once about not being able to concentrate when I’m around you and Angelique.” His gaze flickered to my knuckles then he looked back at me. “I want you to be able to concentrate.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” I said, smiling gratefully.

  “I’ll walk you to kickboxing after school, okay?” he said, standing up and throwing his backpack on his shoulder.

  “Okay,” I agreed, and headed down to th
e cafeteria with him and Cisco. I grabbed a bag of chips and a gummy-looking BLT before running down to the empty lab to meet Angelique, who was sitting at our table with a black-covered book under her chemistry textbook.

  I looked jealously at her fresh-carved turkey sandwich, clearly brought from home, then back at my sandwich, which I was tearing apart into pieces on a napkin.

  “How bad is the food in this place that they screwed up bacon?” I asked, poking the pale piece of pork with my finger as if it might slither across the table. “I think they boiled it.”

  “Bacon is the nectar of the gods,” she said seriously, adding, “it’s blasphemy what they did to it.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I brought it to the chemistry lab, since that thing is definitely a science experiment.”

  Angelique just rolled her eyes and handed me half of her sandwich.

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully, taking the sandwich after tossing the shredded remains of my BLT in the trash. “If I ate that thing, I wouldn’t have to worry about Megan. I’d die of dysentery before tomorrow night.”

  “So, speaking of our friendly neighborhood psychopath,” Angelique began. “I read your email. Considering that you sent it at three in the morning, why don’t you tell me what you dreamed?”

  I swallowed a big bite of the turkey sandwich, and rehashed the terrifying account of how I’d died in a past life.

  “And that’s when my aunt shook me awake,” I concluded, punctuating the end of my story with another bite of the sandwich.

  “By the way, nice touch with the bread-and-butter pickles,” I added, savoring the sweet and salty crunch. “You’re pretty much my sandwich goddess.”

  “Enough with my tasty pickles! Oh, that sounded dirty.” She paused, laughing. “Get back to our problem. What’s the plan you’re thinking of?”

  “It’s rough, but this is what I’m working with,” I said, launching into an outline of my very thin plan.

  When I was done, Angelique exhaled, her eyebrows furrowed in worry and she shook her head.