Spellcaster

by Cara Lynn Shultz

  I bit back anger, refusing to let her bait me as I silently vowed to give her a black eye to match the one she already had.

  “You’re really into doing this whole Bond villain-type of chat, aren’t you? Do you want to tell me about how mommy and daddy care more about Jenna, too?” I asked, false concern saturating every syllable. “Just let me know, because I’d like to sit down, get comfortable.”

  I assumed a mocking tone that was supposed to mimic Megan. “‘Jenna’s so perfect, I’ll never live up to her example. My parents love her best. I’m sooo marginalized. Woe is me.’” I stopped and laughed disdainfully. “From what I hear, you have more issues than the New York Times.”

  Megan’s thin lips turned down in a grimace, rage emanating from her like light from a bulb. Target: acquired! Oh…crap. Target acquired.

  “You’re right. We’ve talked too much and you know what, Emma? I don’t really want to be your friend.” She sneered, her thin lips curled up in disgust as she strode out of the center of the pentagram to stand in front of her evil apothecary station.

  “Get in the middle,” she barked, pointing a bony finger at me.

  I sauntered into the center of the pentagram, letting my confident stride mask the fact that I was internally freaking out. I felt like I was on a roller coaster, slowly climbing that initial giant hill, knowing the drop was getting closer—and I didn’t know if I’d see it coming.

  “Don’t forget, Emma,” Megan snarled my name, “I know about your little display with the fire, so don’t think you’re going to scare me off with that.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, shrugging out of my navy hoodie and dropping it on the ground. My bare arms shivered with gooseflesh in the brisk, cool wind.

  “How considerate of you to wear short sleeves, but I don’t plan on bleeding you from your arms—especially not after you’ve been so…uncooperative.” Megan held up her athame, pressing the flat part against her cheek. She dragged it down her face, pulling her lower lip down. My heart began pounding—she was out for more than blood. She was out to maim me.

  “Did you bring my athame? Throw it over here,” she ordered, adding through clenched teeth, “And remember, you try anything stupid and I will give Brendan a heart attack when you least expect it. It might not be fatal—” she shrugged casually, as if she weren’t threatening his life “—but he’ll never be the same. He sure won’t be playing in any basketball championships or engaging in any heart-pounding activities.” Pleased with her innuendo-laced threat, a nasty little smirk stretched across Megan’s face.

  So that’s what she planned for him. Disgust and anger raged through me—evident on my face, as Megan’s lips twisted into a triumphant, cruel smile when she saw my reaction.

  I swiftly reached behind me, pulling the athame from where I’d tucked it in my waistband. I laid it flat in the palm of my hand, my other hand swanning around it with sweeping gestures. I looked like a game show hostess flaunting a prize.

  “Come and get it,” I challenged as Megan’s cool condescension turned to unabashed fury as she stared at my art project. It twinkled in the candlelight.

  “What did you do to my athame?” she screamed, her eyes bulging out of their sunken sockets as she glared at the now-sparkling handle. I’d painted every skull with a different glittery pastel nail polish—the gruesome skulls now shimmered in iridescent shades of bubblegum-pink, lavender, mint-green, buttercup-yellow and baby-blue, all from a set Ashley had given me for Christmas in an effort to sparkle me up. For good measure, I also painted some hearts and flowers and smiley faces on the side of the blade. It looked like something the Easter Bunny would puke up.

  “I used nail polish. The tiny brushes were perfect for making sure I got every nook and cranny,” I said matter-of-factly, before cooing in a babyish voice, “It looks like it should dangle above a newborn unicorn’s crib in his nursery now, don’t you think?” I knew I was taunting her—and I knew I’d keep my advantage by her getting emotional, and me staying calm. “It’s so adorable.”

  “You bitch!” she screamed, clutching her knife as she ran at me. Oh, crap. Here comes the roller coaster drop. I held my fists up protectively, the athame clutched in my right one. My focus was solely on her knife, and when she came within striking distance, I aimed for Megan’s hand, landing a swift kick on the inside on her wrist. She wasn’t expecting me to kick her, so I caught her by surprise. Megan yelped in pain, stumbling forward. I shoved her, sending Megan sprawling on the rooftop, a stunned tumble of gangly limbs and arms. She lost her grip on her knife, and it skittered across the rooftop, spinning wildly. The simple silver knife slid down an open storm drain, the blade clinking loudly against the pipe as it dropped, a loud screeching sound echoing in the metal cylinder as the athame got stuck. Megan scrambled after it, falling onto her knees and stretching her skinny arm down the pipe, her cheek pressed against the dirty tar roof as she desperately clawed at the knife. Start the spell, Emma. Start it now before she finds her knife and stabs you. I backed away, keeping her in my sights as I began chanting.

  “On this night and at this hour,

  I declare you have no power.

  Your spell will die without your kill.

  By my own hand my blood will spill.”

  My voice got louder, stronger as I chanted, and Megan heard my last line. Her head popped up, and she glared at me.

  “What did you just say?” Her shoulder jerked frantically, her search for the blade intensified. I took her athame and pressed the tip against the inside of my right elbow, where an angry red scar from my stepfather’s car accident ripped along my arm. I bit my lip against the sting as I pulled the knife along the scar, tearing open a new, smaller wound alongside my existing one. Warm, sticky blood began streaming down my arm, pooling in my clenched fist. I unfurled my fingers, and the blood dripped on the ground, streaming from my fingertips.

  Mirror it or you’ll fall. My brother Ethan’s warning. He was telling me to mirror Megan’s intentions—and the opposite of her spell was to bleed myself. To sacrifice myself. It’s why the old witch had laughed and said, “You should have stabbed yourself” in my dream of my past life. Just as Brendan had thrown himself in Anthony’s path to save me, inadvertently breaking the curse that doomed us, now it was my turn to save him. All the hints were there, whispering to me in my dreams. And this time, I heard them.

  “What are you doing? Stop it!” Megan cried, panicked. She pulled her arm out of the drainpipe—without her athame—and rushed at me, her hands outstretched like claws. Megan launched herself at me, and I stumbled, falling back against the red paint of the pentagram, the scuffle causing the dirt to billow in the air in a sulfur-scented cloud. The athame fell by my left shoulder as I hit the ground—and I grabbed Megan’s wrist as her sharp fingers clawed at the athame, shoving her grasping hand back.

  “Give…me…my…knife!” she screamed desperately. I smacked the palm of my right hand against Megan’s face, pushing her chin up, my nails scraping her skin as I left a thick red handprint on her cheek. Bracing my other hand against her stomach, I shoved her off me and Megan tumbled back, crying out in pain as her shoulder took the brunt of the blow. I rolled onto my side, grabbing the athame and scrambling to my feet in the center of the pentagram. My hands outstretched in defense, I rep
eated the spell, chanting louder. The wind picked up, thrashing my hair around as it lashed at my cheeks like a whip.

  “On this night and at this hour,

  I declare you have no power.

  Your spell will die without your kill.

  By my own hand my blood does spill.”

  I said the last line forcefully, with conviction. Megan’s cold eyes glared at me through thin strands of wild, windswept hair as she hoisted herself from her crouching position on the roof, her fists clenched at her sides.

  “Under this moon, by this vow,” I began as Megan rushed at me, a feral growl escaping from her lips.

  “I bind your powers, I bind them now!”

  I shouted the last line into the wind, and it echoed around me, my words reverberating in my ears. Megan froze in her advance, as still as if someone had hit Pause on their television set. A quiet moan escaped her lips, erupting into a scream. Her chest lurched forward as if she’d been punched in the back. I backed away from her, and Megan collapsed on her knees, twitching and screaming, in the center of the pentagram where I’d been standing. Her screeching faded into a growl as she rolled over onto her side, drawing her knees up into the fetal position. I didn’t realize I’d continued to retreat from the gruesome sight until my heels hit the low wall bordering the roof, and I gripped it for support as her eyes rolled back in her head, her hands grasping at her chest. A murky glow surrounded Megan’s seizing body like an aura—but instead of shimmering with colored light, it pulsated, with jagged, sharp black tentacles shooting out of her as she writhed on the ground.

  The shadows continued to slither out of Megan, with barbed claws that tore at the wind before evaporating like a fine mist. It was like watching the toxicity, the venom worm its way out of her, as if her dark powers were a sentient being. As if it could stand before me on its own volition. The threatening shadows creeped and clawed their way across the rooftop, fading into the blackness. The roaring wind joined the symphony of Megan’s cries, which rose from a barking, caninelike growl and peaked at high-pitched keening, and finally faded off into a low wheezing. Her twitching subsided, a low moan escaping from her lips as she panted, her breathing heavy. Finally Megan was silent—as was the wind, which died down to a gentle breeze, rustling the leaves in a nearby tree. In the dim light—the wind had extinguished the candles—I saw that Megan stared ahead vacantly, the rise and fall of her chest the only indication that she was alive.

  “Megan?” I asked hesitantly, and she didn’t even blink.

  “Megan, answer me,” I demanded, figuring she was probably just waiting for me to drop my guard. What if you put her into a coma? I thought about how I broke the blackboard in math class—what if I broke Megan? My less-moral side argued it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world… .

  I held the athame protectively in my hands and crouched next to her, putting my hand on the sharp angle of her shoulder, shaking her forcefully. She rolled her eyes to meet mine, and gripped my wrist. A small smile appeared through the bloody handprint on her face. Maybe she was possessed? Maybe I just saved her, and exorcised her demons?

  “Subsisto corde,” she whispered in a raspy voice, squinting her eyes in concentration. I peeled her fingers off my wrist and backed away from her, shaking. Exorcism my butt. I knew what that phrase meant.

  Stop the heart.

  Megan rolled over onto all fours, pushing herself off the tar rooftop from her crouching position. There was something feral, beastly about her movements. She looked more like a hellhound than a teenage girl. Megan turned to face me, glaring at me through her limp, dark hair as she repeated her curse, staring at me in confusion when she saw that I didn’t crumple to the ground, clutching my heart. It made me wonder if she’d done this spell before, who she’d done this spell on and when she’d planned to cast it on Brendan.

  “Save your breath. I did a binding spell,” I spat out, my trembling hand holding the athame. My heart was beating so fast, it felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. At least it let me know that the binding spell was successful. But my body still reacted to her assault—my palms were sweaty, my skin felt clammy and slick with sweat.

  “You think you’ve won?” She sneered, taking a shaky step forward. Megan steadied herself and took another step—this one more surefooted.

  “You think there’s a winner in this?” I asked, my voice shaking as she stumbled to the table of potions, sending a few jars tumbling onto the ground. They cracked open with a hiss, the dark blobs held inside evaporating with a faint—but audible—scream as the glass shattered in long, jagged shards. Megan frantically searched the jars, knocking over more as she got increasingly agitated, desperately whispering words that were surely destined to secure my demise. If only she had the power.

  “It’s over, Megan. You’re done,” I shouted, gripping the athame in my sweaty hand.

  “I’ll say when it’s over,” she screamed, grabbing a tall glass tube, with a murky, swirling mist sealed inside. Megan hurled it into the center of the pentagram, and the glass shattered into tiny, glittering slivers.

  The mist inside billowed out, long curls of thick gray and black fog unfurling like petals on a flower. With a hiss, the mist swept around the roof like a cyclone, trapping me in the dense swirls of nothingness. My athame slipped in my slick grip, falling to the floor with a dull clack. No, no, no! The words repeated like a chorus in my head as I fell onto my hands and knees, my fingernails scraping along the dirty rooftop. My hands swept along the grimy tar, the mist stinging my eyes and scalding my throat as I inhaled the heavy, bitter air. My fingertips brushed the metal tip of the blade, and I shuffled forward on my hands and knees, grabbing the athame firmly before standing up, my heart thudding in relief.

  Only now I was disoriented in the smoky fog. I stumbled left, then right, my arms outstretched, waving wildly as I tried to feel something—anything—to tell me where I was. I continued to fumble blindly through the mist, thinking I could make out shapes, amorphous blobs that would shift and then disappear. I didn’t know where Megan was. I hadn’t heard her—but I hadn’t heard anything. I hoped she made her getaway, disappearing into the cloud of smoke like a cartoon villain.

  My knees hit the wall at the edge of the roof, and I reached my hand down, the gritty fiberglass shingles giving under my touch as I tried to feel my way through the bog. I was relieved to feel something familiar—something tangible, to tell me I was still on this roof, still in the world I knew. The mist thinned out, the gray smoke less blinding, more like a film that obscured my vision. I could make out the little stairway alcove in the center of the building, and the faded outline of the water towers.

  And then I heard it—the stomping footsteps running toward my back. I whirled around in time to see Megan emerging through the evaporating fog. She rushed toward me, a broken shard of glass held high in her hand as she plowed into me, the small of my back slamming into the low wall that encircled the roof with a dull thud. I gripped her wrists, my torso bending backward over the wall as she pressed against me, the tip of the glass glinting mere inches from my throat. I saw the skyline upside down, the moon hanging low and full and rust-colored in the black sky.

  I struggled, pushing back and gasping with exertion. Megan had the advantage, pressing her weight down on me, and the sh
arp tip of the glass scraped against my throat.

  “I will finish my spell!” Megan grunted over me, bearing down on her makeshift weapon as blood dripped from her hands, ripped apart from her grip on the cracked glass. “I will make you bleed!”

  Keeping one hand on her wrist, I wrapped the other around her fingers, squeezing tightly and forcing the glass to slice more deeply into her palm. She screamed, losing her balance and falling forward next to me, the red-stained glass slicing through the air and lodging in the fiberglass shingles, just a few inches from my throat.

  Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I yanked her back, dropping Megan flat against the tar before I pounced on her.

  I cocked my fist back, remembering what Brendan had taught me. “Don’t aim for your target—aim for something beyond your target. You’ll have more of an impact that way.”

  I was aiming for China. I slammed my fist into her face, landing my knuckles on Megan’s right cheekbone. She wailed in agony, her mangled hands flying to her face but offering meager protection. I ripped her hands off her face and they fell feebly against her shoulders.

  This is for Ashley. I cocked my fist back again to freshen up her black eye.

  This is for Brendan. I swung again, hearing a satisfying crunch when my hand connected with her rib cage, not too far from her heart—the very thing she tried to destroy of Brendan’s. I pulled my fist back, desperate to feel her skin tear underneath my knuckles again. Another punch, another scream. And again. Another punch, another scream. This time a gurgling, weak one. And again.

  I was running out of targets to hit. Break her nose. No, break her jaw. No, set her on fire—really do it this time. You haven’t used any magic yet to hurt her—maim her like she wanted to do to you.