Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  I turned my head and started to raise my eyes . . .

  I awoke to Grandma Suse shaking me by the shoulder. With a rush, realization dawned on me. The dream I’d just had felt the same as the one the previous night . . . and the one with Dr. Ramirez. It felt too real, too much like a memory. Oh my God . . . I’m losing it, I thought.

  “I made us a snack before we hit the road,” Grandma Suse said, setting a plate of food on the wide chair arm.

  Eyeing a delicious-looking sandwich piled high with sliced turkey, cheddar, lettuce, and tomatoes, I said, “Aw, Grandma, you didn’t have to do that. It’s only fifteen minutes back to Mom and Dad’s, and . . . I would’ve helped if—”

  “Nonsense, dear. You looked so peaceful . . . I wanted to let you rest for a while longer,” she said as she carried a second plate to her usual chair.

  “Thanks, Grandma.” I took a bite and savored the flavors that only she could coax into something as generic as a turkey and cheese sandwich. I was pretty sure it was the combination of toasted bread and real mayonnaise, but my sandwiches never tasted as good, even when I did my best to mimic her methods.

  “Yum,” I mumbled as I swallowed. “So, Mom told me the painting in my room—the one of the forest—used to be here,” I lied. “Where was it?”

  Chewing, Grandma Suse pointed to the exact location where I’d seen the painting in my dream—on the wall behind the chair I was sitting in. My blood seemed to transform into liquid nitrogen, giving me chills as it circulated throughout my body. How’d I know that . . . dream that? It was one hell of an odd coincidence.

  In archaeology, all claims must be substantiated by hard evidence, usually in the form of artifacts, ruins, or historical texts. The methodology was ingrained in my bones. I needed to dig deeper—to find more evidence—so I could know what was going on. Was I was losing my mind? I just needed to know.

  Thinking of another, relatively safe piece of information from the dream—the doctor’s name—I asked, “So, this Dr. Lee, did you ever meet him?” I was surprised that my voice didn’t tremble as I spoke.

  Grandma Suse nodded, watching me while she finished her bite. “Yes, honey. I went with your mom to a few of her appointments. He was a very competent doctor. He was a little young, but . . .” As she trailed off, her thoughtful smile disappeared and worry temporarily shadowed her face, but she quickly masked her features with a pleasant, placid expression.

  I took another bite, feigning obliviousness. How did I know the doctor’s name? The painting’s location could have been a coincidence, but the doctor’s name . . . ? It just didn’t seem possible. What the hell is going on? My heart was pounding so hard that I feared my grandma would be able to hear it. I finished my sandwich, playing at normalcy, though I’d lost my appetite somewhere between maybe I’m losing it and I’m definitely losing it.

  After minutes passed with only the low sounds of a tennis match intruding on our silence, I picked up Grandma Suse’s empty plate. “I’ll take care of the dishes, then we can head over to Mom and Dad’s. I know Mom would love some help in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds good, sweetheart.” Grandma Suse smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  While I rinsed our plates in the kitchen sink, I thought about my grandma’s reaction to my knowing Dr. Lee’s name. She’d been worried—or afraid. Why? Because I’m clearly acting like a crazy person, I told myself.

  “I think the dishes are rinsed,” Grandma Suse said from behind me, her voice gentle.

  Startled, I laughed before turning off the water and gathering my things to leave. I slipped my hands into my mittens as I followed my grandma to the front door, sparing a glance back up the hallway. My mind was filled with questions. Who was the hidden man in my dream? Who grabbed my shoulder? What had my grandparents been talking about after my parents left? And most importantly, why are my dreams becoming so . . . real?

  A single word kept replaying in my mind: impossible.

  5

  Sisters & Friends

  It was a short, pleasant drive from Grandma Suse’s to my parents’ house. In less than fifteen minutes, I learned everything that had happened to my aunts, uncles, and cousins over the past year. Grandma Suse had always been a font of knowledge when it came to matters of the family.

  As I pulled into the slick driveway of my family’s firmly middle-class home, I stopped beside my sister’s sky-blue hybrid. Evidently Jenny had arrived while I was out and had parked directly in front of the garage door I needed. Irritated, I rolled my eyes and inched my mom’s car as close to the garage as possible.

  “Sorry, Grandma . . . looks like we’re going to have to walk on the ice for a few feet,” I said as I pushed the little gray button on the garage door opener. When my frail, elderly grandma opened the passenger side door, I quickly added, “Wait a second and I’ll come help you, okay?”

  “Alright, dear,” she agreed, sitting back in her seat.

  I rushed around the front bumper and gripped her arm to steady her as she emerged from the car. Slowly, we traversed the ice to the safety of the garage floor.

  My mom greeted us from the glowing doorway leading into the house. “You didn’t slip at all, did you, Mom?” she asked, concerned.

  “No, no, Alice. Lex and I skated our way to the garage quite gracefully.” She caught my eye, and I spotted hints of a suppressed smile glittering behind her glasses.

  I grinned. “Yeah, Mom. I think we earned a nine-point-five for balance and a ten for our expert spins.”

  “You two!” my mom said, throwing her hands up. “You act more like sisters than Lex and Jenny do!”

  “We look like sisters, too. I only have a few more wrinkles than Lex,” Grandma Suse claimed.

  My mom rolled her eyes expertly. “Please, Mom. Don’t kid yourself.”

  “Oh, that’s my Alice . . . such a sweet girl,” Grandma Suse responded, reaching up to pat my mom’s cheek as she ascended the three wooden stairs to the doorway.

  With an exasperated smile, my mom held the door open so we could enter the warm laundry room. Grandma Suse was through the doorway leading into the living room before me, issuing cheerful greetings to my dad and sister. From the sound of the television, they were watching A Christmas Story for the eight-thousandth time.

  “Grandma!” Jenny practically screamed as she bounced up off the couch and flew toward us. She slowed in time to give Grandma Suse a gentle hug and lead her to the cushy recliner next to the couch.

  “Nice to see you too, J,” I muttered. In the back of my mind I was thinking about what I’d recently learned regarding my paternity. I couldn’t help but wonder if we even shared the same biological father. It was a legitimate question, considering the many differences between Jenny and me—she was creative where I was logical, she was sincere where I was sarcastic, and she seemed to spend half of her life sick with the flu, strep throat, or chronic allergies while I couldn’t remember having more than a hint of sniffles.

  “Good to see you, Suse,” my dad said. “Would you like something to drink?” He raised his dark brown beer bottle. It appeared to be some sort of winter ale that no doubt resembled motor oil.

  Grandma Suse smiled. “Yes, thank you, Joe. I’d love some tea.”

  “Oh . . . I, um, don’t really know . . .” he stuttered.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll take care of it,” I said, chuckling.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Thanks, Lelee.”

  Lelee. The old nickname nearly brought tears to my eyes, and Grandma Suse’s earlier words replayed in my head. Joe Larson will always be your real father. No matter what, I would always be his little girl . . . his Lelee. Close to tears—the happy variety for once—I joined my mom in the kitchen.

  Her face was etched with worry when she looked up from the ham she was doctoring. “We need to talk, Lex.”

  Freezing in the middle of the kitchen, I eyed her warily. I wasn’t ready for any more enormous family revelations—not yet.

  �
�Oh, don’t worry, sweetie. It’s nothing like that,” she said, placing the ham in a roasting pan. “It’s your sister—I just . . . I don’t want you to tell her.”

  Relieved, I continued on my tea-making mission. “I know, Mom. You don’t think she’s strong enough to handle it.”

  “You—how did you . . . did you talk to your dad?” she asked, bristling. “He shouldn’t be telling you . . .”

  Oh, crap. I nearly dropped the mug I’d just pulled from the cabinet. Where had I heard that? It came to me all of a sudden—the dream from last night. “Um . . . no? I mean, Dad and I haven’t really talked much about this at all. I’ve just been thinking about it a lot and . . . I guess I came to the same conclusion. About Jenny, I mean.” Can she tell that I’m lying?

  My mom raised her eyebrows. “Really? I’m surprised in you. I sort of thought you’d demand we tell her the truth as soon as possible.” She skewered me with her sharpest “mom look,” apparently doubting my sincerity.

  Nonchalantly, I shrugged. “Dunno. I guess it just makes sense to me.” I quickly turned away to fill the yellow enamel teapot. “I’m just gonna make Grandma some tea and then I’ll help you with dinner,” I said, hoping to divert her thoughts.

  “Oh? That’s wonderful! I’m a little behind schedule,” she confessed, hoisting the roasting pan into the oven.

  After I delivered the tea and fitted myself with a burgundy apron proclaiming “I cook with wine; sometimes I even add it to the food,” I was directed toward a multitude of duties. I chopped, mixed, boiled, stirred, and mashed without a moment between each task. Every year, my mom felt the need to try to outdo her previous holiday feasts.

  At least I know where I get my love of cooking, I thought contentedly.

  That night, belly stuffed with ham, potatoes, and way too many frosted Christmas cookies, I fell asleep . . . and dreamed. Again, I watched my parents discuss whether or not to tell Jenny and me the truth. Again, I witnessed my grandpa directing my parents to Dr. Lee’s practice. Again, the hand jerked me from the dream before I could uncover the identity of the hidden man who’d been speaking to my grandparents.

  In the early hours of the morning, a new scene played out in my dreams.

  My family was eating the previous year’s Christmas Eve dinner. My mom’s failed sweet potato soufflé sat, deflated, on the edge of the table.

  I inhaled in surprise—another version of me was entering the room, carrying a full bottle of wine.

  “I just don’t know what I want to do yet . . . I guess I’m not ready to commit,” Jenny said.

  Setting the bottle on the table next to my dad, the past version of me said, “You still haven’t picked your major?” She scoffed. “You’re in the middle of your third year, J. You’re sort of running out of time.”

  “Gee, thanks for the heads up. I hadn’t noticed!” My sister glared at the other me. “Damn it, Lex, I can survive in the world without you reminding me of things I already know!”

  She’d always had a hair-trigger temper, but I remembered how shocked I’d been at the severity of her reaction.

  “J, c’mon,” the other me said. “I just meant that it’s an important decision, and unless you plan to stay in school forever, you—”

  “No, Lex. Just stop talking for once. God, sometimes I can’t even stand to be in the same house with you!” She threw her napkin onto her full plate and stormed out of the room, leaving our parents and Grandma Suse gaping.

  The other me rushed after her.

  I followed.

  “J, c’mon. What’s wrong?” the other me called through Jenny’s closed bedroom door.

  Watching the past, I leaned against the upstairs hallway wall, cringing at what I knew was about to happen.

  The door flung open, and my sister huffed out, pushing past the other me and dragging her suitcase. “It’s you!” she screamed as she marched down the hallway. “It’s always you! Lex this, Lex that! ‘Lex knew her major before she started college.’ ‘Lex got a full ride to grad school.’ ‘Lex is so perfect.’ ‘Why can’t you be more like your self-centered, stuck-up, know-it-all sister?’ God, I wish we weren’t sisters. Then I wouldn’t have to pretend to like you!” She heaved her suitcase down the stairs and out to her car.

  The other version of me was crying, but I left her in the hallway to follow my sister outside. I found her in our mother’s consoling embrace beside her car. Their words became clear as I moved closer.

  “. . . what’s best for you, sweetie. You are both special, intelligent young women, just in different ways.”

  My sister pulled out of the hug and wiped her eyes. “Sometimes it’s just too much, Mom. Sometimes I just want her to accept me as I am. What if I don’t want to be just like her? What if I want to drop out of school and become an artist? What if . . .”

  “She’ll love you no matter what, sweetie. You just have to give her a little time to understand. You know how stubborn she can be.”

  My sister glared back at the open front door. “She’s had twenty-one years to understand me. How much more time could she possibly need?” She took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m sorry, Mom . . . I just can’t be around her right now. She’s just so . . . judgey. Can you tell Dad and Grandma I . . . I don’t know. Just tell them that I’m sorry and that I love them. Oh, and tell them Merry Christmas.”

  My mom shook her head. “You don’t need to leave, sweetie.”

  “Yeah, Mom, I do.”

  “What about your presents?” our mom asked, a thread of desperation twining through her words.

  “I don’t know . . . I’ll pick them up after she leaves.” She kissed our mom on the cheek, slid into her car, and drove away.

  When I woke, my cheeks were sticky with partially-dried tears. Did J really say those things to Mom? If she did, is she right about me?

  I dragged myself out of bed and tiptoed to my sister’s room. Her door was cracked open, allowing me to slip into her bedroom without waking her.

  “J,” I whispered, sitting on the unoccupied side of the bed.

  Blinking, she stared at me from her pillow. “Umph . . . Lex? What are you . . . ?”

  “Can I sleep in here with you?” I asked timidly.

  Jenny snorted. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  “Sort of,” I admitted. “But . . . mostly I just wanted to apologize. For last Christmas . . . for everything.”

  She sat up abruptly, tugging at the multi-hued comforter beneath me. “I’m sorry—what?”

  Taking a deep breath, I dove in. “I’m really sorry. I did want you to be like me. I wanted to be able to relate to you, which would’ve been so much easier if we had more in common. And . . . you’re right, I’m self-centered. I never considered trying to be more like you. I just wanted you to be like me. Which is so stupid of me, because you’re an amazing, talented person, and I never want you to change. And I’m proud to call you my sister.”

  “Oh,” she said, staring at me wide-eyed. “Um . . . thanks.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Well, are you getting in, or not?”

  As I crawled under the covers on the left side of the bed, I felt one of the flailing, broken strands of my life begin to mend. Whoever I was, whoever my biological father was, I would always be sure of one thing—Jenny was my sister, and she always would be.

  6

  Ignorance & Stupidity

  “But really, thanks for the ride, Mike,” I said to the man sitting in the driver’s seat. Jenny had known I needed a ride back to Seattle, and when she overheard that her best friend’s brother, Mike, had plans to return to Seattle before New Year’s Eve, she’d asked if I could ride along with him.

  Mike smiled as we exited the freeway and entered the U District, an area of the city famous for its excellent selection of budget-priced ethnic food, endless rows of apartments and turn-of-the-century bungalows, and of course, the University of Washington. “No problem,” he said. “I’m still surprised you’re living here too. Don’t know how I miss
ed that. Suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise—half our high school has migrated over here.”

  “I know! It was a mass exodus,” I said, laughing. “Though technically I wasn’t part of it since I did my undergrad in Montana.”

  “True,” Mike said, nodding thoughtfully.

  As I stared out the window, I found comfort in the familiar surroundings. Nature, lush and green, seemed to be at war with the cold, man-made structures . . . with nature always on the verge of winning. Yakima had been home for most of my life, but Seattle had supplanted it two and a half years ago, when I started my graduate studies at UW.

  “You said you live on Fifteenth, right?”

  “Yep,” I said, eager to see Thora and to just be home.

  Mike adjusted his baseball cap, then glanced at me. “So Lex, we should do something sometime.”

  “Oh?” Studying him briefly, I took in his warm, brown eyes and handsome, if not slightly youthful, face.

  Mike Hernandez had been one of the guys as a teenager. Every girl in our grade at Eisenhower High School had fantasized about him at least once, including me. I’d had a short phase of Mike-obsession during our sophomore year, but nothing had ever come of it. Until a couple hours ago, I hadn’t seen Mike since high school graduation.

  Smirking, he said, “Yeah. We should get drinks or something.” When he smiled, he had adorably faint dimples.

  “That sounds great.” I pointed to a large, brick apartment building on the left side of the street. “That’s me.”

  Mike deftly navigated the busy road and parked by the curb near the main entrance. “It’s lucky our sisters are still friends, so we could, you know, do this,” he said, gesturing to me and around the interior of the car.

  “Yeah, it is,” I agreed, and I meant it. Mike was definitely attractive, and he seemed to have grown up a lot over the past six years, leaving his party boy reputation behind. Besides, I hadn’t been having much luck in the man department—every guy I met on campus was either too absorbed in his research, or overly enthusiastic about the college social scene. I was looking for a balance.