Runaway Witch

by N. D. MacLaine

  I put everything on, and it fit all right. I threw my old stuff in the trash.

  I put some Chapstick on my dry, cracked lips, then stepped back to survey my work. There were still circles under my eyes, and my arms were still bruised, but I wasn't worried about those. One of the advantages of being a witch is that, as magic naturally flows through you, minor injuries heal pretty quickly. The bruises would mostly fade with a few hours of sleep.

  At that thought, I yawned, and made my way to the bed. I fell into it and was asleep, in my clothes, in minutes.

  * * * * *

  My dreams started normally enough–for me, anyway. I was twelve years old, surrounded by fire, screaming for help, tears streaming down my face. But then it changed. Images that made no sense to me flashed–a pentagram etched into the dirt; a long black sword; a neon-bright sun; a sign that said, “Chandler, Pennsylvania.”

  I awoke at just after 6:00pm according to the alarm clock on the nightstand. I'd intended to be up sooner. The room was hot. So hot, in fact, that I looked around to make sure nothing was on fire. (Long story.)

  I brushed a few strands of hair out of my eyes. Chandler, Pennsylvania. I had no recollection of the place, but what were the odds, having found myself in Pittsburgh, that dreaming of another Pennsylvania city was mere coincidence? Besides, it's not like I had anything else to go on.

  My shoes were dry, so I put them on, then I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror. As I'd expected, the marks on my arms and under my eyes were all but gone. I took my last purchase out of the store bag–a small wallet–and transferred my money into it, then slid it into one of my front pockets. Then I left the motel behind.

  The streets were busy, and this time no one was casting me furtive glances or purposely staying several feet away. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor and considered what to do for transportation. I needed to be fast. I knew that my “friends” would be searching for me, and they would have known that the portal led to Pittsburgh. If they weren't already here, they were on their way.

  As I rounded a street corner, I stopped short at the site of a sleek, sporty motorcycle parked at the curb, a helmet resting on the seat, almost as if it was waiting for me. Other than how to ride one, I knew very little about motorcycles, but I knew this one was downright sexy. It was too perfect to pass up.

  Look, I'm not a bad person. At worst, I'm a little shady, but only when it's absolutely necessary. I don't make theft a habit. So, I did feel guilty as I reached out with my senses to make sure no cameras were trained on me. Then I brushed my fingertips over the small license plate, making subtle changes–an “F” became an “A,” a one became a seven. (That particular type of spell, in case you're curious, is called a glamour, and it wouldn't last forever, but I didn't need it to.) I took one last look around to make sure the owner wasn't going to come charging at me, then I pulled on the helmet and straddled the bike.

  I started it and felt it come to life. Certain things have a power all their own, and this bike was one of them, ready and waiting to take me wherever I wanted it to go. I twisted the throttle and took off down the street, weaving around traffic. I could feel the bike respond to me almost instinctively, as if it knew what I wanted it to do before I asked it to.

  I turned on the bike's built-in navigation system and entered “Chandler, PA” as my destination. A cool female voice began giving me directions through the Bluetooth speaker in the helmet. It took me past PNC Park and Heinz Field, both marked by big signs, and out of the city.

  TWO

  The bike rode like a dream, and it was a beautiful evening.

  Under different circumstances, I would've enjoyed it. But, amazingly, people trying to kill you kinda ruins a good mood.

  About an hour after I left Pittsburgh, I saw the highway exit for Chandler, and a few minutes later, I came to a sign that read, Welcome to CHANDLER, PENNSYLVANIA! Pop. 7,132. The main street of the town ran parallel to a river and was called, appropriately enough, Riverfront Drive. The buildings that lined it were well kept up, following an almost Mayberryish small-town theme. Among other things, I passed a barber shop (complete with candy-cane striped pole), a drug store, a coffee shop (not Starbucks), the obligatory McDonald's and Burger King (situated across the street from one another), a grocery store, and a street that led to a plaza closer to the river.

  It was a nice town, quaint, peaceful. But the further I followed Riverfront Drive, the more signs of decay I started to notice. Buildings grew farther apart. Paint began to fade. I suspected that Chandler was starting to go the way all small towns seem to go as big businesses kill smaller ones. There was probably a small but growing drug problem. Minor crimes were probably on the rise. Chandler had held out longer than many of its sister towns, but give it time. It was sad, really.

  But what really struck me about the town, from the second I rode into it, was the magic that flowed through it. It was the purest, strongest magic I had ever encountered; it was like breathing smoggy air then getting a hit of pure oxygen, or swimming through quicksand versus a crisp mountain lake. Unlike Pittsburgh, there was no metallic taste here.

  My first concern was finding a place to stay. I couldn't just keep robbing ATMs–primarily because it would just be wrong, but also because, in a small town like this, the stranger on the motorcycle wouldn't go unnoticed, and people would probably be quick to connect me to sudden ATM thefts. So, I needed to find somewhere that I wouldn't draw attention.

  Up ahead, on a side street, I saw a small storage building opposite a basketball court where a bunch of early-teenage boys were playing shirts-and-skins basketball at a single, netless hoop, their bikes resting nearby. There were no other buildings in the immediate vicinity, and the only car was an old model parked at the street's dead end, possibly abandoned. If I was lucky, the building would be empty, and I could squat there for a bit.

  I pulled up to the building and parked on the side, where the motorcycle wouldn't be noticed from the street. I took off the helmet, shook out my hair, and stretched.

  The boys stopped playing basketball and watched me, one so caught up in the game that he attempted to pass the ball, but the intended recipient wasn't paying attention and the ball smacked him in the chest and fell to the ground.

  I shot the boys a look and waved my hands in a shooing gesture, and something in my expression must have worried them because they all moved for their bikes.

  I turned my attention back to the building. It was one floor, with a row of blacked-out windows near roof level. The door was marked Property of Chandler Historical Museum, No Trespassing.

  I shrugged and reached for the knob, expecting to have to magic it open. But it turned freely.

  I entered into a short, unlit hallway. It smelled of mothballs and must. My eyes adjusted, and I saw an open doorway about twenty feet ahead, and voices drifted toward me.

  Crap, I thought. Someone else was already squatting here. I turned to go, but the conversation stopped me.

  A male voice, shaky with fear, said, “Why are you doing this? My family doesn't have a lot of money. We can't–”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” a cool and silky female voice interrupted, “we already got the money.”

  A different male snapped, “Shut up, Clara! We're not being paid to get to know him. If you hadn't triggered the alarm so early, we wouldn't be stuck here with him.”

  “We've been here since almost dawn, Forrest! I was tired of waiting!”

  I moved slowly, inching up to the doorway. I peered around the corner. A dim light lit the room, and I saw a guy around my age seated in a chair. He wasn't restrained, but he had a fresh bruise on his left arm that suggested he'd been shown what would happen if he tried to leave.

  His two captors–Forrest and Clara, apparently–stood on either side of him. The situation had suddenly become a lot more volatile.

  Because those two weren't human.

  I generally dislike vampires. They aren't all bad, necessarily, but I haven't met man
y good ones. Which makes sense, considering that a vampire is a former human with a demon taking up residence in their heart–a demon with a dependence on blood that the host has to feed. Eventually that's going to have an effect on the host's mind, especially when they also gain inhuman strength and near-immortality.

  The last thing I needed was to get involved in vampire affairs. This was none of my business, and I wasn't entirely sure I could handle two vampires on my own. I should have just moved on.

  But the guy was scared, and he had no idea what was going on. Given my own current state of confusion, I empathized a bit. Besides, there's an unspoken understanding in the vampire community that they aren't supposed to hurt people–at least, not against their will.

  I sighed silently and peeked around the corner again.

  The room was full of junk–boxes and stuff covered in drop cloths and shelves lining the walls. Basically, what you'd expect to find in a storage building. Clara was eyeing the hostage hungrily. I didn't like that look, and I wondered when she'd last fed. If they'd been here since early morning, it stood to reason that she'd be getting hungry. Vampires don't need to feed every day, but technically neither do people. Our stomachs still growl.

  The two vampires looked a lot alike, and I'm not just talking about their pale skin. Both had white-blond hair and similar angular faces. I wondered if they were siblings.

  The human had dark, almost black hair that was shaggy and parted haphazardly in the middle. He had high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin. His build was slim but not skinny. He had almost olive skin. He was wearing a t-shirt that said I STOPPED LISTENING TO THE VOICES A LONG TIME AGO and a pair of blue jeans.

  Clara leaned into the guy's neck and inhaled deeply near his jugular. “You smell so sweet, boy,” she said. She turned her gaze to Forrest. “Doesn't he?”

  Forrest licked his lips and swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing. Clara caught the reaction and smiled wickedly. “We don't have to kill him, Forrest. We can just have a taste.”

  Forrest hesitated. “Just a taste?”

  The hostage's eyes widened in terror. He stiffened, and I knew he was about to make a futile effort to run. I had to help.

  I took a breath to steel myself and stepped into the room. I kept my voice steady and said, “I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I'm a bit lost. I was looking for the sane people.”

  The vampires turned with their jarringly inhuman speed and glared at me. “Who the hell are you?” Clara asked. Her eyes had gone dark with hunger.

  I scanned the room, looking for an advantage. “Me?” I said, stalling. “Just a little girl.”

  Clara seemed to blur, and then, instead of being several yards away from me, she was against me, her breath caressing my neck as she spoke. “You know, I like girls, too. We could party.” She smiled, revealing canines that were just a little too long. The vampire was pumping pheromones into the air, intending to seduce me. I suppressed a shiver.

  “Clara,” Forrest said, a warning in his voice as he started to realize something was wrong.

  My eyes fastened on something and I formulated a quick plan. “I've never really gone that way myself,” I told her, gathering magic. It rushed to me easier than any I'd called before. “It's a shame, though.”

  “What is?” Clara asked breathily.

  “You might have been the one to change my mind.” I twitched my fingers and an old, pointed, wooden flagpole launched itself across the room and buried itself in Clara's back until the tip just barely jutted out of her chest.

  If I'd missed her heart by even a fraction of an inch, or if the flagpole hadn't actually been wood, I would have had two very pissed-off vampires ready to tear me apart. But I didn't miss. Her eyes widened almost comically, and her mouth moved to shape words she would never say, then she burst into flames and incinerated before our eyes, instantly becoming a cloud of black ash that scattered to the floor, the flagpole clattering after. Only the light smell of burnt flesh lingered.

  The human screamed and jumped to his feet.

  Forrest hissed at me and narrowed his eyes as blackness expanded from his pupils and completely swallowed the whites. “You,” he spat in a dangerously quiet voice, “just killed my sister.”

  I swallowed my panic. I'd caught one vampire by surprise with the flagpole, but she'd been hungry and distracted. I'd never be able to pull it off with Forrest. It was close to sunset, and he'd be getting stronger and even more alert. But I couldn't stop my mouth. “Huh. Bummer. She seemed like such a nice girl.” Because pissing him off more seemed like such a good idea.

  He moved toward me, and I grabbed a drop cloth off of one of the various items in the room. I whipped it into the air at him. As it covered him, I reached into the cloth's molecular structure and hardened it. It became as solid as a rock and trapped him.

  It was a quick, brittle spell, and it wouldn’t last long against the vampire’s strength. I looked at the human. “Run,” I shouted and we both took off for the door. I heard the cloth tear and Forrest roar just as we dashed outside, and a split second later, Forrest was standing at the door, lurking just inside to avoid the little remaining direct sunlight.

  “This isn’t over. You will pay for this,” he growled.

  “Said every cliché movie villain ever,” I replied, then turned to the human. “We gotta go.”

  He was already running for the car that was parked at the dead end. “Follow me!” he yelled, sliding into the driver's seat.

  I jumped on the bike, and a moment later I was on the road behind him.

  * * * * *

  He led me to a nice, older two-story house a couple of miles outside of town, on a back road that was in terrible need of resurfacing. The rural area reminded me of–well, of a lot of things, and a lump grew in my throat. I swallowed it down.

  His driveway was gravel, flanked by trees that neatly blocked the house from the road. As I followed him up to his detached four-car garage, I realized he had a fair amount of property. He parked in one of the bays, then directed me to park the bike behind the garage. Like the house, the garage was two floors, and I suspected the second was used for storage.

  He led me to the back door of the house and pulled a key ring from his pocket. We entered into the kitchen. He led me through the dining room and into the den. There was a large couch and a recliner. A big TV hung on the wall, and the entertainment center below was filled with gaming consoles, a DVR, and a Blu-Ray player. In one corner of the room was a small computer desk. The room felt comfortable and lived in.

  He sank down onto one end of the couch and gestured for me to join him, so I did. After a moment, he said, “I'm Evan. Evan Grant.”

  “I'm Ally,” I replied.

  He nodded, introductions complete. “So, what the hell just happened?”

  I studied him a second. In his face I saw fear and anxiety–understandably so–but I also saw a desperate desire to understand. So, I swallowed and answered, “Vampires.”

  I never know how someone is going to react when confronted with the news that their world view is completely wrong. In his case, he blinked and said, “Uh-huh.”

  I shrugged. “What else did you want me to say? You saw Clara go poof. It wasn't part of some magic act.”

  He chewed his lip for a second. “Okay, so vampires are real.” I heard acceptance in his voice, and I was impressed by how quickly he'd processed it.

  “Yep,” I said. “Real and generally not fun to be around.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  I chuckled humorlessly. “I'm probably not all that much fun to be around, either.”

  He shook his head. “What are you?”

  I sighed. “A girl?”

  He stared, eyebrows raised.

  I sighed again. “I'm a witch.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Aren't witches supposed to be, like, ugly?” As soon as he said it, his cheeks reddened as he realized the implication that he considered me not-ugly. Which, given the last day of my lif
e, felt nice.

  “Guess I just dare to be different,” I joked. “Nah, we look just like everyone else. We're still human.”

  He nodded. “Well, uh, thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”

  “I just happened to be there. I was hoping the building would be empty and I could crash there.”

  He frowned. “Why not just check into a hotel?”

  I replied, “Kinda need to be off the radar. Some people are trying to kill me.”

  He hesitated, probably wondering if I was joking, then dismissed it. “My dad owns the building. He uses it for storage for the museum–he owns that, too. Anyway, something set off the alarm there, so Dad got an automatic text message. He's out of town so he asked me to check it out. We figured it was a raccoon or something. It's happened before.”

  “Far cry from raccoons,” I muttered.

  “Tell me about it.” He curled his legs underneath him. “They acted like they knew me. Like they wanted me for something. But why? I don't know anything about vampires or witches or any of that. What could they want from me?”

  “They'd been waiting there for a while,” I said, based on the conversation I'd overheard. “A vampire could have avoided alarms easily. They set it off intentionally. I'd say it was a trap. Which still doesn't explain the why. How long were you there?”

  “A little under an hour,” he answered after glancing at a clock.

  “Then they didn't want you dead or you already would've been. But that was pretty obvious just based on what I heard them say.” I wondered who had paid the vampires, as Clara had indicated.

  Then I shook my head to clear it. This wasn't what I needed to be focused on. I moved to stand. “I should go.”

  Evan tensed. “Wait! Please don't leave. My parents won't be home for a few days and I don't want to be alone. What if he comes looking for me?” He paused as something seemed to dawn on him, then he pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Crap! My Dad’s called a few times.”

  He dialed and waited. “Hey, Dad...I know...No, it was nothing. Must've been another raccoon or squirrel or something. Sorry I didn't call you sooner. Okay. Bye.”