Saxifrage & Starshine

by Megan Kempston

  Saxifrage & Starshine

  By Megan Kempston

  Copyright © 2017 by Megan Kempston All Rights Reserved.

  Cover © 2016 by Erika Steiskal Illustration (erikasteiskal.com) Chapter opening illustrations © 2016 by Katy Peaslee This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9975660-4-8

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Saxifrage & Starshine

  Agile Ninja Rockstar

  Tooth and Nail

  Hip Hop Goes a-Courting

  When Kings Go Out to War

  Acknowledgements

  Coming Soon by Megan Kempston

  Also by Megan Kempston

  About the Author

  To Cary, the Amy to my Jon,

  and

  to Holly, the Lindz to my Sal.

  Wait, is that weird?

  Thank you both for walking with me, standing up for me, and, when necessary, sitting on me. I love you times a million.

  Saxifrage & Starshine

  I tried to sneak in quietly. It didn’t work.

  This was largely because the classroom door was up at the front of the room, next to the whiteboard, where Mr. MacFarland was standing, pontificating loudly about something having to do with polymerization reactions.

  When he heard the door open, he turned to give me a large and not particularly nice smile.

  “Miss O’Brien. So good of you to join us all of”—he glanced ostentatiously at the clock on the wall—“five minutes to the end of class.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. MacFarland, I was just...”

  “Doing something far more important than studying for a chemistry midterm, no doubt. Still, for the sake of your classmates, why not take a seat and at least pretend to be interested in our review of the material?”

  My cheeks radiating heat, I walked to my seat at the back of the classroom, dropped my bag on the ground, and tried to pay attention. That didn’t work either, but I managed to fake it until the bell rang.

  “Miss O’Brien,” Mr. MacFarland nearly growled as the class filed out the door. “Wait just a moment, please.”

  I waited, but Mr. MacFarland didn’t—he just lit into me, bellowing about consideration and politeness and tact while the last couple of students scurried out, closing the door behind them.

  “And what do you have to say for yourself?” he asked after pausing to take a deep breath.

  I launched into a rapid (and rapidly constructed) story about missing the bus and getting chased down the street by a dog and falling into an old creek bed. I was just going to add in a tussle with a mountain lion when Mr. MacFarland muttered under his breath, made a rapid gesture in the direction of the door, and then nodded to me.

  I sank down into one of the desk chairs wearily, while he leaned against the front table, dropping the glamour he wore to make him look like a typical chemistry teacher.

  “Rough night?” I asked, looking at the bruise marring one of his cheeks and the slashes on his arms.

  He shrugged. “No big deal,” he lied. Well, or maybe it wasn’t a lie. Mr. Mac had been doing this for a lot longer than I had, and maybe, by comparison, his patrol last night had been a cakewalk. “How about yours?”

  “No big deal,” I lied, and this time it definitely was a lie.

  Mr. Mac knew it, and narrowed his eyes.

  “Well, not until about 4:30,” I amended as a grin stretched across my face. “It was super boring up to that point. But then I ran into a scouting band of four Redblade and…” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. “I mean, it was only four. But still.”

  Mr. Mac’s grin matched mine, wide and feral. “Plans tonight?” he asked, just a little too innocently.

  My heart sped up. “Found something?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Might be nothing.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and looked down my nose. “If it were nothing, you wouldn’t be asking about my plans tonight.”

  “Your logic is impeccable, young one,” Mr. Mac said with a twinkle in his eyes. Then the twinkle morphed into something else—still a sparkle, but more like the gleam of moonlight on armor. “A nest. North of Holman. Just a few hundred feet off the trail.”

  My eyebrows climbed up close to my hairline. “Redblade?”

  “No,” he said. “Some new band. I’m not entirely sure, but, whoever they are, I know that I don’t want them taking up residence anywhere near here. With luck, it’s just a scout nest.”

  Mr. Mac was just saying that. My chemistry teacher craved battle every bit as much as I did. Neither of us would actually want a full horde moving in and threatening the locals, of course, but fighting a force larger than a few lightly armed scouts sounded like fun.

  “So,” Mr. Mac concluded formally. “I’m going hunting tonight. I would enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

  I grinned. “Course.”

  He nodded and picked up the detention pad. “I had to give Alexa O’Connor detention today too, so you’ll have to wait at least half an hour.”

  I shrugged. “I have homework. No problem.” Then I grinned. “Did Alexa try to light a fart on fire during lab?”

  He ran a weary hand over his face. “Only you’ve tried that, Katie. Alexa tried to dissolve Tim Raughlin’s shirt with diluted acetic acid.”

  “You mean, vinegar?”

  “More or less,” he rumbled.

  I did my best to hide a smile. “Can’t really fault her for trying—Tim’s shirts are always so tight as it is.”

  Mr. Mac snorted, scribbled on the pad, and handed me a slip of yellow paper. “Can you change out before detention?”

  “Um, that’s sort of the whole point of having seventh period PE.”

  He smiled. I got up, trying hard not to groan, and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. He winced. I was definitely not expecting that. I turned back to look suspiciously at the shoulder in question, while he tried to act nonchalant.

  “I could take care of that, if you want,” I offered, already gearing up my magic.

  Mr. Mac glanced at the clock again. “Nah, the bell’s about to ring.” He rotated his shoulder experimentally and grimaced. “But after school, I might take you up on that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See ya.” And then I left, trying to figure out what sort of terrible creature might’ve actually hurt Mr. Mac enough to convince him to let me heal him.

  Mr. Mac’s part elf, just like me, but I’m pretty sure that in his case, the rest of him is bear. I’ve never heard of Ursus Scottis Rufous, but if there were such a species, I’d expect to find a photo of a very close relative of Mr. Mac next to the article in the encyclopedia. Arrows and swordstrokes tend to slide right off him—partly due to his defensive magic, partly due to his skill, and partly due to his sheer size. I mean, if I were a sword, I’d definitely head for a smaller, less scary looking target too.

  In any event, my speculation about his combat the previous night gave me something to occupy my mind while I sat through English (Petrarchan sonnets), math (something about triangles), and Spanish (no tengo nunca idea).

  I headed to the cafeteria for lunch.

  “Two burgers?” asked the cook, a nice guy named Charles, with a grin.

  “Uh,” I said. “Three? And maybe bacon on top?”

&n
bsp; He snickered but handed over a huge plate.

  I headed to an empty table in the corner and proceeded to scarf it all down, including the extra chicken patty Charles had set in the corner of the plate. I got a soda out of my bag to wash everything down, and then headed outside.

  It was one of those clear early fall days, despite the previous night’s rain. The weather was starting to get cool, but the sun was still warm, and there was a perfect spot under a pine tree where my face would be shaded while the rest of me could soak up our fleeting Oregon rays.

  I leaned my head back against the tree trunk and closed my eyes, and didn’t wake up until the second bell rang for fifth period. Yelping, I jumped up, grabbed my bag, and ran inside to history class. It was my second tardy for the day, but luckily Mr. Bateman is generally too nice—especially after lunch—to give out detentions. In art, a sub was showing a movie, so I got to doze off again, but the PE teacher made me run laps despite a very convincing doctor’s note I had in my pocket. It’s hard for me to stop myself from racing the jocks in my class even on days when I’m not amped up with the promise of battle. But I knew Mr. Mac would be mad if I wasted my energy before our patrol, so I resigned myself to limping around the track at a quarter of top speed instead.

  After seventh period, I did a quick change in the locker room and headed back to Mr. Mac’s classroom, ostensibly wearing a different set of workout clothes and carrying a lacrosse bag over one shoulder. It’s possible to work a spell that will actually shrink an item or a bag, but glamours are easier, especially after long nights, and the lacrosse cover had been working for me so far. Our school didn’t have an archery team or a lacrosse team, but the private school two blocks over had the latter, conveniently coached by a friend of Mr. Mac. The coach let me show up to as many (i.e., as few) practices as I wanted, as long as I helped out with the annual candy sale fundraiser. It was a pretty good arrangement, as far as I was concerned, and the lacrosse bag was just the right size to hold all my gear without raising suspicions.

  Inside the chemistry classroom, I sat down and pulled out a piece of paper, trying my best to focus on the English assignment I had for tomorrow. It’s pretty tough to write a Petrarchan sonnet with battlefever running through one’s veins, but I did the best I could. A couple “nice/ice” rhymes, and I had something passable. By the time Alexa finally left, I’d made a decent start on my math homework too.

  A few minutes passed before Mr. Mac nonchalantly tapped his desk three times. I fought the urge, as always, to look up at him. I kept my head down and counted seconds. I had just counted to seven when he tapped his desk twice. I counted to seven again, careful not to speed up.

  Then I aimed a spell at the camera in the corner of the room—installed in every classroom after the marching band teacher had run off with the prom queen—while Mr. Mac aimed a similar one at the door. Any casual observer would see me working studiously at my desk while Mr. Mac studiously ignored me. The spell on the door also had a nice repellant quality, helping people to remember things they’d forgotten in their offices or lockers instead of walking into the chemistry classroom.

  “Right,” I said, heading up to the front of the room. “Let’s see that shoulder.”

  “Hrm?” Mr. Mac asked, feigning innocence.

  I gave him a sharp look and pulled back my arm as if to throw a punch.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, and then pulled off his shirt.

  I couldn’t help hissing in shock. Not at Mr. Mac’s hairy torso—I’d seen that plenty of times—but at the big, ragged wound on his shoulder. I put a hand carefully over the red skin, closed my eyes, and got to work, sorting out healthy cells from less healthy ones and helping Mr. Mac’s muscle and skin knit back together.

  “Okay,” I said after a few minutes. “Better?”

  Mr. Mac’s face was pale, but he rolled his shoulder gingerly and grinned at me.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  “No problem,” I said, returning the grin. “Oh, and, Mr. Mac,” I said, still smiling, “when did you plan to mention the orcs?”

  He tried to pull off the innocent look again, just as badly as before, and then he sighed wearily. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

  “Kinda hard with orc poison lacing the wound.”

  “Hrm,” he said thoughtfully. “Explains why Millie couldn’t close it last night.”

  I raised my eyebrows at that. “Seriously? Are you insane? If Mrs. Mac had recognized it as orc poison, you’d be in a lot worse shape.”

  “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be in a shape at all.” He ran a hand over his face. “But it’s been a while since I’ve taken on an orc band single-handedly, and I’m out of sick days for the semester.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “It’s only October.”

  He shrugged.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, back to the orcs.”

  Mr. Mac shrugged again. “A band of four, looked like scouts. Took me an hour or so to track a cowardly one that ran off after the melee started, but I got them all.”

  “Is that what we’re hunting tonight?” I asked, barely getting the words out.

  “Are you insane?” he asked, looking at me with huge eyes. “If you think I’d take a student with me to get rid of an orc nest, you should get your head checked.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I thought that you might take your favorite student, who’s a pretty good shot and a decent hand with healing spells, and who did an excellent job against a scout band on a solo patrol the previous evening, to get rid of a small orc nest.” Then I sighed. “Assuming an army was coming, too.”

  Mr. Mac glanced up at me and set a big hand on my shoulder. “Don’t look forlorn, Katie. It’ll be your day soon enough. But it’s my job to keep you alive through your entire course of training, not waste you on the first—and relatively small—serious threat we discover.”

  “Fine,” I grumped. “So more goblins tonight, then?”

  Mr. Mac nodded, and got dressed again. As he buttoned his shirt, his eyes away from mine, he asked, “Do you happen to have extra arrows with you today?”

  I frowned. “Of course. Always. You’d have my hide if I didn’t.”

  He nodded, still looking down at his buttons. “Good.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Spill. What do you know about our quarry tonight?”

  His eyes flicked up to mine, excitement simmering there even though his tone was mild. “Oh, not too much. Just a rough estimate from my reconnaissance.”

  “Thirty?” I asked, bouncing up onto the balls of my feet. “Thirty-five?”

  Even his grin was bellicose. “Try fifty.”

  “Fif—” I sat, abruptly, and then bounced back up. “Let’s go now.”

  He huffed a laugh, pulled out a piece of paper, and pointed to a nearby chair. I sighed but I sat down. We leaned our heads close together and sketched out a plan of attack.

  “Rendezvous point?” I asked, once it had gotten close to 4:45.

  “Washington Park, normal spot. 5:15?”

  I grimaced. “I have to take the bus. Maybe 5:45?”

  “Sure,” he said. “We’ll have to wait till dark anyway, so if later is better, you can run home for dinner first and we can meet at 7.”

  “Or?” I asked.

  “Or we can meet at 5:45 and you can share the dinner Mrs. Mac packed for me,” Mr. Mac said with a smile. “Though I know how much you enjoy your mom’s cooking. I wouldn’t want to take you away from Taco Tuesday.”

  I shuddered. “Don’t make me reopen that wound,” I told him, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “And don’t eat everything either.”

  Mr. Mac’s chuckle followed me out the door and down the hall.

  The city buses were, for once, running on schedule, so I got to my stop at 5:30. I wandered down Knights and then headed off to the left. I followed the spiral of the Veterans’ Memorial, nodding respectfully towards the names of the fellow, fallen warriors as I passed. At the top, I cocked my head, thinking. History homewo
rk or relaxing? What a silly question, I assured myself. The evening was nice, but starting to get chilly, so I pulled a wool blanket out of my bag, spread it out under a tree, sat down, and pulled out another one to put on top. Then I closed my eyes for a nice little catnap.

  “Sleeping on the job?” came Mr. Mac’s voice a few minutes later.

  “Sleeping before the job,” I clarified as I rubbed my eyes. “There’s a big difference.” I moved to one side of the blanket so there’d be room for him to sit down.

  “No wards, though,” my chemistry teacher said, giving me a pointed look while dropping his golf bag, sitting down, and rummaging through a picnic basket. “That drops you straight down to a C.”

  I grinned and gestured. Around us, little twinkling purple lights, waving in the grass, shimmering from the leaves of the tree, and dancing in the air marked the nodes of my wards.

  Mr. Mac’s eyes got a little wider and then a little prouder. “I walked right through them without even noticing them. Nice work, Katie.”

  The glow from Mr. Mac’s compliment was even warmer and more satisfying than Mrs. Mac’s pumpkin ginger soup, which is definitely saying something. We had torn through hot roast beef sandwiches and cold fried chicken too by the time it was dark enough that we were alone in the park. Then Mr. Mac stood and started limbering up, lunging around the darkened clearing. I stayed under my blanket, though I did plait my hair tightly, securing the tail up under the braid where it couldn’t be grabbed, and opened my bag, pulling out an old rag, a bottle of oil, and my bow. I rubbed oil into the supple wood until it gleamed, watching as Mr. Mac took what appeared to be a nine iron out of his bag and then swung it around in a very un-golf-like manner.

  By 8 pm, it was completely dark, with only the gleam of Mr. Mac’s golf club in the starlight.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Ready?”

  In response, I got to my feet and drew my bow in one swift motion, sending an arrow straight past his face.

  Mr. Mac smiled as the red feathers in the fletching tickled his cheek. “I’ll take that as a yes.”