by Laury Falter
I groaned. “That’s not my intention, Jameson.”
“Too bad…”
“Can you be serious?”
He shrugged. “I am.” He drew in a breath, conceding. “Where do you want to meet?”
“I can pick you up on the backside of the gym after last class.”
“Still trying to avoid telling your family?” he asked, insinuating two thoughts. First, I was trying to keep my family from learning about our interactions. Second, and far more impactful, that he knew I liked him.
“You’re blushing, Jocelyn,” he boasted.
No, I thought. I’ve never done that before in my life. Yet, the heat crawling up my cheeks told me something was amiss and I figured it was for exactly the reason he’d mentioned.
“You do like me, don’t you, Jocelyn?”
Ms. Wizner entered then and I instantly fell into our routine of acting like we are ignoring each other.
Yet Jameson remained motionless, his body directed at me, his eyes appraising me as he waited for my answer.
A student came through the door and did a double take at us, then suspiciously kept peeking back at us after taking a seat as if a quarrel were about to be started.
Still, Jameson didn’t budge.
“Yes,” I whispered hastily across the aisle before more students could approach us.
Satisfied, he spun in his seat and went about logging on to his laptop, not bothering to hide his mischievous grin.
Jameson, true to his word, was sitting on a bench at the back of the overflow parking lot when I drove up. When he stood, I got a full view of him and my stomach tightened in reaction. His shirt fit snugly against his chiseled torso and his jeans hung perfectly from his hips. He was stunning and didn’t seem to notice it. He slid into the passenger seat and said, “So…What exactly is your plan?”
On impulse, my eyes were drawn to the scar above his lip, the one I’d accidentally healed a bit in class. It was a constant sign of his sturdiness, another mark of his stunning features, and I had to deliberately look away.
“Don’t you trust me?” I smirked in order to overcome the reaction I was having to him.
“Well, you being a Weatherford, I probably shouldn’t. But here I am…” he replied wistfully with humor beneath his words. “And what exactly am I here for?”
I laughed through a sigh. “I want to work on my ability to heal.”
“Well it’s about time,” he said casually.
I turned to stare at him in amazement. “You knew?”
“That you didn’t take it seriously? Sure. When I met you on the street outside Olivia’s shop you didn’t believe in any of us. Not in yourself or others.”
I hadn’t. Instead I’d mocked it. And he’d known.
“Yes, well…I see it now. And I’d like your help in perfecting it.”
“And you plan to do that at a hospital?” he asked referring to our earlier conversation.
“Hospitals, clinics, veterinarian offices, wherever there’s a need.”
He blew air out his lips and shook his head. “We’re gonna be busy.”
“So you’re interested?” I asked, hopeful.
“Well, it does give new meaning to the term ‘spending quality time together’ but, sure, I’m onboard.”
I laughed at his false begrudging and headed for the first hospital on the list I’d made during lunch, at the same time I’d mentioned to my cousins that I’d practice healing after school. They stared back, perplexed for a few seconds and then agreed that it would be a good idea. Their perspective would change had they known I would be doing it with Jameson Caldwell so I didn’t volunteer that detail.
The next few hours were spent moving from one location to the next. When arriving, Jameson and I would find the waiting room, strike up a conversation with those who appeared ill, and then I would reach out and connect with them, either through a handshake, a pat on the arm, or a brush of my hand. In that brief interaction, I did my best to stifle the potency of my ability in my expression while focusing on conjuring the power within me and whispering “incantatio sana” at an inaudible level while making that contact. A few minutes later, they would get a curious expression, or their animal would end its sign of suffering, and then they would leave. We couldn’t help but notice that those nearby were somehow cured of their complaint too.
The other side of this process was the requirement to be somehow touching Jameson. As the channel worked as the enhancement to the healing, I needed to be holding him. Neither of us realized this until we reached the first stop and took a seat in the uncomfortable, sloped plastic chairs. Then, as I surveyed the room, my eyes finished its scan and landed on Jameson. That was when I realized he had his hand out, ready for me to take.
For reasons unknown to me, excitement flared and coursed through my stomach, searing it with a pleasurable pain.
I braced myself and then moved my arm, the one with the bracelet of my family stone, toward him. His face was serene, his hand patiently waiting as if he knew this would be a difficult move for me to make. My eyes lifted briefly to his family stone hanging from around his neck and then I slid our palms together. Our fingers entwined and a peace came over me, a feeling that nothing in the world could go wrong.
It became easier, holding hands with someone who I was told only a few days ago was my enemy, until our last stop arrived.
Then I didn’t want to let him go.
Apparently, he didn’t either because we didn’t release each other until we breached the outside where we were visible to those we wanted to avoid seeing us. For reinforcement, when I dropped him off in the school parking lot, he muttered a comment about his hand feeling empty. I didn’t tell him but I could associate with that feeling.
We repeated our practice sessions the next day, Friday, but postponed them for the weekend and resumed them on Monday. And our awareness of each other never lessened. He continued to hold his breath for the first few seconds our hands came in contact and his fingers unconsciously squeezed tighter around mine, signs that he was still affected by my touch. I, on the other hand, just tried to keep the butterflies from batting in my stomach. It helped to focus elsewhere and I began asking him questions about growing up in a house full of curious, rambunctious siblings, how he developed his channeling skills, what he thought of growing up in a lively city like New Orleans, everything I could think of to get to know this assumed enemy of mine. He, in turn, asked me questions, listening intently and making insightful comments.
Ironically, as he and I healed the city of New Orleans and learned about each other, our families were continuing their attacks on one another. If one family came to school with a pimple on each of their cheeks, the other family suffered from a wart in the same spot the very next day. It was the concept of eye-for-an-eye. I just hoped the feud didn’t get to the point of actually taking an eye. Because of this, Jameson and I started a tradition in which he would enter second period, reach out his arm, and without needing to be asked I would heal him of my family’s latest hex.
While I knew my cousins weren’t aware yet of my spending time with Jameson, his siblings appeared to be catching on and heartedly disagreed. Whenever I saw one of them, a frown was always on the other end. I ignored it, having no recourse, and really no motivation for one. I understood their concern. It was the same as I would have been if our roles were reversed.
Still, Jameson tested their patience by standing beside me when Wednesday’s evening class arrived, ready to choose me as a partner if the opportunity arose.
“This lesson will be less hands on,” stated Ms. Boudreaux in her typical authoritative tone. “And with your hands at rest, I expect your ears open. This will be information covered on your final exam.”
A wooden table had been placed in the middle of the room where objects were aligned down the center. Ms. Boudreaux stood at one end and ushered us forward with a wave of her hand.
Jameson and I approached along with the rest of the class. U
nlike others, however, we stood close enough that our arms connected, neither one of us bothering to move away. A fleeting look at him told me that while his eyes were down, appearing to assess what was on the table, a hint of a smile lingered on his lips.
My own smile crept up too, despite the feeling that the rest of the Caldwells were scowling at us. Whatever reprisal they cast for my public interaction with their brother would be worth it.
“The Tristan Talisman,” said Ms. Boudreaux theatrically, holding up a mound of fabric and unwrapping it to reveal a circular pendant made of pound metal. “Those who touch it with bare hands find themselves temporarily without ability, thereby protecting the one who gives it from the recipient’s powers. Note the fabric it is carried in to prevent accidental disablement. Created in the seventeenth century during the time of major advancements in the sciences - alongside the first submarine, the barometer, and the reflecting telescope - the Tristan was invented. While its creator and its exact date and place of origin are unknown, the Tristan was discovered cupped in the hands of a man long since deceased.”
“So it could be much older,” Emery pointed out.
“Not likely,” she muttered with a hint of sarcasm. “The Sevens would have known about it. As we are well aware, they don’t like objects of assumed danger floating about. The only reason they’ve released this one into the provinces is that its power is steadily dissipating.”
She gently placed it on the table and picked up the next closest object. “The Quinox Amulet…a melding of stones that is said to bring good luck to those who carry it. Its origin dates back to the thirteenth century during The Crusades. It was designed as a source of protection for an entire family, making it assumedly a potent artifact. It is said to have been traded for their lives and has been henceforth traded around the world. Mr. Thibodeaux recently purchased it for a good sum of money and has given it to us on loan.
Ms. Boudreaux finished defining the rest of the items on the table, which took nearly the entire class. At the end, we were transfixed, some even hesitant to pick up the objects she’d brought into class. But it was the artifact she ended the lesson with that brought a chill to me.
“Can anyone tell me what the most powerful artifact of all is?” She surveyed the students, finding wide eyes and shaking heads. Apparently, they’d been humbled by the evidence of the others on the table no one wanted to take a chance in answering. “The Rope of The Sevens…made of The Sevens hair, bound by their skin.”
There were audibly sounds of disgust from around the room.
“Why was it made of body parts…or their hair?” asked Karin, her own hair having remained its natural brown after I’d accidentally altered it during the last session.
“It was the surest method,” said Ms. Boudreaux simply and then went on to explain. “The rope was created with the intention of ensuring that no single one of them could overpower the others. It was to be used to trounce any one of The Seven’s willpower should it misalign with their endeavor.”
“Which is?” asked Emery, riveted.
She looked surprised, as if we should already know the answer. “To dominate our world.” Evidently, she quickly realized how corrupt this sounded and corrected herself. “To better control…or stabilize rather…our world.” Then, just as rapidly, she changed the subject. “However, the loss of the rope during the fourth century sent the prospect of that effort into question.”
That was when I froze, my body becoming immobile, my lungs barely drawing air. Only vaguely, I realized Ms. Boudreaux had pinned her eyes on me.
I have a rope lost in the fourth century - the thought screamed through my mind. It was made of hair bound in between leather straps, hair that was from the heads of The Sevens, leather not from animal skin but from The Sevens’ skins.
My eyes flitted around the room from student to student concerned for no viable reason that they would deduce I possessed the rope. I forced myself to stop and listen to Ms. Boudreaux, whose voice was rambling now. “The Sevens have been searching for their artifact since. Numerous people, those in our world and those excluded from it, have lost their lives in the process.”
Swallowing back my nerves, I asked in my most steady voice, “What exactly does the rope do?”
Ms. Boudreaux seemed pleased that I asked. “The possibilities are limitless. With it you can cast anything from a head cold to death. But only The Sevens are affected. So, obviously, it’s something they had intended to keep close by and secure.”
But they hadn’t and I now owned it. It made me wonder who, besides my mother and Mr. Thibodeaux, might know this.
“Needless to say,” she went on. “Anyone who now has this rope in his or her possession is extremely influential. They are also in great danger and must keep it hidden until the time comes for using it.”
Those were the same instructions I’d received at Mr. Thibodeaux’s store, just before I carried it out the door with Jameson beside me. Ms. Boudreaux stared directly at me while make these statements but she wasn’t the only one.
Jameson’s eyes were on me, too.
I looked at him expecting to find his expression curious, dubious.
But it wasn’t.
It was worried.
While I downplayed my interest of the rope the remainder of the lesson by asking alternative questions about the other artifacts, Jameson didn’t appear to believe my efforts.
By the time Ms. Boudreaux excused us from class, I got the distinct impression that he already knew the truth.
10 SECRET RENDEVOUS
Later that night, when arriving home with my cousins from our evening class, I found that I had visitors.
Other than my family and a few students at either of my new schools, I knew no one in this city. So, I was surprised when my name was called while passing the room’s entrance.
“They’ve come to see you,” Aunt Lizzy clarified.
They sat in the living room, a man and woman, both professionally dressed in pant suits. Only the woman seemed unusual. She had a white sign hung around her neck where faded remnants of words had been erased. Over them was a single one written in blue.
It said Jocelyn.
They evaluated me expectantly before standing and introducing themselves.
Their name was Carr and they’d heard about my ability to heal from Mrs. DeVille, who’d heard it from Olivia, who’d heard it from someone else, who’d heard it from the mother of someone who attended the same evening class as me.
Apparently, in the witch world, where supernatural abilities were commonplace, I was a little out of the ordinary.
“What can I do for you?” I asked the Carrs, wishing instantly that Jameson was here. He was not only able to enhance my ability but he calmed me, readied me for the task.
This time, however, I’d have to do it alone and my nerves were on edge because of it.
“Mrs. Carr,” said the man motioning toward his wife “has been battling a virus - in her throat - that has taken away her voice. We’ve tried incantations, balms, rituals. We tried Western doctors. Nothing has worked. Can you help her?”
“I can try,” I replied attempting to project confidence.
Taking a seat next to her, I reached out and took her hand, and then I looked up. While I’d meant to focus on her throat, it was her eyes that gave me the motivation I needed. They were fearful, desperate, and conveying the plea that her voice could not.
She was my first patient, the first who knew it anyway. The others had no idea I’d been involved, simply feeling their limb heal or finding their gash had closed up. This woman would recognize it if I failed.
That realization and the look in her eyes were all I needed to conjure the force inside me.
“Incantatio sana,” I said, rigidly.
It flared up unexpectedly fast this time but I was able to harness and direct it outward, through my hand and toward her throat.
Seconds passed before I saw her swallow and then her mouth opened.
> “You…” she tested her voice. It came out in a whisper, broken, but we all heard it. And then she laughed, a melodious one that filled the room.
She rotated quickly on the sofa and flung her arms around her husband. “I love you,” she murmured and then repeated it with more vigor as if she’d been unable to say it for far too long.
Now it was her husband who was struggling to speak. Yet, he summoned the energy to thank me over her shoulder.
“When did she become ill,” I asked genuinely curious.
“Three years ago.” He shook his head. “Three years and this sign has been our only means of communicating. Not anymore.” He lifted it from her neck proudly.
They then offered me money but it just didn’t seem right. I had plenty to make up for not having taken advantage of this ability earlier.
Anyway, all I really wanted was sleep. It had been a long and tiring day so I said goodbye and went upstairs. Nolan’s door was still open, since he didn’t seem to need as much sleep as the others, his mind always moving too fast to allow for it. His head emerged as I reached the top step and he asked, “All healed?”
I nodded.
“Nice job.”
“Thanks,” I said, realizing that he, and probably the rest of my family, felt these types of incidences were commonplace and it still stunned me a bit.
While curing a woman of throat illness didn’t seem like a big deal, it did keep me up a few minutes longer. Not because I’d done it alone, without Jameson’s help, but because it told me that my ability to heal was getting around this new world that I was now embedded in and I wondered how many more would be arriving on our doorstep.
The next day, in second period, I learned just how fast word did travel.
“So should we buy you an appointment book?” Jameson asked, playfully.
“What for?”
“Your growing clientele.”
My eyes widened at him. “How did you hear?”
His head moved back and forth slowly. “Not many haven’t by this point. I told you…it’s a rare gift.”