Drew is running around with a two-way radio and a headset. Crew members follow his direction without problem, and they quickly and efficiently get the place ready to open the gates to the town. At the front of the stage is Marigold and Melanie. Marigold proudly wears the necklace Drew gave her, and every few minutes her gaze falls in the direction of Drew. Stars are in her eyes, and love radiates from her.
Next to her, Melanie also has stars in her eyes. But not for Drew.
Bear winks at her and enjoys the moment. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with his life, but with his family and friends—old and new—he’s definitely going to have fun. And tonight is the start of that fun.
Any Way the Wind Blows
By: Nicole Zoltack
What's done is done.
—Macbeth
Chapter One
It’s a bitter wind that blows through my open bedroom window, fierce but warm. It tingles my senses, making my eyes water and my nose sneeze.
“Uh oh.” Myra looks up from her textbook perched on her lap. She’s sitting on my so comfy bed, while I’m stuck on my slanted desk chair. Not that I mind. It’s crazy how it spins. Love the rush of warm air…
I sneeze again.
“Whit are ye talkin’ aboot?” I feign innocence. My Scottish accent always kicks up more when I’m hiding something.
“Whenever you sneeze, something bad happens.”
“Na true.”
Actually, that does seem to be the case. Not sure why exactly, but it is what it is.
I cross my arms and shove my hand into my pocket. Taking my hand out, I hope Myra doesn’t notice the white “dust” on my fingers. A wiggle above my textbook, and it slams shut. “I’m done studyin’.”
“Changing the subject with me. Why bother? I know everything about you, including the time you—”
“Awrite, awrite.” I quickly wipe my hands on my jeans before holding them up in mock surrender.
Myra shakes her head, wild impossibly short red hair whipping about. “It’s all right,” she teases. “And why do you even study?” She props her elbows on her Indian-styled knees, holding up her chin. “Can’t you just read Mr. Vaughn’s mind?”
My legs tense, ready to spin, but I hold off. “Myra, how many times do I have to tell ye—”
“I’m not a witch.”
“You’re not a witch,” we say at the same time.
“I’m not,” I repeat. How many times have I told her? I feel like a skipping CD.
“Whatev. Can’t fool me. I’ve seen too much over the years, Caitlin.”
True, Myra has seen too much. My closest friend. We met while in diapers, the day after my parents moved us here to America from Scotland, and we might as well be sisters.
Except I have the magical gene.
Not that anyone can know.
“Myra…”
“Don’t ‘Myra’ me.” She closes her textbook with a thud and leans forward, her book falling onto my white with black flowers bedspread. “What about the time you gave Ms. Martinez a drink and then she fell sick and gave us more time to work on our reports?”
“Are ye sayin’ I made her ill?” I roll my eyes. She hadn’t truly fallen ill. Just felt like it. Completely different.
“And the time you knew just what to say to get Greg to ask you out.”
I scowl. Way to bring up a sour memory, Myra, thanks. “Whit good did that do? And, besides, whit aboot that is magical?”
“No offense, but you aren’t exactly his type.”
Okay, well past time to end this, or at least any talk of the boy whose face I wanted to turn into the rat he turned out to be. “Myra, why be ye so convinced I’m a witch? Do ye want me to be one?”
“How cool would it be for my best friend to be a witch?” Her face is so earnest I have to giggle.
“And whit would ye want from said BWF?”
“BWF?” She wrinkles her slightly overplucked eyebrows.
“Best witch friend.” I give a half-hearted spin. Can’t really go all out with Myra here. Not when I make it so I hover in the air. That’s amazing. Magic’s so cool. If Myra only knew…
“More like BWF, best witch forever. Or BWFF. Anyhow… I’ve been having these dreams.” Her gaze drops to her wringing hands in her lap.
Her entire attitude has changed. I sit up straighter. Dream interpretation isn’t easy, but it’s fun.
But I merely shrug and stare at my nails. They badly need a new coat of Dark Blue Shine. “Dreams aboot? And if you say Barry, I’m goin’ to scream. That guy’s a creeper and—”
“No, not Barry.” She hangs her head, her hair failing forward to half cover her face. “They’re… well, strange. Dark. I’m so scared.”
Uh oh. Maybe not fun at all.
“Where be ye?” I ask casually, but my heart is starting to pound.
“I’m not sure. Nowhere I’ve ever been before. It’s dark and wet, and there’s nothing around me that I can see.”
“Nothing at all? Whit aboot smells?”
“I don’t know. The earth, I guess. Soil. Like a campground, maybe. I feel like I don’t have a lot of room, but I’m too scared to do anything—move, talk, or even breathe. It hurts to.”
“To whit?”
“To breathe. My lungs, my chest… there’s so much pressure.”
None of this is good, but it’s not too awful, I don’t think. I’m not exactly a witch—more a witch-in-training. “When did the dreams start? How many have you had?”
“Four nights ago. After we went zoo and ate dinner here with your parents. I remember because I was so sure Mom would be pissed I got home so late on a school night, but she didn’t say anything. So four nights ago and every night since. Which is weird. I never have repeat dreams.”
I shrug again. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Come on, it has to mean something!”
If I know Myra, and I do, she’ll never relent unless I come up with something.
“The pressure—you’re anxious. Prom.” I snap my fingers. “Aye. Jist worried no one will ask ye. Which is ridic.” I use her term, hoping to draw a smile from her, but her frown deepens. “You’re gorgeous,” I continue. “I’m sure—”
“It’s not anxiety.” She bites her lip and cracks her knuckles.
“You’re anxious now,” I point out.
“Please, Caitlin, give it to me straight.”
I hesitate. Without more details, I can’t be certain of anything, but her fright in her dreams has to come from somewhere, and Myra doesn’t frighten easily.
“Go to sleep,” I say without thinking.
“What? Why?”
“So I can peek into your dream, duh.” I roll my eyes, but that’s actually a really good idea.
“But I’m not tired.”
I hold up a finger and rush out of my room and into the kitchen. A quick potion in her tea should do the trick. In the cabinet to the right of the stove, hidden behind cereals, rests our collections of special ingredients. A drop of titan’s blood, a pinch of ground bone of an ibis, a glob of bat’s wings… No! Some particles of the wings drop onto the counter, dying it black. Great. Mom’ll know for sure, and I’ll be forbidden from any kind of potions for, well, until my testing two years away when I turn eighteen. As it is, she gives me too many liberties.
Cleaning up as best I can, the black fades away until the crème of the countertop returns. No mortal can see it, but my mom is no mere human.
The warmth of the potion seeps through the ceramic cup, tingling up my arm. I love magic. Gives me strength. Purpose.
Up the stairs I go.
“Tea?” Myra raises her eyebrows.
“Jist drink.”
She takes the cup and wrinkles her nose. “It smells.”
“You’re more finicky than—”
“All right, all right. I’ll drink. You and your weird expressions. Can’t understand your meaning half the time.”
I grin. “Maybe that’s jist as well
.”
She holds up the cup in cheers and drinks. Her eyelids droop, and I help ease her into a reclining position on my bed.
Time to enter her dreams. Not easy and it’s my first try. Focusing on my breathing helps. My eyes close. I inhale and exhale in unison with Myra. Immediately, I’m plunged into a familiar darkness. She isn’t dreaming, just sleeping.
Of course. Nothing can come easy. In fact, it’s almost impossible, like there’s a barrier.
Something tells me that I have to interpret this dream. I sneeze without warning. Yes, I have to. Something is definitely wrong here.
Chapter Two
Panicking won’t help any. What would Mom say if she stood here? To concentrate. To empty my mind.
Again, not so easy, but I manage. Myra’s counting on me, and besides, that feeling that this is huge lingers, threatening to take over again.
Focusing on my breathing helps. My eyes close, and the familiar darkness returns. Still ordinary sleep.
Nothing can be simple and clear cut, like a sharpened knife.
Myra had been so insistent that she had it every night. Should I want until tonight and try again? Sneaking into her place doesn’t strike me as a good idea, considering my impending punishment over potion creation.
Maybe location plays a more crucial role than time did. Goodness knows Mom tells me over and over that powerful intentions and emotions leave residue. So do acts like declarations of true love and heinous crimes.
Yes, the more I think about it, location could be the missing factor.
Dragging a sleeping Myra off my bed and to the front door is a slow and arduous task, and I even get drool on me for my trouble. Despite my efforts, her head bangs against the front door and then the car door. Other than snoring, she doesn’t stir. I’ll have to give her a soothing tea once she wakes up. It’s the least I can do.
The drive doesn’t take long. I normally walk to her place, but yeah, that’s not happening today.
As soon as I turn onto the street, Myra starts to moan. I slam on the brakes before jerking on the gas, speeding along and parking in the one spot in their super short driveway. Myra’s moaning grows worse, grating on me, almost making my stomach churn enough to vomit.
The idea of seeing into her dream, witnessing her distress… I can’t back down now. I’ve come too far.
Steeling myself for the worst, I twist in my seat to where I’d reclined Myra in the backseat and place my hands on either side of her face. Her skin felt so cold. Deathly cold.
Goosebumps cover my arms, but I ignore the chill and focus on clearing my own mind so as to allow Myra’s inside. Darkness comes to me again, but this is of a different sort. Her nightmare.
Her fright fills me next, becoming mine. As one, we glance around, seeing only darkness. The force I need to exert to move her arm is so great I can hardly do it, but once I wiggle a finger, it’s easier to control.
Our fingers brush against the wall. I do smell the musky, earth scent Myra described so I expect to touch soil. Maybe we’re in a cave of some kind.
But no.
I don’t touch dirt.
I touch a box. A pine box.
Not a box at all.
A coffin.
Chapter Three
Our lips part, and we shriek, and with a jolt, I’m yanked out of her body. The impact of returning to mine brings along pain, physical pain. My fingers feel like they’ve been bent backward, my back like it was stepped on by a giant, my head as if hammered.
Myra stirs behind me. “How…”
“Donncha remember, silly? You wanted to come home.”
“My textbook…”
Crude. I so should’ve thought ahead and brought it along.
“I could’ve sworn ye grabbed it.” I shrug. “We jist gonna sit in my car” —really it’s Mom’s and I’m so not supposed to drive it without permission. I’m gonna be grounded until next year— “or are we gonna go inside? Ye said somethin’ about having a new recipe to try out.”
Myra rubs her temple. “Right. I did, didn’t I?”
Thank goodness that the potion I gave her to sleep will leave her groggy for a bit yet. She’ll be safe enough to cook and operate the stovetop or oven, but that her memory’s a little fuzzy won’t cause her any alarm.
“Well then. Ima hungry enough to eat a kangaroo.”
“Oh, so what, you’re half Australian now?” Myra laughs, and I’m so glad to hear that sound. The echoing of her terrible wailing will not get out of my head, but at least she’s happier now.
“Don’t knock the land down under.”
“Rub it in why don’t you that you’ve been everywhere and I’ve never left the US,” she grumbles as we walk to the front door and she unlocks it.
“Donncha worry yourself none. When ye open up your baked goods shop and sell your rolls and desserts across the globe, you’ll be able to travel too.”
“And you can sell your tea there.” Myra frowns, and I can see she’s trying to remember the missing gap. Waving her hand as if to dismiss it, she adds, “It’ll be perfect.”
“Doesn’t sound like a half-baked idea,” I tease.
She bumps her shoulders into mine and enters the kitchen, flipping the lights on. They flood the kitchen with illumination for only a second before going out. Myra fiddles with the light switch, and eventually, it’s bright again.
“Weird,” she mumbles. She heads to the left of the stove, bending down, pushing asides pots and pans. “Did I mention what I was going… oh, I know. You’re hungry, right?”
I don’t bother to answer, just stand back and watch her work. She’s a witch of her own when it comes to cooking and baking. Never uses a recipe, just goes with the flow and what feels right. Some humans have more intuition than others. She has it in spades. I think it’s some of the reason why we became such close friends.
She rounds up spices and grabs meat out of the fridge and tosses a bunch of stuff into the bowl. As she works, I think back to the switch. Kinda strange. This whole place feels a little stranger than normal. You know the expression if walls can talk? Well, to a witch, they can, but it’s not directly or clearly, just emotional residue. Something happened here. Maybe in this room, but definitely in this house.
“Be right back,” I say casually, not that I need to. Myra’s in the zone.
We walked so quietly through the house to reach the kitchen I hadn’t the time to notice earlier, but when I reenter the dining room, it hits me like a blow to the stomach. Something wicked happened here.
“Ow!”
Myra’s cry has me running back to the kitchen.
Her hand is in the middle of a red-hot skillet. Tears are streaming down her face, her lips constantly mouthing, “Ow.”
I yank on her elbow, wondering why she doesn’t move her hand away herself, but then I feel it. Some kind of pressure holding her in place.
“Leave her be. Threaten me,” I whisper so softly Myra can’t possibly hear me despite being right in front of me.
Immediately, the pressure vanishes. Myra trembles as she rushes over to the sink, dousing her hand under the water.
Now I’m the one scurrying about. She doesn’t have every ingredient I need, but I still manage to make a salve for her hand. As soon as I apply it, the burn starts to fade.
She’s staring straight ahead so she doesn’t see it heal, albeit slower than if I have made the serum exactly right.
“Myra…”
She snaps her fingers with her other hand. “Garlic!”
I stare at her blankly as she resumes cooking as if nothing happened.
Whelp, maybe my tea from earlier is still affecting her. A favor and yet not so good.
“Let’s go back to my place,” I suggest.
Myra dumps the herbs and spiced covered meat into the hot skillet. “Why? This won’t take long.” She whistles as she works.
The delicious scent of her food permeates the kitchen, but beneath it lies another one. It takes me a little
bit to recognize it, but once I do, it smells even stronger. Metal. Blood.
“Do you smell that?”
Myra makes a shrieking sound that she does when she’s excited. “This is gonna be so good!”
I just wanna get us out of here. My throat is so dry I can’t talk, though, so I pour myself a glass of water. The first swallow is delicious, but then that pressure returns, holding my mouth open, keeping my hand up so the water pours and pours and pours, down my throat, splashing up my mouth, and I can’t breathe. My vision dots, and my lungs start to fill…
Myra jostles into me, and the glass slips out of my hand, crashing to the floor.
I sputter, spitting out water and gasping down air.
“Oh, I’m such a klutz. Here.” Myra grabs a broom from the corner and starts to sweep up the shards.
“I can git it,” I offer.
“Done.” Myra dumps them into the trashcan. “Have to remember to tell Mom to be careful with the bag when she takes it out.”
I nod. It’s so unfamiliar to me, their family dynamic. It’s just Myra and her mom. Her dad died shortly after Myra was born, whereas Mom and Dad are so close I sometimes feel like I’m in the way. Dad always takes out the trash. Mom’ll nag him to, but he’s always done it before she has the chance to. Was funny the first few times. Now it’s their thing, and it’s so corny and annoying.
Myra grabs hamburger rolls and drops the meat mixture onto them.
“Slopping Myra’s,” she presents proudly as she brings them out to the dining room table.
I bring napkins, and we start to eat. Maybe sticking around to eat one—or two—isn’t that bad of an idea. “So good. Mom never makes food like that.”
Myra wrinkles her nose. “Don’t tell me. She makes that canned stuff.” When I nod, she sighs. “I should write her some recipes.”
“Please,” I beg.
We both laugh.
Myra’s fascination with cooking comes from her mom working so many long hours. For years, she’s been passed on promotions, and I overheard our moms talking once that she thought it was because she was a single mom. With her mom not always making it home in time for dinner, Myra started to take to cooking herself dinner and boom!
Never Be Younger: A YA Anthology Page 9