Joey allowed the water to float her on top of the gentle waves and let her mind free.
“Joey.”
She heard her name and whipped around, losing her free float and sinking beneath the surface for a brief moment.
“Joey.”
Again, she heard it. But she saw no one. Quickly using her magic to propel herself forward on a large wave toward the shore, she saw her.
With quick steps, she left the water and stood face to face with Sarra.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“The question should be what are you still doing here.”
“I still have two days. You’re early. Leave before someone sees you.”
“You must complete your mission today. Come back with the grimoire in hand by tonight. The coven’s lack of magic is more dire than we thought. We have heard word of an attack coming our way.”
“From who? Not the North Sea Warlocks. They bare no ill will toward anyone.”
The frantic face Sarra held turned to anger and disgust in a matter of seconds. “Have you lost your mind? The North Sea Warlocks nearly destroyed our coven. They are a threat. They will always be a threat. Go back. Get the book and return home before we treat you as a traitor.”
“Joey is a traitor.” Will’s voice broke the stiff air between the two witches. Joey looked over to see him watching with pure hatred on his face. “How could you?”
Sarra laughed. “Because we sent her. And your coven was so weak, so stupid, not to see through the glamour!”
Joey put her shirt back on and took a deep breath, concentrating on the magic flowing through her and dropped the disguise.
“I’m sorry, Will. I just...” She didn’t know what to say. She had nothing she could say.
“Are you kidding me? A girl? I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was... Forget it. Just leave.”
Will turned and ran down the beach, most likely to tell his coven about the traitor.
Her heart broke seeing him run from her. Even though she had enough magic in her to make him stay, she could never do that to him.
“Well, we won’t be getting the book now. But you can still tell us all you have found. Where their home is, who the important people are, any weakness or strengths we could use. It isn’t a wasted mission. Let’s go. I need to feel the magic beneath my skin again.”
Joey left with Sarra, prepared to face her coven a failure. But one thing was for sure—she wasn’t going to give them anything. She couldn’t do that to Will or the others.
Chapter 5
The deadly stares that penetrated her skin from all angles as she sat in the same chair she had weeks before sent shivers through her. The ropes that tied her in place stung her wrists and ankles each time she tried to move. It was amazing how much had changed in such a short time span.
“You will tell us.”
Joey sat silent. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t tell them how to find the North Sea Warlocks. She wouldn’t tell them anything other than what she had already said over and over again.
“Speak!”
Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet Sarra’s. “The North Sea Coven is not the war mongering coven we were raised to believe. They live in peace and harmony within their community. They never spoke of our coven. Not once. I will not be the cause of another war starting.”
Sarra’s face grew red as she walked to the center of the circle where Joey was sitting. Nerves rolled just beneath Josephine’s skin, and sweat began to bead on her skin. The women around her began to chant, venom flowing freely.
“Potentia Revertimini. Adduc Mors Potentia. Potentia Revertimini. Adduc Mors Potentia”
“But I have your powers. What will chanting do?”
“Stupid girl. You are a witch. You cannot give away all of your powers. Alone, none of us have enough to complete any spell, but together—as a coven, we are still strong enough to handle you.”
Josephine’s looked from Sarra to each woman in her line of sight. With every speeding heartbeat, she could feel herself weakening, her breath becoming shallow.
“Potentia Revertimini. Adduc Mors Potentia. Potentia Revertimini. Adduc Mors Potentia!” The chanting grew to a deafening roar. As her eyes grew heavy and her vision dark, she saw the pure hatred flowing from her coven. She was too weak to even fear her fate. She could only succumb to the darkness.
* * *
Josephine shivered as she walked along the boardwalk. Everything looked so dull, so boring. Shivers ran through her, and a cough bubbled up from her chest. Her eyes narrowed. Sick. She had never been sick.
Every person who walked by her bumped into her as if she didn’t exist. They should have killed me. Josephine kept scanning the faces around her, hoping to see one person in particular. Hell, anyone from the coven would do. But at least Will would recognize her. Maybe being near him would make her feel something again.
Finally, she saw him. Walking down the boardwalk with Ben, another from the coven. She moved closer, walking up to a french fry stand and ordering a basket of fries. Staring at Will, she hoped he would feel it. Feel her presence and look up. The counter boy handed her the fries and she doused them in vinegar, never taking her eyes off Will.
Finally, he turned his head. Eyes narrowed on her one second and a flirty smile plastered on his face the next. He elbowed Ben, and with a quick nod in her direction, he whispered words and he walked toward her alone.
“Pretend I’m saying something really charming and smile and flirt. Then let me lead you over to some games. When Ben is out of sight, you can tell me what you are doing back here.” He smiled at her as if she were the only girl in the world, but the ice in his words sliced through her heart like a knife.
“Fine. I’m sorry, okay?” She smiled even though she fought back the tears. What had she done?
“Come on,” Will lead the way toward the games, and once they were close enough to the arcade, he pinned her to the wall. Their faces inches apart, his breath washing over her, he spoke, ”Put your hands on my waist and start talking. Make this look real.”
She wanted to tell him it was real, that she had real feelings for him she had been fighting since the moment they met. But it wasn’t the time. She had to warn him. Warn the whole coven.
“I didn’t tell them anything. I wouldn’t. They want to kill everyone to end the feud once and for all.”
“There was no feud. Now my coven wants revenge. They want your head on a platter for being a spy. You aren’t safe here.”
“You are the only one who knows what I look like. Do you want me dead, too? And what do you mean no feud?”
“Many years ago there was a war between all the covens in North America. Your coven and mine were the last two fighting it out after all the others had reached peace agreements. After one last battle where both sides nearly wiped the other out, the fighting just stopped. And no. I don’t want you dead. Would I be protecting you right now if I did?”
“That isn’t what happened. We all learned the story growing up. The North Sea Warlocks attacked our coven, killed most of our members all because they wanted our power.”
“Says the coven who sent you as a spy to steal our grimoire in order to kill us. Think about it, Joey. I need you to see the truth if I am ever going to keep you safe. I need to know what happened when you left.”
So she thought long and hard about what he had said and how her own coven had behaved. Not just with sending her to them, but how they treated her when she got back.
“They took it,” she whispered as the tears started to fall.
“Took what?”
“My magic. It’s gone. All of it. It’s like a piece of me is dead.”
Will’s jaw dropped and anger seeped into his eyes. “That is forbidden. A coven can exile, but they are not allowed to strip away a piece of your soul.” With that, he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him. “Leave with me. We can go anywhere together. I will keep yo
u safe.”
Her heart swelled and she tilted her head to look at him. “What about your coven?”
“I’ll tell them I need some time on my own. I’ll tell them that I’m eighteen and want to travel the country and sow my oats. I’ll tell them anything I need to in order to leave without suspicion. You need me more than they do.”
He was right. She did need him. She finally felt something deep within her pounding out the cold that had been there since her coven had taken her magic. She rose up on her tiptoes and softly placed her lips to his, feeling a new kind of magic explode from within her. She felt love.
Mark The Music
by Olivia Hinebaugh
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
—The Merchant of Venice
Club Belmont is looking for a new DJ.
Samuel slams the flier down in front of me while I sit at my Korg mixer. I’ve finally gotten the levels for this mix right, and normally I would rip his head off for interrupting me. My headphones say “Eff off” in safety orange on the earpieces, and I mean it with every aggro ounce of me.
Older and wiser though he may be, Samuel knows I can beat the tar out of him. In fact, sometimes he pays me to be his “muscle”, which is funny considering he’s a bouncer. But in his side job, his less legal one, his dangerous one, sometimes he needs someone truly scary. And what are little brothers for? In return for my services, he provides me with the highest quality fake IDs and a first taste on his merchandise.
I’m not really a habitual user. Drugs can seriously muck up your mixing ability. Like, with pot you can’t hear the bass. Ever wonder why there’s so much bass in reggae? Cuz they can’t freaking hear the bass, so they turn that shit way way up. But, yeah, I like a little chemical assistance when I’m not mixing. I’m too in my brain for dancing otherwise.
Club Belmont. AKA the Mecca of all things bright, shiny, sexy, musical, trendy, on point, and—most importantly—Her. Her name flies off my lips as I slam my headphones down.
“Portia.”
“Exactly, baby brother. This is it. I can feel it. This is your chance.”
I clutch the flier with a death grip. “Jesus! When did you get this?” I can already think of a dozen other DJs who are probably working on sick mixes at this exact second, hoping to impress Her. They’re probably tweaking their style to fit her tastes: trippy, haunting vocals, with a light touch and a heady build. We’re not talking the basic untz, untz untz of days of yore. Not the mindless crashing of synth. Portia loves the artistic, the emotional, the journey that only the more sensitive DJs can create. And I just happen to mix all my music with her in mind.
God, that sounds killer creepy. But I just happen to have the same tastes. It’s like destiny, right? I’m meant to mix at her father’s club—or rather, the crown jewel in his slew of sleek club gems. I think I wrecked up that metaphor, but whatever—Club Belmont is it. Portia is it.
When I have some pocket change and a free night, I’m always there to hear the latest sounds and drink in the vibe. When the DJ is killing it, Portia is always on her feet, dancing in a way that makes me want to jump into her secluded VIP balcony and just ask her to elope. She clearly knows good music.
Not that she’d go for a hood like me. She’s untouchable. She’s perfect. She doesn’t do casual. She doesn’t do slumming it. Her tastes are singular. She likes the hottest DJs. Everyone on the scene knows that music gets her hot, and she’s never heard mine. But—shit—she will. She will next effing Friday.
“I gotta get to work.” I start to replace the headphones over my ears.
But Samuel has other plans. “I actually need you to fill in tonight.”
“What for?” God, I don’t want to cover the door. Nothing worse than guarding the velvet rope at the hole-in-a-wall, second-rate dance club. I know Samuel loves the power of it, but for me, all I care about is the music. And bartending can kiss it. Frequenters of The Venetian are lousy tippers. Most are too high to remember to thank their bartender. And most of them are that high thanks to Samuel’s blossoming drug business.
Possibly not the most admirable line of work, I grant you, but funds are tight and Samuel’s always kept me in mixing equipment, and he makes sure I get to school on time and that I’m mostly well-fed. Can’t have a muscle without muscle, right? He’s basically the best big brother/legal guardian a bum like me could ask for.
Mom’s locked up. Dad’s never been around. Essentially, Samuel and I are blue-collar, working class nobodies. I’d never have a shot with a goddess like Portia. She goes to one of those prep schools with the name carved into stone above the doorway and the teachers that are called “professor” and plaid uniforms and ties. That’s actually pretty hot…
Our paths wouldn’t cross. Because I go to one of those classically inner-city schools, one where a D average and a 50% attendance rate don’t warrant the attention of the administration, which is fine by me. Who wants to do history homework when you can get lost in music, party, and audition for Portia?
“Wake up, Ethan!” Samuel smacks the back of my head.
“Okay, okay. I’m listening.”
“I need you to DJ.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
This has only happened half-a-dozen other times. “You’re not messing with me?”
“Hell no. Pack up your gear. The limo leaves in ten.”
“Right.” I stand from the mixer. “Do I look okay?”
“Wag off! ‘Do I look okay?’ You’re fine. Ten minutes.” He punches my virgin arm with his heavily inked one. Wanker won’t let me use my fakes to get tattoos. He doesn’t want me to limit my options, career-wise. But no one cares what a musician looks like, it’s the music that matters. But you’d better believe I want to impress Portia. This audition is my one shot. At love. And fame. And sex with a bona fide goddess.
* * *
I’m literally on fire. Well, no, not literally, although I’m sweating as much. Music is just flowing through me and every single soul in this place cannot not dance. All these dilated pupils are locking with mine and we are just connected. Beat by wrecking beat. I’d dance myself if I didn’t need to stay glued to this board with my fingers flying, one headphone on (“eff”) one off (“off”).
This one girl is eye-screwing me, but I feel this great desire to be somewhat cleansed of tail when I meet Portia. So no shank-cranking for a week. Put all those feelings in my music.
Flow baby, flow.
* * *
I’m doing my end of the night thing: wrapping cables, wiping my sweat off of every surface, clearing my thoughts. The beat is still ticking in my head, I’m moving with a crossfade, like I’m still spinning but no one else can hear. And, yeah, I might have tried a little of this and a little of that as the night was winding down, and I’m left feeling like a head floating through time, space and music and like my limbs and extremities are just listening to what my head is telling them and it’s actually pretty sparkling trippy. So I’m not sure how long he was tapping on my shoulder.
And we’re the only two in the club. Samuel’s stepped out for business or to hook up with some guy. I dunno. But this guy in front of me. He’s one of those friends I hate. You know? Like, I’m all “Yo, what’s happening? You spin tonight? Did you catch my work?” and stuff but really I’m like “Why is your ugly face up in my club when we all know you spin that heavy-handed pseudo-hip-hop schlop downtown?” and “Fragger, you are in my personal space!” But maybe that’s some weird effect of the drug.
Anyway, The Skipper—yeah, the thug’s name is Skipper like one of Barbie’s many anorexic relatives—just nods to some beat only he is hearing. He likes “The,” like he’s the captai
n of some ship, but I leave it off.
“Yeah. I worked tonight. Caught the tail end of your little jam session.” His voice is smooth. And he’s charming. Never a lack of love for Skipper. “You heard about the audition?”
“You’re not thinking of mixing are you?” I try to sound above it. He’s not a threat. He’s not an ape-breaking threat. “Belmont isn’t known for its hip-hop.”
“Yeah. Well. You haven’t heard what I can do these days.”
He’s got a grin like he’s a cat with a cornered canary and I don’t like it one bit.
“Good luck.” I hold out my hand so we can complete our little charade of camaraderie.
He takes it. Doesn’t let go. Squeezes. Nods to someone I didn’t see in the shadows.
“What is this?” I don’t want the panic to come out in my voice. But it does. I don’t even feel that panicked. More like numb. This is not happening.
But then this other thug—I don’t even know the guy—takes a bleeding bat to my beautiful Korg. My Roland keyboard. Even my bloody mic. Everything.
The first smash, I feel it right in the gut. The second in the groin. I double over and Skipper just lets go of my hand.
So, despite the meds and the metaphysical pain I’m in, I go completely aggro. I’m a million times faster than that nutsack Skipper. And I’m on that other guy. I wrest the bat from his hands. And he just drops to the ground in a fetal position. Because, yeah, I could mop the floor with both of these guys. So I fling the bat and just use my boot, kicking and kicking and kicking this mother-lover until the pieces of my destroyed board are permanently enmeshed in his face and I feel his ribs crack. Skipper tries to pull me off of his compadre so I tackle him and just start punching. He gets in a few scant swings before Samuel is pulling me off of him. Sammy’s calling the cops and pushing me toward the door. He starts to pick up the pieces of my gear as I howl.
Never Be Younger: A YA Anthology Page 16