by Ariella Moon
Spell For Sophia
By Ariella Moon
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
SPELL FOR SOPHIA
Copyright © 2014 ARIELLA MOON
ISBN 978-1-62135-366-9
Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGNS STUDIO
For Mary Jensen and Jennifer Comeaux
Acknowledgements
A variety of experts helped make Spell For Sophia possible. If I have erred in any way, the fault is mine, not theirs. I am grateful to the following people: Mary Jensen for her invaluable input regarding the foster care system in California. Jennifer Comeaux for her incredible help with New Orleans minutia and for showing me the Big Easy. Lauren Frederick, and Captain Brent of the Jean Lafitte Swamp Tour for being my expert boots-on-the-bayou. Charles Paduano for his detailed descriptions of auto junkyards. Lisa Gillett for her input on equine behavior. William Morison for his advice regarding private investigators. Mackenzie Morison-Knox for being my beta reader. Barbara Millman Cole, critique partner and creativity coach extraordinaire, for keeping me in the game. And lastly, thanks to my publisher Stephanie Taylor, my editor Nia Shay, and my cover artist Amanda Matthews. I have the best team!
Prologue
Two-and-a-half years ago
I'd thought escaping would uncoil the fear and worry squeezing my heart. I figured I'd stop looking over my shoulder once I crossed the California state line, or Arizona's, or New Mexico's, or the border between Texas and Louisiana. But I hadn't. Terror and hunger dogged me. I reeked of desperation. My head throbbed from all the bad decisions I had made since I'd found my bio-parents.
I could still pull out of this; save Christmas. Call Ainslie, the voice inside my head urged. I bet he'll loan you his phone. My gaze zeroed in on the leader of a ragtag group playing basketball on the schoolyard. His short black curls had been coaxed away from his face, revealing warm nutmeg-colored skin and kind, dark eyes. Fifteen years old? I wondered.
He handed the basketball to a young white girl, then glanced my way. His head-to-toe sweep took in my gaunt face, long inky hair, grungy jacket and jeans, scuffed ankle boots, and the school backpack at my feet. He glanced protectively at the little kids who shouted at the girl to pass the ball. Then his gaze migrated back to me. His mouth twisted to one side. I could hear the word tolling inside his head. Trouble.
I hunkered against the side of the school building and tugged my gray knit cap low over my forehead.
"Who's she?" A little kid with Christmas bows stuck on her wooly ponytails wrapped herself around the teen's leg. Her fearful stare gutted me. I'm pretty sure I had worn the same expression the first time I'd entered foster care.
Kick it. I pushed away from the wall. My vision blurred. My hollow stomach whirled and the schoolyard spun like a carousel ride. I braced myself against the cool bricks until the dizziness passed. Pull it together. It will be dark soon. I needed to find a restaurant or fast food joint — any place open on Christmas where I could dumpster dive for food scraps.
I lowered my eyelids and tried to picture the route I had walked from the train station. I hadn't planned on wandering through a lush Louisiana neighborhood. The children's shouts and laughter had lured me to the brick school and its asphalt playground. School had been my favorite place, before…
My thoughts torpedoed back to the barren southern California desert. Some developer had gone bust, and all that remained of his planned subdivision was a paved road dead-ending in sand. "Hide in plain sight," Mamá had said as Papá parked their pink-and-white vintage camper. The vehicle stood out among the sagebrush and creosote like a slash of bubblegum paint.
Hide what? I had wondered. I soon had my answer: a methamphetamine lab.
I rubbed my arms, creating an X over my chest. Embarrassment heated my cheeks. How stupid and naïve I had been. My parents hadn't gone legit. They were trying to evade the local cops and the Drug Enforcement Agency. They had planned to flee northern California without phoning my caseworker or me. If I had waited just one more day to contact them…
"See, the cops would be looking for a couple, not a family," I later overheard Papá boast to his boss.
"Weren't you worried they'd issue an Amber Alert?" one of the boss's henchmen asked, casting a sideways look at me.
"For a foster teen?" Papá scoffed. "They run away all the time."
My heart accelerated. Heat flooded my body. Gasoline fumes seared my nose and throat as if I still held the peanut butter jar full of siphoned petrol.
I forced my eyes open. The skin grafts on my throat and arm tightened like a noose and tourniquet. I managed a shaky step. The basketball thudding against the pavement stilled.
"You okay?" the boy called out.
My brain hunted for an answer and came up empty. When did I eat last?
Footsteps, rapid and rhythmic, raced toward me, growing louder with each footfall. My stomach whooshed. My eyes rolled back inside my head. The schoolyard went black and blinding starbursts flashed before my unseeing eyes. My legs floated away and I freefell backward.
The earthy scent of musk cologne and male sweat jolted me awake. Minutes must have passed. Sinewy arms carried me against a damp, solid chest.
"She's waking up," the white girl reported.
"Good." The boy's voice enveloped me like a fleece-lined blanket. "Everyone hold hands. We're going to cross after this truck."
My eyelids refused to open. I registered the rattle of a slow-moving pickup as it drove past. The boy's arms tensed. He tightened his hold on me, then stepped down off a curb.
"I can walk," I mumbled, pretty sure I felt like dead weight in his arms.
The boy chuckled. "Sure you can." He crossed the street without breaking stride, tensing again before he stepped up on the far curb. His heart drummed steadily against my ear. My eyes wedged open a slit.
"I'll fetch Miss Wanda," the younger of the two white girls said. She had the same heart-shaped face and blond braids as the older girl. She raced up the steps of a two-story house with pearl-colored siding. "Miss Wanda!" she shouted. Her sister followed, stooped beneath the weight of my backpack. She held two small children by the hand — Christmas Bow Girl and a boy who appeared to be about four.
"Put me down," I insisted.
The teen shook his head. "You're pretty bossy for someone who just passed out. How old are you?"
"Twelve-and-a half. And you?"
"Fifteen. The name's Shiloh Breaux Martine. Most people call me Breaux. I'd shake your hand, but my arms are full. You got a name?"
Before I could answer, the door flung open and a frazzled-looking, middle-aged black woman stepped onto the porch. Seeing me in the boy's arms, she hurried down the steps and placed a warm hand on my forehead. "She's ice cold."
"Fainted," Breaux said.
The woman's nostrils flared. "Have mercy! Let's get her inside." She gestured to Breaux. "Stand her on her feet. We'll walk her up the stairs together."
He set me upright, launching a fresh wave of dizziness.
"Don't worry, child. We got you." The woman took my right side and Breaux took my left. Each slipped an arm around
my waist. "Let's see if a hot meal and warm bath brings back your color."
I tried to remember the last time I had had either, and drew a blank.
When we reached the porch, a wiry old woman dressed in an ankle-length African garment held open the front door. "Thanks, Grand-mère," Breaux said.
His grandmother raised one hand, palm facing us like a stop sign. We halted. The woman supporting my side — presumably Breaux's mother, Miss Wanda — protested. "The girl needs to fill her belly."
The older woman ignored her, clasped my hand before I could wriggle free, and rotated my palm skyward. The colorful beads in her silver cornrows clacked together as she bent over my hand and examined it. Her scent — spicy incense, magnolias, and dark secrets — seeped into my pores. She shook her head and mumbled something I didn't quite catch, and then she touched her fingertip to a line on my palm. With a jolt, my life flashed before me like a movie stuck on rewind. I drew back, trying to escape the worst parts.
The reel abruptly stopped. I lowered my chin and angled my head so the boy's shoulder muffled my sob. He strengthened his hold on my waist. His mother released me. My hooded stare returned to the old woman.
"Her name is Sophia," the palm reader said. "Bring her to t’e kitchen."
"Sophia, huh?" Breaux glanced down at me. "Is she going to be okay?" he asked his grandmother.
The old woman tilted her head and stared off to the side as though someone whispered in her ear. After a moment, she spoke. "She Who Guides Me says Sophia must live with me for a while."
Breaux's eyebrows scrunched together. "On the bayou? Are you sure?"
The old woman drew back her shoulders. Although she was half a head shorter, she appeared to look down her nose at him. "Has She Who Guides Me ever been mistaken?"
Breaux flicked a worried glance my way, then lowered his chin. "No, ma'am."
"T'en what are you waiting for?"
Breaux hesitated. His fingertips tapped against my ribcage. Fried shrimp smells wafting from the kitchen gurgled my stomach. The sound propelled him forward. A chill shivered through me as we crossed the threshold and I passed the palm reader and her invisible guide.
"You'll be fine," Breaux whispered.
Anchored to his side, my heart shuddered. It had been a lifetime since I had been fine. The best I could hope for was safe. I glanced over my shoulder. Breaux's grandmother pursed her lips and bobbed her head once. I blinked back, silently sealing my fate.
Chapter One
Present Day
A winter solstice breeze shuddered through the bayou, rattling the swamp witch's stilt house. She didn't take kindly to the word witch. She preferred root woman, or healer, or Mam'zelle. According to Breaux, his grand-mère had been a mambo — a voodoo priestess — before she had mysteriously withdrawn to a solitary life on the bayou. Breaux didn't know why she had gone into isolation. It appeared she would take the secret to her grave, and soon if our magic couldn't halt her wasting disease.
Candles flickered in jam jars in front of the framed pictures of saints on the small kitchen counter, on the ancestor altar, and on Mam'zelle's battered nightstand. A small burlap sack containing a mandrake root swayed above the doorway. I rubbed my arm to calm the fear bumps prickling my flesh. The breeze heralded death. I knew it with the certainty I knew my own name: Sophia Maria Perez-Hidalgo.
"Child?" Labored breaths rattled up from Mam'zelle's sunken chest. They snaked through the mosquito netting shrouding her small bed and lassoed my chest. I loosened the scarf I wore around my neck to hide my skin graft. The floorboards squeaked as I edged closer. "Did you coat t'e candles with five-finger grass before you lit t'em?"
"Yes, ma'am. For uncrossing hexes and to ward off evil spirits, just like you taught me."
"Good girl." With effort she extricated her hand from the cotton bedding and fumbled for my wrist. Her fevered touch scorched my skin. My fingers curled. Sweat sheened Mam'zelle's face and left a sticky spot on my wrist when she released me. Her long cornrows, which had once glittered in the sun like dragonfly wings, clung to her scalp and spilled onto her pillow like dull gray vines. "T’e ancestors are calling me home." Her voice trailed off as though part of her already walked the soul path.
My chest constricted. "I'm so grateful to you for taking me in."
Her hand fluttered and she made a shushing sound. Color blossomed in her cheeks, then quickly faded. "I couldn't refuse Fate when she brought you to my daughter's door." Mam'zelle hissed air through the narrow gap between her two front teeth. "She Who Guides Me would have none of it."
"Yes, ma'am." I glanced at the painted chicken feet strung from the ceiling. Wish I had a spirit helper like She Who Guides Me. She might have warned me against searching for my parents. How easy it had been to find them once I became curious enough to look. I closed my eyes, but couldn't dissolve the image of them I had found on social media. They had appeared normal. Law-abiding.
My skin grafts hurt as if they had been surgically attached yesterday, not twelve years ago. Phantom pain, Mam'zelle had called it. Meth cook accident pain.
"As you know, She Who Guides Me is t’e spokesperson for six ot’er guides. T’ey checked seven t’reads of possible outcomes for you."
"What did they decide?"
"You mustn't let your parents or t'eir associates find you." A rib-cracking cough choked off Mam'zelle's words. She heaved onto her side. I swept up a faded orange bandana from the dresser and held it near her mouth. Mam'zelle doubled over, clutching her ribs. Tears trickled from her seen-too-much eyes and coursed across the broad expanse of her nose before dripping onto the pillow.
My ribs ached in empathy. I lose everyone I care about, one way or another.
At last the coughing stopped and Mam'zelle wheezed air into her lungs. My muscles relaxed and I exhaled. Mam'zelle's watery gaze bored into me. She cleared her throat, a sound like bones scraping against sandpaper. I removed the bandana and folded it to hide the fresh spittle of blood. She closed her eyes and I stashed the cloth on top of the dresser next to her ancestor altar.
"Your parents will never forget—" she managed before more coughs wracked her body. "Not after what happened."
"Maybe they think I'm dead." Or maybe they're heartbroken and sorry.
"T'ey or t'eir boss would have searched the ashes for your bones. T'ey know you're alive."
My face warmed. I closed my eyes against the memory of the lit match arcing through the air and igniting the line of gasoline. The flames from the first creosote bush ignited the next, and then the next… "I'll be ready," I said with false conviction.
"Good."
Sweat dampened my armpits. Three years would not be enough time for my parents or their boss to forgive me. No amount of time will make them less furious or less dangerous. My stomach seized as though I had drunk swamp water. Maybe they are in jail or dead.
Mam'zelle shifted on the thin mattress. "Always wear t'e silver knife."
I patted the sheath at my waist. "I will."
"Now would be a powerful time to cut t’e psychic cords," she said. "It being t’e solstice and all."
My throat thickened. The hand-me-down sweater layered over my long-sleeved tee felt tight. I hooked a finger beneath the neckline and pulled it away from my skin graft.
Mam'zelle shook her head, a slow, sorrowful movement. "After all your parents have done to you."
I lowered my chin and closed my eyes against the rush of memories. The harsh hospital lights after the first incident; the nice nurse telling me, "It will be fine, baby." Though of course nothing would ever be fine again. The hospital had called the cops. And I had been placed in my first foster home.
My mind leaped forward to seventh grade. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. My eyes welled with hot tears. What had I been thinking when I'd seen my parents' picture? That they must have straightened out their lives, because meth heads don't have friends on social media? That they had changed?
"When you're ready, you'll find t'e strength to cu
t t'e cords," Mam'zelle assured me.
I hope so.
"You can't keep blaming yourself, child. You did what you had to."
"I know." I swiped my eyes with my baggy sleeve. The lie weighed on me like the lies I had told my best friend three years ago.
"You aren't thinking of looking for them, are you?" Ainslie asked as she handed me half of her turkey and avocado sandwich.
I glanced around the school cafeteria. "Of course not."
"Good." Ainslie held an organic apple to her lips. She was everything I wasn't — rich, honey-blond, gray-eyed, and dressed like the teen models in the fashion magazines. She'd never seen the inside of Juvenile Court or worn cast-off clothing from a foster parent's attic. "Because it would be insane. People like them never change."
Her words stung. "They might. You don't know."
Ainslie chomped into the apple. "Yes, I do. I'm the smartest kid in class, remember?"
"Second smartest. I got a hundred on the science quiz. You only got a ninety-nine."
I plucked at the sleeve covering my second skin graft. I should be able to do it — cut the psychic cords so my parents can't find me.
"Do you remember how to do a binding hex?"
"Yes, ma'am. I have two poppets ready, just in case. Both stuffed with Spanish moss and five-finger grass." And I hope to Mother Mary I never have to use them.
For days after Mam'zelle had first brought me to her home, I had sat on the wooden footbridge leading to the stilt house. The bayou had gurgled beneath me, slow and stinking of backwater. I had churned over in my mind all my missteps. I must be defective somehow, I had decided. Horrendous stuff doesn't happen to other kids.
Sitting on the footbridge, I remembered how my heart had cantered the day I had left my foster home and had walked toward town instead of toward school. I'll just meet them for breakfast then be back before second period — third at the latest. Then I'll tell Ainslie after soccer practice that she was wrong. They had changed. And we were going to live together as a family again.