Wiccan, A Witchy Young Adult Paranormal Romance

by M. Leighton

  He didn’t answer right away, just stared into the sun. When finally he glanced my way, our eyes met. Something glimmered in the hazel depths that I couldn’t decipher.

  “I don’t know.”

  That didn’t help and it certainly didn’t make me feel any better.

  “Do you,” I began then paused to swallow. “Do you have feelings for me?”

  He watched me as he considered my question. “Yes.”

  That was a plus. “Then why do I feel like- why do I question—”

  He interrupted my stammer, evidently in tune with my train of thought. “I don’t know. Something is…off, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “So what does that mean? I mean, where does that leave us?”

  “That’s the problem. It’s complicated. I don’t know how I feel. I know that we shouldn’t be having any kind of personal relationship, but—” He stopped and looked back into the sun. My heart was on the verge of sinking into my toes until he’d said “but”, which caused it to pull up from its nose dive.

  When he didn’t finish, I prompted him. I was on pins and needles. “But what?”

  He closed his eyes before he spoke. “I just can’t seem to get you out of my mind.”

  And with that, in an explosion of burning hot shrapnel, he blew all my dreams about us to smithereens.

  It was just like with Jake. I’d apparently done something, however inadvertently, to trigger these feelings in him. The feelings weren’t real at all; they weren’t even his feelings. They were mine, reflected back at me like a cold, empty mirror.

  Swallowing back the lump in my throat and blinking away the tears that suddenly threatened at the back of my eyes, I took a deep breath and said what was killing me inside. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other this way until you can figure out what this is,” I said, indicating the two of us. “What we are.”

  His eyes left mine as he looked out over my shoulder, into the trees. Then, nodding slowly several times, Grayson stood. He drained his coffee cup and pitched it into the trash can and then he came to stand in front of me.

  Looking down at me, he held out his hand. My eyes darted from his eyes to his hand and back again before I slipped my fingers inside his and pushed myself to my feet.

  Feeling down and rejected, I pulled my hand from his. He let it go quickly, but before I could turn to go, his hands were cupping my face and his lips were on mine.

  He stepped closer, bringing his lean, hard body into contact with my softer one from chest to belly. His tongue slid between my lips and they parted willingly, eagerly, for him.

  As he plundered my mouth, one hand slid into my hair while the other moved down to my waist. He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me in to him even tighter. The heat that radiated from his body seemed to permeate my skin, setting my insides on fire.

  I was as surprised by his passion as I was lost to it. My mind was completely devoid of thought of any kind; I only felt. All my senses seemed to be tightly focused on Grayson.

  When he pulled away, I was actually lightheaded. I think I might’ve forgotten to breathe while he was kissing me. It was so unexpected, yet so incredibly welcome that I was swept away by it.

  The glittering eyes that gazed down on me didn’t look like cold, empty reflections of what I was feeling, but I couldn’t trust what I thought I saw. I didn’t know how I’d ever know if what he was feeling was genuine and the weight of that, the hopelessness of it, was devastating.

  He inhaled and blew the air out through pursed lips. “You’d better get out of here,” he said, brushing the backs of his fingers across my cheek. “Before I change my mind and can’t let you go.”

  It took every ounce of strength I had to turn and walk away, but I did. With every step I took that carried me farther away from him, my heart tore just a little bit more. By the time I slid behind the wheel of the Jeep, my chin was trembling and my chest was aching.

  I started the engine, backed out of the lot and shifted into drive. I paused for a second before pulling away. I could feel Grayson’s energy tugging at me like so many invisible strings. I resisted the urge to look his way, squeezing my eyes shut and praying for our feelings to go away. When I opened them, I felt no relief. I still felt like I was dying inside. But with a sob that echoed in the stillness of the air, I pushed hard on the gas pedal. I drove away without looking back, knowing that if I did, I wouldn’t leave at all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next day I felt like a member of the walking dead community. My feet felt like lead, my head felt like soup and my heart felt like ground meat. I took it as a good sign when Jake didn’t appear to walk me to school. I hoped that what I tried to do to release him (or whatever you’d call it) had worked and maybe he was off courting the girl from the coffee line.

  I thought about that all the way through my first class, hoping that the extra concentration might further cement the effect and that focusing on them might take my mind off Grayson. It helped my conscious mind, but there was still that underlying bereft feeling and hollow ache that wouldn’t go away no matter what I did.

  Before my next class, I decided to go by Ruger’s and see if I could spot the girl and/or Jake. Upon entering, I didn’t see either one, but the smell of coffee drew me to the little kiosk that served my favorite brew so I slipped into line and opened my bag to dig out some money.

  With my head down, I couldn’t tell at first whose laugh I was hearing, but someone was chuckling, a throaty, husky sound that tickled a memory somewhere way down deep. It was one that I just couldn’t place, though.

  I looked around for the face that went with the laugh. It took me a minute to identify who it belonged to, but eventually I saw Dr. Phillips, the Science Department head as well as the Forensic Science Case Studies class professor. She was talking and laughing with a couple of students.

  I’d only seen her a couple of times and had probably overheard her talking to students on those occasions as well. That’s undoubtedly why her laugh sounded familiar.

  She had reddish brown hair that was cut in a severely short style that reminded me of Anna from the television show V. She was young for someone in her position, probably in her early thirties. She was always well dressed and put together and she was apparently a student favorite. I’m sure that had nothing to do with the fact that she was very attractive and mildly flirtatious.

  She moved off from the girls she’d been talking to and stopped to speak to two guys that were seated at a table she had to pass on her way out. Her smile was friendly and open and it made me think of Billie for some reason.

  That brought on a poignant pang of homesickness for my friend. I could’ve used some of her good cheer and enthusiasm, not to mention maybe some advice.

  There for a second, I’d forgotten that I couldn’t really talk to her about my problems. But then I remembered that if I talked to her, my issues would seem empty and weird without all the details, details I couldn’t divulge without incriminating myself. With a sigh, I pushed that thought aside. It was my turn to order and the barista was looking at me impatiently.

  I smiled and hurried through my order. I was always hesitant to make people who handled my food or drink mad. They could spit in it or worse and I’d probably never know.

  ********

  That night, I really didn’t have much of an appetite, but I didn’t want to be by myself with nothing but time and thoughts on my hands either. That’s the only reason I was participating in supper.

  “Mom,” I asked as I cut bell peppers for our quesadillas. “Do you think you can make someone love you?”

  I saw her look at me from the corner of her eye, but I kept my gaze trained on the task at hand. Finally, I saw her eyes shift back down to the chicken she was cutting.

  “No. I think love is something that’s either there or it’s not. You can’t force it, no matter how much you try.”

  I nodded. And I believed that too…in most cases. But with me, I could influence peop
le and that muddied the water. It muddied the water a lot.

  “Why do you ask?”

  She said it so carefully, so casually like I was a frightened doe she was trying not to spook. It made me want to smile.

  I shrugged. “No reason. Just curious.”

  I could almost feel her inner struggle, like it hung in the air between us. It didn’t last long, though. Mom wasn’t that patient.

  “Is this about the guy at school?”

  I did smile at that. She was way behind in the dramatic soap opera my life had become. “No. I was just thinking about love in general, about how fickle it seems, and whether it’s worth it or not.”

  “If it seems fickle, if it is fickle, then it’s not real. Real love doesn’t go away and it doesn’t change all that much. It might mature a little and grow stronger over time, but it is what it is. Once it hits—when it’s real—there’s no going back.”

  Looking up from my vegetables, I met her eyes and smiled. “I hope I find it. The real kind. And that it goes both ways.”

  Her hands were dirty and she couldn’t touch me like she so often did. Instead, she leaned over until her forehead touched mine and whispered, “I do, too.”

  By the time we’d prepared and eaten dinner then cleaned up the dishes, I was glad that I’d spent the time with my parents. It’s not that they weren’t as aggravating as any other parents or that they were especially cool or anything, they were just mine and that seemed to make all the difference in the world. Maybe it was because of the way they’d always loved me unconditionally. I don’t know, but our bond was fairly unique and magical I wouldn’t change it for the world.

  I cut the kitchen lights off and settled in on the couch to watch the news with Dad. After an overview from a variety of channels confirmed that I hadn’t been involuntarily outed, I excused myself to go to bed.

  Once I’d finished my night time ritual and was ready to actually go to sleep, I couldn’t. I lay there in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling as heartsick as ever over Grayson.

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d fallen for him until that moment. It kind of snuck up on me and I was quickly learning that I didn’t like those kinds of surprises. When I finally went to sleep, it seemed that I slipped right off into a dream about him.

  I was chasing him in and around swings that were anchored in the middle of a deserted parking lot. I would reach for him and he would nod his head yes, but at the same time his arms would push me away. I would concentrate hard on him and he would come closer to me, but then I’d turn away once I realized what I’d done. We repeated this over and over and over until that eerie flickering ripped me from the parking lot and dumped me into a motel room.

  I stood, as always, in front of a picture window with curtains drawn over it. The blue material had wide white stripes on it that reminded me of a nautical theme. I looked down and the carpet was blue as well.

  To my left was the door and to my right was a small glass-top dinette table with two white wicker chairs. A light that looked like a lantern hung over it, burning brightly in the otherwise dimly lit room.

  I turned toward the bed. At the head was an enormous wheel, the kind that you steer a boat with. It was halved and presumably nailed to the wall as the headboard, looking something like a sunset hovering over the bed.

  As had been the case in all the others so far, the body of a girl lay atop the soiled sheets. She, too, was bound at wrists and ankles and her head was covered with a black hood. I saw no hair peeking out from beneath it. I could only assume she either wore it up or it was cut short.

  She had on black shorts so tiny they revealed a small cluster of four little stars high on the inside of her right thigh. She also wore a tiny black t-shirt that had a neckline that was indecent in its plunge. Red lettering across her ample chest proclaimed Reno’s Rib House and Saloon had the best rack in all of Maryland. I guessed she was kind of like a Hooter’s girl, only called a Reno’s girl. Judging from the outfit and the way she filled it out, I knew that the distinction was strictly semantic.

  Veins stood out in her neck as if she was straining against something or trying to scream. I heard nothing so it was hard to tell.

  My empty left hand reached toward her and gently lifted the hood. I watched breathless as inch by inch of her face was revealed. When the material was pushed far back over her forehead, coppery curls began to spring forth around her face.

  She was a pretty girl with creamy skin and bright red lips. Ruby lipstick stained the white material of the gag that cut deep into the flesh of her cheeks. Her light brown eyes were wide with terror and glassy with tears.

  My hand reached out to take one curl and pull it out straight then let it go. It sprang back just like my own curls do. She began to struggle and shake her head as I pulled the hood back down over her face.

  I backed away from her and stretched out my hand. Within seconds, the girl’s feet and head rose from the bed, drawing her into the fetal position as if someone had punched her in the stomach. When she relaxed back down onto the mattress, she reached her hands up toward the face that was once again hidden from view. I saw the veins in her neck engorge with her strain again and then she relaxed again. I watched in mute horror as her body twitched a few times before becoming eerily still. I wondered if, like the last girl, whatever I’d done to her had killed her.

  Though nausea churned in my stomach, I felt the flutter of an anticipation that was not my own. I tried to block it out, but it was flooding me and I was helpless to resist it. I knew what was coming next.

  I counted her ribs from just beneath the collarbone and I stopped, as always, at the fifth. I rubbed my finger along the dip below it then slowly, with a relish that I could feel but I abhorred, I brought my right hand up and poised the curved blade of the knife at just the right spot. Then, with one violent jab, I slid it into her chest.

  A gush of pure pleasure poured through my body. It was so quick and so violent, unlike the times before, I was unprepared for and totally overcome by the sheer euphoria of it. It was much more intense than the others, though I didn’t know why.

  For a moment, the room got a little blurry, like I was high on the effects of that one simple action, but then it cleared and I reached for her hand.

  When I’d severed the finger, I penned letters onto the sheets. When I stood back to study my handiwork, my own breath back in my own body caught in my chest. This one was different and I thought I might know why. The message read TO COME HOME, MH.

  Stifling a scream with my hand, I sat straight up in bed, the dream still shimmering behind my open eyelids like a haze across my vision.

  MH. My initials. Could I be MH? Was the killer talking to me?

  I nearly fell off the bed in my rush to get to my cell phone. Flipping open the lid, I found Grayson’s number and punched the send button. My heart was racing as I listened to the ringing on the other end.

  Suddenly, I began to have misgivings about calling Grayson. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I pressed the button to cancel the call.

  Turning my phone over and over in my hand, I sat down on the end of the bed to consider my options. The girl was obviously already dead. She was beyond help. She wasn’t like Lisa. It wouldn’t make any difference if I called Grayson tonight or waited.

  Professionally, my involvement was putting Grayson in a shaky position. Not calling would certainly lessen the suspicion of the masses. It wasn’t doing me any favors either, especially if DeCarlo ever went public with my name.

  And then, of course, there was the personal element to consider. My relationship with Grayson was…well uncertain and confusing. I knew he needed space from me, from my influence, to figure out what he wanted, what he felt, and calling him again so soon would not provide him with that space.

  With two such good reasons not to call, that pretty much made up my mind for me. And though I felt like I was shirking my civic duty by not reporting the crime I’d (virtually) witnessed, I laid the
phone back down on my dresser and crawled back between the sheets. I knew sleep wouldn’t come, but what choice did I have?

  ********

  On the way to school, I was dragging my feet through the thick fog that covered the ground. Though fog itself has virtually no consistency, it felt like I had to work really hard to pull my legs forward, like I was walking through tar. Each foot felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

  I was incredibly out of sorts. I was anxious in a way that I’d never been anxious before. It felt as if just staying inside my own skin was almost too much to bear. Something inside me was gnawing away at my guts, wanting out. It was like having an itch that I couldn’t scratch.

  I’d turned the “MH” thing over and over and over in my mind until I felt like I’d beat my head against a brick wall. I had all questions and no answers. And there were two in particular that were driving me mad. Am I MH? And, if so, what did the killer want with me?