He pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed my fingers again. More sparkles, and this time I felt them. Everywhere. My bare toes curled against the cobblestones on the path.
“I was scared that night,” he said.
“You’re superstitious. My coven told me all those myths about wizards and witches stealing each other’s powers during sex. They said it’s all urban legends, something you wizards make up to get out of commitment. Nothing but old wizards’ tales.”
“My fear had nothing to do with magic, Zeb.” He stepped in closer, so our noses were nearly touching. “I was afraid of the most powerful magic of all. Love.” He kissed me. “But I’m not afraid anymore.”
And with those non-magical words, the spell was cast.
Arturo wasn’t afraid anymore, so neither was I.
I kissed him back, looping my arms around his neck so he wouldn’t get away. We kissed each other under the street lamp until we were gasping for breath.
I pulled away and gave him hell for months of torture. It was agony to sit in his classroom and focus on lessons when I just wanted to rip his clothes off and nibble him all over. He told me he’d felt the same way.
“Zeb, I’m a math wizard, and I finally figured out the formula. One plus one equals infinity, when love is part of the equation. Zeb, I love you.”
I quickly hummed the I-will-not-cry-now lullaby, then said, “Where do we go from here?”
He kissed me, then murmured, “My house?”
“Too far. My van’s parked right over there.”
He grimaced, showing his snooty side, but I kissed him so hard, he changed his mind about making love in a vintage Volkswagen. He swept me up in his arms, saying he had to, since I wasn’t wearing any shoes, and he carried me into the van.
We closed the curtains on the little windows and tore each other’s clothes off. I had stocked the van with some non-magical sexual protection spells in anticipation of my hot summer of touring, so I handed him a square packet and he readied his sparkling love rocket.
He fell into my arms and gently plundered me while I moaned helpful feedback. Everything seemed to fit together right, from what I could tell. His fingers left tracers on my skin and vice versa. His kisses were like fire and water at the same time, and I went crazy for him.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“You’re a great liar, just like Kenny.”
He moved against me and with me, pounding out a beautiful rhythm with perfect timing.
“Admit you’re beautiful.”
I whispered back, “Your eyes see only beauty, and so that’s all there is. I am yours.”
“You are mine.”
“One plus one.”
He smiled. “Infinity.”
Our light merged as we reached the end, and hovered over us like a star. I dug my fingers into Arturo’s muscular back and murmured that I loved him. He swore his soul to me, from that moment forward.
The star went supernova.
11.
When the van’s a-rockin’ don’t come a-knockin’.
That’s the new bumper sticker we applied to Piglet’s bumper before we left town for our summer tour.
Our band, the soon-to-be famous You Me and the Dog had a fourth member: Arturo. He wasn’t the greatest backup singer, and his work on rhythm guitar needed to loosen up, but he brought his composition expertise to our songwriting. Plus he brought his money, and his convertible, towing a new trailer holding our band equipment.
I didn’t bring him for his money, though. I brought him because as soon as we both admitted how in love with each other we were, we couldn’t bear to spend one night apart. I joked that he needed a yellow vest, like the dog’s, so he could be my official therapy animal.
He likes it when I call him an “animal.” He says I bring out his inner tiger. And I do bring out his inner tiger… frequently. Sometimes I bring it out in hotel rooms along the road, and sometimes literally along the road, pulled over to the side so we can have at each other inside Piglet.
They say that when a wizard and witch have sex, they can steal each other’s powers. For a while, I worried it was true after all. I was getting more powerful by the day. Then Arturo said his magic was getting stronger as well. We’ve decided the legend must be true, but it does the opposite when both people are giving instead of taking. When they are in love.
Love.
Love is my driving force these days, in every way. I love touring, and I love Kenny and the dog. Both of them are happy on the road, having their adventures. They worried about Arturo joining the band, but I do little things to assure them of my infinite love. For example, last week I booked Kenny and the dog a couple’s massage at a spa that does Doggie and Me treatments. They both came out looking relaxed and smelling pretty, with matching red ribbons in their hair.
I can be sweet sometimes, thanks to the magic of love.
Love is what keeps me going on days that get too long. Like when Arturo won’t listen to driving directions and gets our two-vehicle caravan lost on his so-called shortcuts. Whenever I’m tempted to quit, I just draw my energy into myself, make a cup of tea, and hum a helpful lullaby. If I wait for it, I’ll soon feel the love again. Life can be a roller coaster, but it’s also a carousel, going ‘round and ‘round.
When the love is good, it’s really good.
Our band is starting to get a following. They call me the Love Singer, and people swear that magical things happen to them at our shows.
I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
I sing, and the carousel keeps turning.
People who’ve lost all hope find it again.
Couples who’ve fallen out of love see each other again, underneath the wrinkles of time and hardship and kids and bills and whatever else people fight about when they ought to be trusting in love.
I sing for them all, about what I know to be true. I gather the threads that have come undone, and I tuck them back into the tapestry of life and love, where they belong. All of us, woven together, are stronger when we’re bound to each other, arms linked, hearts entwined.
Bless you, all my friends, and may you know the magic when you find it. May you never lose hold of what makes you sparkle.
Zeb, out.
Broken Shell Island
A Young Adult / All Ages Fantasy Novel
Originally published under
the pen name Dalya Moon
"An entrancing tale by a fresh voice in YA fantasy."
"All the charm of Harry Potter, with a good dose of humor. A fantastic, magical book for kids and parents alike!"
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Opal gets a dirty old suitcase for her birthday.
She's not impressed.
Her grandfather tells her she'll need it, because she's going to live with her great aunt on Broken Shell Island. Opal wonders if her grandfather hasn't gone senile, because Broken Shell Island is a made-up magical place that their family friend Flora Fritz writes picture books about.
Oh, but the island is real. And magic.
Opal encounters magical plants, animals, and danger, too. The evening she arrives, a body is discovered in the woods, not far from where she passed through. Worse, a terrifying creature has emerged from the ground, and it hungers for the innocent, whether the people of the island believe in it or not.
Life is beautiful, magical, and perilous, on Broken Shell Island.
Chapter One
What Opal really wanted was a bicycle, and the box, while pretty, seemed suspiciously small, too small to contain a bicycle.
“Don't be mad,” her grandfather, Warren, said.
She'd already blown out the fifteen candles and eaten the cake, and it was time to face the box. She wondered, what had been the point in her looking up prices and stats online, then printing out directions to the store that carried the bike, if he was just going to get her something stupid, like a chess set.
“It's not a chess set,” he said, referencing the previous year's disa
ster.
“Grampa, I'm sure it's something wonderful. Thank you in advance,” she said, poking at the blue ribbon. She wished they were at home, in private, and not in a fussy tea house with all of Warren's elderly friends, watching in awe.
The Fritz sisters sipped their Creamy Earl Grey tea, their eyes as round as the tea scones on the dainty multilevel tray in the center of the table.
The too-small-but-still-big box sat at Opal's feet. She leaned forward and tugged again at the ribbon, which came loose easily. The box was not wrapped in paper, but was the style she thought of as old-fashioned, with a flat lid that simply lifted off.
She wondered if it was possible for bicycles to be shipped disassembled, in suspiciously small boxes like this. With a deliberate smile on her face, she lifted off the lid, only to find…
“A gag gift?” she said. “Grampa! Why's your dirty old suitcase in here? Where's my cruising bike? Is it outside?” She jumped up from her chair and ran to the window of The Sleepy Garden Tea Shoppe and Gift Emporium.
There were no bicycles chained to the bike rack out front.
Opal returned to the table to find the six white-haired people abuzz with hushed conversation. One of the Fritz sisters, whose hot pink lipstick matched the roses on the tablecloth, said, “But I thought the island had been lost, permanently?”
“What island?” Opal said. “Are we going on vacation somewhere? Is there a plane ticket inside?” She grabbed the old suitcase by the handle and kicked the box under the table, out of the way. She unlatched the suitcase, eager to look inside for the real gift. A new laptop would easily fit inside, or a gift certificate for the bike.
The suitcase was empty, just a red felt lining with some scuffs. The old thing didn't smell great, either. She wondered if her dear grandfather might be losing his mind. Appropriate gifts for a fifteen-year old were things like new cell phones, laptops, or gift certificates for clothes. Even movie coupons would be well-received. Opal's best friend Katy had turned fifteen the month before, and she got a new cruising bike, in an ice-cream shade of green, so the two had big plans for cycling along the sea wall on their bikes, maybe even meeting boys on the beach.
Instead, she had a dirty, old suitcase.
“You're going to Broken Shell Island,” Warren said.
She looked up and saw tears pooling in his pale blue eyes.
“Grampa, what's wrong?” She turned to the others. “I think he must be sick.”
Flora Fritz twisted at her napkin, wringing the white cloth nervously. “I thought the island was lost,” she said. “I wish I could go, but my heart's not strong enough to make the journey.”
Opal looked around the half-filled tea house, hoping to see someone who wasn't insane, who could explain to the group what Opal knew to be true. Flora Fritz was the beloved author of a children's book series about growing up on an island infused with magic, Broken Shell Island. Nobody would be going there, any sooner than they'd be going to the lost city of Atlantis, or a moon colony.
Flora poured some more tea for Warren, who accepted and raised his antique teacup with a trembling hand. The others murmured and whispered to each other.
“Hilarious, you guys,” Opal said. “Pick on the dumb teenager. Okay, I get it. You all still have a sense of humor. I'm going to take this old suitcase, open a magical door at the back of The Sleepy Garden Tea Shoppe and Gift Emporium, and step through to the world of Flora's books. You got me! Where's the door? Is my bike inside a storage room back there?”
Arthur, the gentleman who rarely spoke, said to Opal, “In the books, my name is Artie. And there is no door, not here, anyway. If I'm not mistaken, you'll be traveling by boat. Part of the way by boat, that is.”
Warren took her hand and got Opal's attention. “My dear, light of my life, I'm sorry to tell you this, but my days are short. I've made the arrangements, and you're going to live with my sister.”
“Hang on. What? You have a sister?”
Flora said to Warren, “Are you certain? Have you seen Dr. Weirma?”
“I have,” he said, and he held his hand to his stomach, where the illness had been before.
Opal nodded solemnly. That part she understood.
* * *
Opal and Warren returned to their apartment. When they walked up the stairs to the third floor, she noticed his shortness of breath, and she finally noticed the weight he'd been losing over the previous few months. He was sick, and this time he wouldn't recover.
That he had a sister was news to her, but not shocking news. The family was prone to rifts, and her own mother had run off and abandoned her daughter, which spoke of a lack of those familial bonds other families seemed to have. Opal's mother had disappeared after suddenly losing Opal's father while he was in the military, overseas. Some people could understand why a woman might do such a thing. The family—such as it was, with the few people still in contact with each other—figured Opal's mother would be back within a month. Or two months. It had been twelve years.
Opal had two mothers, in her mind, at least. One was a selfish monster, a drunk, and a liar, jumping from one man's bed to another. The other was a confused, sensitive soul, who would return one day, sweep her little girl up in her arms, and beg for forgiveness. Opal would forgive her, and they would be the best of friends, like Opal's best friend Katy, and her new stepmother, who let the two of them do anything they wanted.
When Warren and Opal reached the apartment door, she took the keys from his shaking hands and worked the lock, which could be fussy when the weather was humid, as it was that day.
A Tuesday.
Her fifteenth birthday.
She'd missed school for this.
Once inside, Warren disappeared to his den, where she could hear him opening and closing the drawers of his filing cabinet. She got some lemonade from the fridge and went to the door of the den. “What's your sister's name?”
“Waleah. My parents were fans of alliteration.”
“Wa-lee-ah?”
“Close enough.”
“And where does your sister, Waleah, live, exactly?”
He put on his reading glasses and examined some papers at his desk. “Right where I told you. Broken Shell Island.”
“Grampa, I looked on maps with my phone, and Broken Shell Island doesn't exist as a real place. What's the real name, not the one Flora made up?”
“You'll find out soon enough, my little light. Go pack some clothes. You're leaving tonight.”
Opal grabbed the door frame to steady herself. Leaving your entire life and everyone you knew, immediately, to live with some person you never knew existed, was the kind of news people usually asked you to sit down for. And for good reason. Her knees buckled and her stomach shuddered.
When she'd had a few seconds to recover from the shock, she said, “No way am I going. Forget it! I've got final exams tomorrow at school, and—”
She hyperventilated, breathing in rapidly to get enough oxygen to declare all the reasons she would not be leaving her home.
Warren put down his papers and crossed his thin arms across his chest.
Opal yelled, she cried and she got calm and reasonable, and then angry and unreasonable.
Her grandfather quietly listened the entire time.
This went on for the better part of an hour.
When the fight was over, she cried again, and he held her to him, her young cheek against his bony shoulder.
* * *
Opal packed only clothes and toiletries, as though going on vacation, and not moving. She'd need more than a single suitcase to actually move. Her shoes alone would fill the old suitcase, so she took only her three favorite pairs. After she had everything packed and by the front door, she ran back to her bedroom, opened her antique dollhouse, and pulled out the little doll that looked like her grandfather, and the one that looked like her.
He had white hair and a kind smile. She had brown, wavy hair, and high cheekbones.
Opal tucked the dolls into th
e suitcase, between two favorite shirts, where they'd be safe. Her cell phone, in the pocket of her zip-up hoodie, beeped with another message from Katy, or one of her other friends, so she took the phone out and turned it off. Telling her friends about her new home would be easier once she arrived at her great-aunt's, and she didn't need all of her friends' feelings getting mixed in with how she was feeling, especially when she didn't know how she felt.
Her grandfather was dying, and that was devastating, of course, but he seemed so happy for her. He commented a few times about how pleased he was she would be going to his childhood home, and she couldn't help but feel his joy spilling over to her own heart.
* * *
In the car, they drove past the turnoff to the ferry.
She turned and said to her grandfather, “So, it's not really an island, is it?”
“Why would you say that?”
“We're heading toward the highway. Does my great-aunt live up the coast?”
“You read all the books. You had autographed copies.”
“Grampa!” She rolled her eyes and cracked the window for some fresh air, but it was just as muggy outside the car as inside. “In Flora's books, your friend Arthur is called Artie, and he talks non-stop in the stories, telling everybody everything. So the way I see it, your friend flipped everything and everyone to be its exact opposite of what they are in real life.”
“Interesting theory,” he said, smiling.
“How long before I come back to see you? A month or so?”
“We'll see.” The smile left his face, and Opal felt a chill in the air. She zipped up her hoodie and leaned her head back on the headrest.
The sun set, and she nodded off.
* * *
Opal awoke in a motionless car. The car was parked in a gravelly parking lot, and her grandfather was out of the vehicle, talking to a huge man with a black beard. Was he asking for directions to his imaginary island? She wondered for a moment if he hadn't lost his marbles.
She pulled out her phone, but found no signal. They'd driven for at least three hours, and by the looks of what little she could see outside in the moonlight, they were at a fishing dock.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 87