Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  Three contestants, one from each school who had shot down the least apples, left the playing field and walked around to join the crowd. A disappointed girl, wearing glasses, got her hair ruffled by her coach. It seemed to cheer her up a bit.

  We prepared for the next round, shaking out our arms and fingers, then loaded our crossbows and lifted them, ready to let our arrows fly.

  “Contendis!” shouted the wizard, moving his staff around. The thirty apples flew up into the air, but this time they moved and bounced around, like nervous lottery balls.

  We began shooting, but the things were so easy to miss. I trained my eyes on the one closest to me and pulled the trigger. The shining metallic apple exploded as my bolt struck it, spattering the ground with apple juice. A green apple was taken down, then another. The other Copperfield archers managed three between them, but not before the Westarth kids got five. I reeled my mind in and focused. I needed to win. With a kind of laser focus I never knew was possible, I shot down six apples in a row. I knew the last one I hit was number ten because they all stopped quivering and dropped. The Copperfield students cheered, shook their banners, and threw their pom-poms into the air.

  “Two hundred points to Copperfield!” shouted Rusty, who was panting a bit now. The leftover apples were again given to the crowd, who got so excited you’d swear they had never seen food in their lives. The students with the least hits stepped back and joined the rest of the spectators. There were six of us left. The scoreboard read Copperfield 200 / Ranorth 160 / Westarth 150.

  The last basket of apples was brought out.

  “Archers ready?” asked the old wizard.

  We all nodded and brought our crossbows up to our eyes. As I raised mine, I caught a glimpse of someone in the crowd, in the visitor’s area where the clothes were mostly monochrome instead of green, red and gold. He was staring at me with an intense look in his eyes. He was slightly older than me, blond, pale, with sharp cheekbones, and dressed in black. I had a feeling deep in my stomach that I had met him before, but where? He wasn’t Copperfield alumni, and with a face and posture like that, he was definitely not a Feral.

  Before I had even heard the old wizard say “Ventum”, my competitors began firing away. I broke eye contact with the blonde boy and grappled with my crossbow, trying to steady my hands and visualise a shot. In the third round, the apples were flung around in a whirlwind. Two green ones were struck, and then a red. I missed three times before I finally got one. Westarth cheered—it had been a maroon one. I had just scored an own-goal. My cheeks flared. The blond boy was still staring at me; eyes like hot coals. I knew then why I recognised him.

  He wasn’t a Feral, but I had first seen him when I was living on the streets. One night was so bitterly cold, the blond boy put a blanket around me. A year or so later the same boy passed me a takeaway container of food when I was so hungry I thought I might faint in the parking lot outside a discount liquor store. Another red apple went down, and two green. We had lost our lead and were in danger of finishing last. I dragged my eyes away from the boy and tried to hit an apple, but every one of my bolts missed. Irritated with myself, I quickly reloaded and tried again. I hit only one copper apple before the tall Westarth boy next to me exploded their tenth. He pumped his fist in the air.

  “And Westarth is now in the lead!” yelled Rusty. The scoreboard read:

  Westarth 250 / Renmarth 240 / Copperfield 210.

  Deodamnatus, I swore under my breath. I knew I could do better. Disappointment clawed at my insides.

  There were three of us left for the fourth and final round, the one that decided the winner. It was a little different. There were no more floating or flying apples; the children’s games were over. In the last round, we had chimera to kill.

  It sounds extreme, but they were just conjured creatures, illusions we were to strike down for fifty points each. Once you landed your own chimera, you were allowed to take aim at the surviving ones, and earn twenty-five points a pop. We were so behind; I knew I needed to get all three phantoms if I wanted the prize. I refused to look in the direction of the blond boy on the stands, but I knew he was still there; could feel his gaze on me. I took a deep breath and gave myself a quick inner-monologue pep talk.

  You’ve got this.

  You’ve been practising every day for a year.

  This is your calling.

  Make Ferra proud.

  The old wizard stepped forward and lifted his black staff. He muttered his incantation, and I saw the veins pulsing in his neck. "Evoco et excito, nunc et semper, res ac mortales.”

  It was the classic conjuring spell, but I didn’t get to hear the details because the onlookers were stamping their feet and going haywire. The wizard raised his arms, and his irises pulsed with an icy blue. Out of his staff billowed three shadow forms which flew up to the top of the Astrodome and began screaming, like demons let out of hell. The noise was ear-splitting, and my instinct was to drop my crossbow and cover my ears, but I held on and raised it, instead, ready to fire my first bolt.

  The smoky shadows turned into the three Furies, one scaled with copper, one with shimmering sea-green, one with liquid maroon. I knew about Erinyes—we had studied them in school—but nothing prepared me for how they looked. They were huge demonic women with bat wings and bleeding eyes. On top of their heads were nests of golden vipers. Furies were the three infernal goddesses of vengeance, and they took one look at us and hissed in our faces with breath so sour it brought saliva gushing into my mouth.

  Holy Faex!

  When I was younger, I used to imagine the Afterlife to be like a kind of Halloween-themed heaven, with ankle-biters dressed as ghouls, and plenty to eat and drink, but looking at these Furies made me understand that hell was real.

  The noise of the crowd short-circuited my brain. I had never experienced a chimera before. The Council frowned upon conjuring them up as an unnecessary danger. The witch or wizard who magicked them into being had to have years of experience and a pure heart. They also had to know how to rein them in, because chimeras were notorious for breaking the chains of illusion and taking on a life of their own. The three creatures’ multicoloured smoke billowed at us, making us cough and our eyes water. Because of their size, they seemed easier to hit than a small spinning apple, but most of their bodies were made of smoke.

  Alecto was the red one, the embodiment of constant anger. Megaera was the green one, driven by jealousy. Tisiphone—the copper chimera I was to kill—was the avenger of murder. I felt it was unfair to have to shoot an avenger. After all, my destiny was to find the vampire who killed my parents and drive an arrow through his heart. We were on the same side, weren’t we? But then Tisiphone snarled and rushed at me and tried to take me out with her brass-studded whip. These creatures were no saviours. Their job was to torture souls in the Afterlife, and they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a friend and an enemy. Their entire countenance was fire and brimstone. Megaera went for the archer in the green uniform and, with a bright snapping sound, took the girl’s legs out from under her with her whip. The crowd gasped.

  Um. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The chimeras weren't supposed to be able to hurt us. I glanced at the old wizard, and my body went cold with shock. He was lying on the floor and jerking as if he were having a seizure.

  Filius canis!

  Tisiphone barrelled in my direction, and I screamed. I couldn't help it. I clutched at my crossbow, almost dropping it in fright, then recovered. To sharpen my focus, I imagined that the copper-corseted winged Fury was my mother's killer—a giant, evil vampire who had orphaned me; who had almost broken me. My antique wand warmed against my hip. I shot her in the chest, hoping that's where her heart was—if she had one. The bolt travelled straight through her, and she snarled and breathed on me like an angry dragon, flapping her leathery black wings. Alecto flew up to us, too—the horrified audience shrieking and banging on the glass shield—and grabbed the Westarth boy next me. She wanted to take him to th
e Underworld, perhaps as a new toy. I screamed again as Tisiphone launched herself at me and my trigger finger automatically fired, hitting her in the eye. She shrieked and fell a few feet, but was not deterred. I saw adults gather with their wands out, but they looked tiny and powerless compared the tremendous demon roaring and flapping above me. Megaera, seemingly happy to have knocked the green archer unconscious by flattening her with her whip, took to the shouting crowds. The teachers and officials slung spells to make the glass shield grow taller, shooting up to the ceiling so the demon couldn't hurt any more students. They began to evacuate them, but the Astrodome was ancient and only had one emergency exit. Next thing I knew, Megaera smashed the safety glass, shattering it and sending waves of cobwebbed-glass and shards all over the panicking students.

  I remembered my heartache, my never-ending anger, and sense of loss—the difficulty of never belonging. I felt my power rising. Pain, fear, grief … it all swirled inside me, and I could feel potent magic spreading all the way through my body, from my stomach to my fingertips. I opened my heart to the assault of emotions and whipped up the spell until it felt like I was about to explode. This was it; this was my superpower.

  My name is Jacquelyn Denna Knight, and I turn my pain into magic.

  My power rose inside me, a cobalt-coloured smoke sparking with gold. An intense rush of magic nearly overtook me, but I gathered myself in time. With everyone else panicking, a strange calm fell over me, like a silent bubble. Time slowed, the noise faded, the fright fell away. It was just me, Tisiphone, and my new weapon. I aimed it at the copper-scaled Fury again, and this time when I released the bolt, I spoke confidently. “Glaciem exquiris.”

  The bolt zinged from my bow, turning to a spear of ice as my spell took effect. It hit Tisiphone in the chest, and she raised her hands to her temples and shrieked in anger and pain as she, and the smoke she had brought along, disappeared.

  Cold Fire, Directress Copperfield had said.

  These demons were from the pits of hell, so ordinary arrows and flames could not hurt them. They loved fire and were drawn to it. The elemental shock of an icicle in the heart, however, seemed to do the trick. I aimed my crossbow at the green coloured Fury—Megaera—the one who had whipped the Ranorth girl and was now terrorising the stampeding crowd. She charged at a group of girls, and I saw Izzy Crowe cowering there, about to get snatched up by the vicious creature.

  Without hesitating, I sent a frozen bolt at the demon. It struck her in her head. The scalp-snakes hissed, and Megaera writhed in agony before dissipating. Two of the officials dragged the old wizard away from the arena ground. I wasn’t worried anymore. I had taken out two of the Furies, and I was ready for my trifecta. Alecto looked at me, flapping in the smoky air, still holding the unconscious Westarth boy in her claws. She was high up, and I realised if I killed her, she’d drop the boy. It was a Mexican standoff—if Mexican standoffs apply to impromptu battles between girl wizards and hellfire Furies.

  I needed some of my Feral magic, my quick and dirty spell-slinging. A trick. I needed a distraction, like in the old days when I’d force a breeze to blow a stranger’s hat off, then run to get it for him. I’d steal his wallet with one hand as I handed over the errant hat with the other, and be rewarded with a pat on the head. The demon was expecting elemental magic, an icy javelin in her ribs.

  Cold Fire; Dark Bone; Black Mist. Look for the turn, the trick, the twist.

  “Ignem exquiris,” I said, and a comet of fire shot out of my hands, lighting up the ground between us.

  I threw my beautiful new crossbow into the flames and raised my hands in surrender as we watched it burn. Mesmerised, the frantic batting of Alecto’s wings slowed. Feeling safer now that I was unarmed, she dropped to look at the fire. Once she was low enough to see the flames reflected in her bleeding eyes, I grabbed my pulsating wand from my hip.

  I gathered the magic in my chest, ready to let it rip.

  “Glacieum exquiris!” I shouted, and my wand blasted her with a meteor shower of ice and snow. It hit her so hard she was flung back, and she dropped the boy. He landed with a thud, but he was moving. He was alive. I raced over, through what was left of the flames, and pointed my wand at the demon’s splayed form. She was trying to get up, but I wasn’t going to let her.

  “Nebulum!” I yelled, and the body of the demon turned into swirling smoke and sparks, and then faded away.

  The danger had passed. Shocked and relieved, I looked up, warm wand in hand, and the blond boy with the cheekbones smiled at me and clapped his hands. The students needed no further encouragement to cheer and rush at me, mobbing me while Rusty shouted into the broken microphone. Ferra appeared, still in her apron, and gave me one of her rib-crushing hugs. The students jumped up and down, hugging me, slapping me on the back. Somehow they got hold of the prize from the podium and passed it down to me. It was a cheesy trophy of an apple shot through with an arrow, but I loved it. I knew the feeling of belonging was temporary, but it felt great to be part of the team, for once. Izzy slipped a bottle into my hand and winked at me. It was a potion to make my hair grow back overnight. When I looked again for the strange, familiar blond boy with sharp cheekbones, he was gone.

  10

  The Secret Under My Skin

  By the time I realised I’d missed a couple of periods and my breasts were tender, it was too late. The black dread bloomed in my stomach, eroding my appetite and my sleep. I thought about killing myself.

  If I killed myself, no one would find out what had happened.

  If I took my life, I wouldn't have to harbour the parasite growing inside my body. The only thing that stopped me from slitting my wrists was the knowledge that my mom and dad would be prosecuted.

  The State didn’t take kindly to people committing suicide.

  They hadn’t yet found a way to punish citizens in the afterlife; instead, relatives and spouses were arrested.

  'Saving Sacred Lives!' said the moving 3D billboards. 'The very hairs on your head are numbered.'

  It had always sounded like a threat to me.

  I felt guilty and dirty in a way I'd never experienced before; eternally tarnished. One day at school, I started crying and couldn't stop. My 11th-grade teacher sent me home, where I lay in my room, the curtains drawn against the vicious sun. I didn't want to see anyone or anything: the posters of banned rock musicians on my walls, the animated photos, the crêpe paper streamers and ribbons tacked to the edges of my mirror. I threw out my favourite childhood teddy bears because even though their cameras and microphones had broken long ago, I felt as if they were watching me. Everything was tainted, and would never be clean again. I couldn't stop the tears, even when my head and stomach ached from weeping. I couldn’t help it. It felt like someone had died.

  My mom found me like that, a mess of swollen eyes and patchy skin, vibrating with the urge to self-destruct. She insisted I tell her what was wrong, insisted in a way that I knew I would have to, no matter how much I wanted to keep the secret that was boiling my insides. A part of me thought that if no one knew the truth, life could go back to normal and be good again. The thing growing inside me refused to let that happen. When I finally told my mom—that day on my bed—her face contorted in shock, and her hands flew up to cover her nose and mouth; an impulsive prayer to no-one. My body tensed, waiting to be berated.

  Some girls might fear being beaten, thrown out of the house, or sent to the State Home for Blessed Mothers, but my parents weren't like that. They had a fierce love for me which never faltered; it was one of the reasons that telling them was so painful. I was their only child, and we were close. I felt like I had ruined our family, ruined my life, ruined everything. Mom cried and held me tight, and we lay on my bed like that for ages, in the dim room.

  My poor girl, she sobbed, my poor girl. She only ever let go of me to reach for the tissue box. It was a relief to share my pain, and I was finally able to sleep.

  I woke up to Mom whispering to Dad on the phone. He was to buy a
pregnancy test on his way home from work, but not from our regular pharmacy. He should go to the one on Solomon Street, a gated community where politicians and priests lived, and there were fewer State security cameras. He was to pay in cash, so there'd be no record of the transaction. If this weren't possible, we'd have to find another way to get one.

  “And we’ll need to call Jules,” came Mom’s urgent whisper. Jules was a friend; a lawyer. I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, because she had started running a bath for me.

  I eased into the warm water, looking down at my flat stomach. Could there really be a baby growing in there? The water was cold by the time Dad got home. I felt paralysed; it was becoming too real, and I wished again that I could reach for the razor—or the pills, although I wasn't sure there were enough. The cruel irony was that a failed suicide attempt would be extremely dangerous. There was a gentle knock on the door, and I told Mom she could come in. She brought me a towel as I stepped out onto the bathmat, and she wrapped it around me as if I were a little girl again.

  “You’re shivering,” she said. “You stayed in the bath too long.”

  She passed me the pregnancy test, the handle of which was broken open.

  “Dad took the microchip out,” she said.

  I peed on the strip, and we didn't have to wait long to see the result.

  CONGRATULATIONS! The screen said. You're ten weeks pregnant.

  The test’s smart chip would have sent an alert to the local municipality healthcare organisation, which was run by the State’s Medical Aid Program. Ostensibly, it was to make sure that every pregnant woman would receive the medical and emotional support they needed to deliver a healthy baby. There was a year of postpartum care, too, with phone calls from robotic nurses telling you when your baby’s checkup was due, when it was time for mandatory vaccinations, and following up on developmental milestones.