First Impression (A Shadow Maven Paranormal)

© 2014 Pauline Creeden

Cover Design Copyright © 2014 by
Alchemy Book Covers

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Interior formatting and design by
Inkstain Interior Book Designing.

I watched for the owl
with my Hogwarts letter to appear on my 11
th
birthday, but he never did. So when an owl taps at my bedroom window near midnight five years too late, I am more confused than elated. I had never seen an owl before except in the movies. The street lamp casts a yellow pallor on this one, but still its feathers shine just shy of iridescent. Varying shades of brown and gold weave throughout its wings and cover its back. It pecks again at my window pane with its amber beak.

I close my purple laptop now that the initial shock has passed and dart a glance toward my bedroom door. Would my stepfather hear it? I grit my teeth. If he did, there’d be hell to pay. Waking him is like waking a bear. My desk chair squeaks when I unfold my bare feet from under myself and stand. I wince at that sound, too.

The owl no longer faces me, but gives me a full view of its gorgeous feathers. I’m not a little girl anymore. I don’t get a fanciful notion that this bird is somehow magical or carrying a letter from Disney World…or wherever Hogwarts is supposed to be. Those sorts of dreams were buried with my father—the one who had read those books to me when I was young. So as a realist, I do the practical thing. I shoo the bird and wave at it to make it go away.

Its shiny yellow eyes focus on me, and the ridges on its forehead meet in the middle. It gives me a piercing, indignant look, turns its head and leaps from the sill. Talons scratch against the wood before the owl dips down and starts upward. The rooftop of the four-story brownstone across the street becomes its perch. Out of the reach of the streetlamps, its dark silhouette barely makes a mark against the washed-out sky.

Regret tightens my throat. Why did I chase it away? A deep, throaty cough in the bedroom next to mine serves as a reminder. I tense, but no other noises come from my stepdad’s bedroom. It’s my mom’s bedroom, too, but she’s working the night shift at the diner…again.

My hasty decision has cost me the moment to examine an extraordinary thing. I could at least have spent some time inspecting those marvelous feathers. Suddenly the room feels stifling. Warm air presses on me from all sides—inescapable. I step up to the window, pull the latch, and push it open.

The October night air kisses my cheeks, licking the sweat beaded on my nose. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. In the distance a car alarm blares a steady rhythm, and a siren wails even farther away, but nearby, indistinct conversations make it past panes of glass and through the cracks of the apartment buildings to the street. Even though it’s late, people are up, living life, or maybe even watching
Doctor Who
re-runs on Netflix, like I was.

The quick whistle between the feathers of the owl draws my attention. Its broad form returns to the light of the streetlamp, and the golden hues I’d admired just a moment before become muted from this distance, more natural than I’d first realized. Surprisingly, the bird dips toward the street. A tall young man with dark, disheveled hair pushes off from a wall and steps into a pool of light. I’ve never seen him before. His eyes are on the owl as well. The bird dives toward him. When the guy reaches an arm out in a welcoming gesture, I’m stunned to find the owl landing upon his shoulder. The pair moves in and out of the pools of light under each street lamp.

And just when I thought I no longer believed in magic.

I blink hard and shake my head, but the image of the young man with an owl on his shoulder doesn’t go away. They remain, walking in and out of the shadows.

“Unbelievable,” I whisper and pull back from the window, suddenly chilled.

I slide the window shut and shake my head. As an afterthought, I pick up my cell and kick myself for not taking a picture. But then the flash would have drawn attention to me, right? I wouldn’t want that if the guy below was something sinister…like what? A wizard?

I shake my head again and rub my arms. My hairs stand on end.

Outside my bedroom door, I hear feet shuffling, and a floorboard creaks. My heart leaps in my chest. My stepdad. I bound across my bed, click off the lamp on my nightstand, and throw my feet under my covers. My heart beats rapidly in my chest and in my ears. Swallowing hard, I try to hear over the incessant pounding.  Did he see the light under my door?

Although the man had never laid a hand on me, his judgment and hatred pierce me with his glares and lash me with his vicious tongue. I don’t need his yelling. Everyone is happier when I keep a low profile.

An echoing cough lets me know he’s in the bathroom across the hall. Our two-bedroom, one bath condo on the second floor of the brownstone is one of the smallest in the neighborhood. When my father bought it, he had said that it was better to have the smallest house in a good neighborhood than the largest in a bad one. Because of his foresight, I was also within walking distance of one of the best private schools in Crystal City. And with the money from the insurance company after his accident, my uncle, the executor of the will, determined to pre-pay for my education until I graduate.

The flush of the toilet quickens my heart. Would he come toward me or go back to bed? When the floorboard in front of his bedroom creaks, I let out a ragged breath. My heart relaxes in my chest, and I close my eyes.
Safe.
This time anyway.

Seven a.m. comes way too
early. My nose is stuffed, and I can hardly breathe. The triad beep of my cell phone adds to the already incessant vibrations against my night stand. I set it for only fifteen minutes before I have to walk out the door—after my stepfather has left for work. 

Sniffling, I throw the covers from my bed. I rush across the hall to brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face. My nose is running. I open the medicine cabinet to find we’ve got nothing.
Great.
If I’m going to make it to the nurse before first period, I need to move faster.

After slipping into the tall socks and knee-length brown skirt, I don the white button shirt and green sweater as well, my school uniform. I pull my long, light brown hair into a ponytail and check the mirror quickly. Yep. It’s me. I grab my brown canvas messenger bag and head for the kitchen.

Mom’s there, in her fuzzy purple robe, drinking a cup of coffee. She gets home from work a little after six a.m. and spends about an hour drinking coffee and eating breakfast with my stepdad. Afterward, she waits to see me off to school before heading to bed. A woman of routine—my mom. Her feet are folded under her in the chair. Dark circles are under her eyes, and her dark hair is free around her shoulders.  But she smiles when she sees me. “Morning, Chira.”

I shoot her a half smile and sniffle. “Morning. I’m in a hurry, Mom. We’re out of meds and I’ve got a cold coming on. I’ll need to stop by the nurse’s office before first period.” I sniffle again to show her I’m serious.

She nods and pulls her purse toward herself. The tan worn leather purse is nothing fancy, nothing like the designer bags that most the girls at school carry around with them as status symbols. She pulls out a twenty and hands it my direction. “After school, stop by the drug store and pick up what you need.”

I nod,
take the money, and start for the door.

“Chira,” Mom says in a stern voice.

I freeze and turn quickly, pecking her on the cheek.

“That’s nice, honey, but not what I mean. Breakfast.”

“Snot is running down the back of my throat and into my stomach, Mom. If I eat something, I might barf.”

Nonplussed, she says, “Toaster pastry. And grab a juice box for some vitamin C—it will help your cold.”

With a sigh, I head for the cupboard over the toaster. I take one of the pastries out and put it on a paper towel and then leave the other in the foiled wrapper. I grab a juice box and stuff it in my pocket. Making a show of it, I take a bite of the pastry for my mom’s sake and say with my mouth full, “Bye.”

She smiles and stands, stretching her back. “Have a good day at school.”

“Thanks.” I grab my jacket and dash out the door before she can stop me again.

When I hit the bottom of the stairs in the foyer, I peek up to see that our apartment door is still closed. Satisfied, I toss the rest of the toaster pastry into the trashcan by the mailboxes. My mouth is completely dry from the one bite I force myself to swallow down. I down the juice box and my stomach sloshes. Ugh.

The wind pulls the front door from my hands, and it nearly hits the stoop railing. I catch it and fight to get it closed again. My ponytail whips me in the face.

Grey clouds overhead hint at rain, or maybe snow? Not likely this time of year, but the biting wind makes me wonder. An array of browns and oranges cover the few trees lining both sides of the street, and my feet crunch through some of the fallen leaves on the sidewalk. I join the crowds of people heading toward the bus stop. Once there, I leave most of them behind and continue walking past the park to the only other building with a real lawn in the area, Jackson Hall Preparatory School. It’s still a wee bit early, with only half the kids milling around the lawn as usual.

I pull one of the large oak wood doors toward me, and it releases a squeal that echoes through the empty hall. Not one other kid in their right mind would want to be entering early into this building. Would the nurse even be in yet?

My Sketchers make a nervous squeak on the polished floor. The muffled conversations between adult voices come to me long before I make it to the administrators’ hall. I turn into the open door of the infirmary, and a middle aged blonde woman in a lab coat looks up from the papers on her desk with a smile. “How are you doing? What can I help you with?”

I return her grin. “Hi, Nurse Kellogg, I’m Chira Kelly from class 18B. I woke with a stuffed nose this morning and didn’t have any meds at home. Can I get something from you?”

She taps her pen on the clipboard at the front of her desk and says, “Sign in.”

When I bend down to sign my name on the first line available, the nurse pulls a drawer open and sets two foil wrapped red pills marked ‘Sample’ in front of me.

“Come back at lunch time and get two more. That should get you through the day. If you need, I can send you home with a baggie overnight.”

“Thanks.”

The nurse stands and removes a bottle from the waist-high brown refrigerator. She hands me spring water and says, “But as long as you are on school grounds, I have to watch you take the medication. It’s policy.”

With a nod, I extract the pills from their foil, open the cap on the water bottle, and toss it all back. I open my mouth and show my tongue to prove I swallowed the medication.

She laughs and pulls a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Well that’s overkill but good enough.”

Then she ushers me to the secondary exit by the office. “I’ll sign a pass to let you come see me during your lunch break to get more medication.”

We enter the main office area and find the secretary sitting at her desk. She’s the kind of woman who refuses to wear anything but the highest of heels. Her desk looks more like a dairy farm than a workspace. Her phone is covered with a cow-print cozy, and little statues of cows in cute poses line up in a row on both sides of her nameplate,
Mrs. Campbell
. A boy sits in the chair across from her desk, his empty maroon backpack resting against his shins like a deflated balloon.

An office aide is at the filing cabinet, and she barely glances our way when we enter in.

Nurse Kellogg addresses the secretary without preamble. “Joyce. I need a hall pass for Miss Sniffles here to come back and get more decongestant at lunch time. Do you think you can handle that for me?”

My face flushes. Did she really just call me that?

Mrs. Campbell leans back in her noisy secretary’s chair, amused, her eyes resting on me. “No problem. Class and lunch block, Sniffles.”

With a laugh, the nurse spins on her heel and returns to her office. The office aide stifles a giggle unsuccessfully.
Wonderful
.

“I’m Chira
Kelly,” I say, trying my best not to sniffle and solidify this stupid nickname. “I’m in 18B and second lunch block.”

Mrs. Campbell blinks hard and taps her cow colored pen against her front teeth. “Really?”