Old Magic

Old Magic

Old Magic

Old Magic

Marianne Curley

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Designed by Mike Rosamilia

The text of this book was set in Cochin.

Manufactured in the United States of America

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Library of Congress Control Number 2009923885

ISBN 978-1-4169-8991-2

ISBN 978-0-7434-5707-1 (eBook)

To everyone who supported me,

especially Amanda, Danielle, Chris,

and John, the eternal optimist.

I would also like to thank my agent,

Anthony A. Williams.

And for their valuable assistance,

Anthony Tonna and Pam Adams.

“Not to know what happened before you were born is always

to remain a child. For what is a man’s life if it is not linked

with the life of future generations by memories of the past?”

—Cicero

WIND

Kate

His name is Jarrod Thornton. He has blond-red hair to his shoulders, nice clean skin, and green eyes like fiery emeralds; but this is not why I can’t drag my eyes off him. There’s something else. Something almost . . . disturbing. It’s this unearthly element that’s got me hooked.

He’s standing awkwardly at the front of a class of twenty-seven sophomores, looking as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands—or his unusual eyes. As they flick nervously across the back wall of the lab, I glimpse amazing inky blue circles surrounding deep green irises. They’ve been every-where without once connecting with anyone else’s. He has a black backpack that looks as if it’s traveled twice around the world slung across one slightly slanted shoulder, and he keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’s in uniform: the usual gray trousers, white shirt, red striped tie. At a guess, it doesn’t look new.

Mr. Garret, our science teacher, tells us a little about him. His family shifted from the Riverina only a couple of days ago and he has a younger brother, Casey, who’s still in third grade.

Looks like I’m not the only one interested. Tasha Daniels’s eyes are on Jarrod too. But hers are fixed in a leering manner, her sultry painted mouth slightly parted, invitation written all over her. God, she’s so obvious. Briefly, I glance at Pecs, class loudmouth and Tasha’s boyfriend, though there’ve been rumors lately that not all is well in that camp.

Not that Pecs is his real name. He got it around fourth grade, courtesy of his rugby coach, who’d been impressed by the boy’s stocky rugby appearance and muscular arms. It turned out the name suited his personality, which wasn’t much even then. I know, I was there. Still, I can’t imagine anyone calling him Angus John, named after some long-dead Scottish relative. Not even the teachers dare. Pecs is one of those blatantly rude, in-your-face thugs that can make your life a misery. And does so just for kicks.

He notices Tasha’s interest in the new guy, registers the threat instantly, something basic enough for his singularly focused mind to comprehend.

I decide to probe inside Pecs’s brain. It’s one of the skills Jillian taught me. She says I was born with a nat-ural gift, sensing emotions, feeling emotions. Over the years I’ve polished the skill to a point that now I only have to concentrate for a few seconds and I’m in. Inside his head.

Oh hell! I make a fast withdrawal, my head spinning. He’s all burning fuel. Makes me feel as if I stepped too close to a raging fire. Geez.

“Kate? Kate!”

Hannah, my best (and only) friend, is staring at me with wide brown eyes. “Yeah?”

“You all right? You went paler than your usual God-awful pale.”

I smile, ignoring her God-awful comment. I may look anemic, but I’m not. I am careful, though, to avoid the sun, my skin burns too quickly. Living on Ashpeak Mountain suits me fine. It even snows in winter. I have long, dead-straight black hair, courtesy of a father I’ve never met. And except for her pale skin, I don’t take after my mother at all. She apparently has hair as gold as butternut. At least she did fifteen years ago, which was the last time I saw her. Obviously, I don’t remember a thing. My grandmother, Jillian, raised me. People say I have a Hawaiian look. It’s my eyes, I think, a kind of gray-blue, and slanting with an upward tilt on the outside. Considering this, I think it’s quite odd that some of them still think I’m a witch. They’re right, of course, but not in the stereotypical sense of the word.

Hannah’s the only one who knows the truth. Sure, everyone gossips, the community up here is pathetically small. And nosy. But Hannah’s seen what I can do, which isn’t much, really. Not yet anyway.

And even though Jillian is my grandmother, I don’t call her Gran or anything like that. She raised me after my birth mother bailed out when I was a baby. She couldn’t hack my crying, apparently—a habit I grew out of. I was only eight months at the time.

As soon as I could understand, Jillian explained about my mother’s inadequacies with babies, and told me not to worry though, thankfully, she—Jillian—loved children. At first she didn’t know what I should call her. “Mom” just wasn’t right. Besides, the whole community knew the truth anyway—that Karen Warren had given birth to a bouncing baby girl at the ripe old age of fifteen years and three months.

And ’cause Jillian didn’t like “Nana” words, not, she reckoned, suitable for a thirty-one year old, I grew up calling her by her first name.

One thing Jillian constantly teaches me is to keep certain things a mystery. Like my abilities—to move objects, work spells, sense moods, and, well . . . change things. They’re only small tricks compared to what Jillian can do. They never say it to her face, but most everybody around here knows Jillian’s a witch. With me they’re only guessing. But they’ve never seen either of us do anything, Jillian’s careful about that. They come to their assumptions mainly because of where we live (buried half into the rain forest), Jillian’s New Age shop, and the freelance articles she writes for various witch magazines. Of course they never say anything to her face. They’re scared. Scared she’ll perform “black magic” on them. They don’t know her, of course. If only they’d stop to read one of her articles they’d see what Jillian is: a healer. She doesn’t make much money out of the shop, the articles keep us financially afloat. Sure, she’s a witch, but most people have stupid preconceived ideas of what a witch is. Jillian’s not “typical” in any way. And as for me, I’m still in training.

I hear a noise up front and see Jarrod falling off his stool. Unbelievable. He just reaches across to grab a glass beaker and wham, he’s on the floor, a tangle of long arms and legs. The class explodes, laughing their stupid heads off. They’re all jerks. I watch as Jarrod tries to compose himself, red-faced, climbing awkwardly back on his stool, his head angling sharply downward so that his eyes don’t connect with any-body’s. He’s good at that. A thick wad of shiny yellow hair crosses his forehead, obscuring his face even more.

I sense his nervousness, and wonder why. Okay, it’s his first day at a new school, and Pecs’s hostility is tan-gible; but this is different. So I decide to probe, gently at first, just skirting the edges of his senses. His head suddenly lifts and stills as if . . . Uh-uh, he can’t possibly feel me. Nobody ever does. Gingerly, I dig a little deeper, feel his hesitation, awkwardness, nerves. I feel his desire, burning away inside, an impassioned need to fit in, as if he’s just a small boy lost somewhere in the midst of a great forest, with no sense of direction.

Something hard hits me. It takes a second to realize what it is, as this has never happened before. A wall is between us. He’s blocking me out. I’m still staring at the back of his head and notice his shoulders jerk up and stiffen. His head shifts around, slowly at first, like he’s searching for something. He sees me and stops. Our eyes collide and lock. He’s wearing a frown, which slowly transforms into a look of puzzlement. It’s like he wants to ask something but isn’t sure what, yet senses its importance.

I know then—he’s different too. He did feel my probe, even though I gather he doesn’t understand what happened. And suddenly Jarrod Thornton becomes much more interesting.

Mr. Garret attempts to regain control of the class, repeatedly tapping the whiteboard with the butt of his blue felt pen. Jarrod swings his gaze back to the front, releasing me, and at last I breathe.

I don’t dare probe again. My heart is still pounding from that three-second connection with Jarrod’s mind. I try to home in on what knowledge Mr. Garret is attempting to impart; but I’m lost, my concentration shattered. And I can’t drag my thoughts away from Jarrod. I’m tempted like crazy to go back in.

At last we get to the practical side of the lesson, and, luckily, the experiment is really basic, mixing an alkali with an acid in the presence of litmus. So there is noth-ing explosive. Still, it needs my concentration, adding diluted hydrochloric acid drop by drop while continually stirring, then adding sodium hydroxide in the same way, observing the various color changes; but Jarrod has just slipped on a pair of gold-framed glasses and Pecs is keeling over in fits of hysterical laughter. He should be back in kindergarten where his level of intelligence has company.

My experiment turns purple. I glance at Jarrod and notice his shoulders lift and hold for a stretched moment as he fights to control his emotions. Part of me wants to see him lash out as Pecs deserves, but I can tell it’s not Jarrod’s style. He either lacks the self-confidence necessary to confront a hulking brute like Pecs, or has the patience of a Tibetan monk. I’m going for the lack of confidence. His mannerisms are kind of stilted, awkward, clumsy. It makes me wonder about him, what sort of life he’s had. His back remains stiff while he tries to maintain control.

My eyes search for Mr. Garret, though why I’m not sure. The man is a weakling in the face of Pecs and his mates. Especially since his divorce became final last year. Everyone knows about it. He was the talk of Ashpeak for months on end. Without any indication, Rachel Garret, wife of nine years, dropped their two kids off at pre-school and kindergarten, picked up the local pharmacist, and disappeared. No one heard from the pair, not a word, for twelve whole months. Finally she returned, but only to claim custody of the kids, which she got after a nasty court battle. But Mr. G’s personal life isn’t the only loss, his enthusiasm for life disappeared, as well as any classroom control.

But Pecs, it seems, is searching for trouble. Something he thrives on. We’re supposed to be working in pairs, one mixing chemicals, the other taking notes. Mr. Garret, head bent, back to the class, is helping Adam Rendal and Kyle Flint get it right. Pecs leaves his seat, leans down, and whispers something in Tasha’s ear that makes her giggle like the brainless airhead she portrays; and in a bare-faced attempt to cause trouble, Pecs walks straight past Jarrod, knocking his glasses off his face in a movement that is so obvious no one could call it an accident. They drop with a clang to the floor.

“Ah, gee, sorry man. Did I do that?” Pretending to pick them up, Pecs then purposefully kicks the gold frames midway across the hard cold floor.

Half the class laughs at Pecs’s sick antics, Mr. Garret so far behind it all he may as well have never turned up for class this morning. He makes Pecs pick them up though, which Pecs does, making sure to smudge saliva-slurred fingers across both sides of the lenses. His mouth hangs open, thick tongue lolling heavily to one side of his protruding lower lip. His face betrays a hint of satisfaction. He’s really enjoying himself now. Uggh! He needs a mirror.

My mind sifts through the different number of spells I’ve recently mastered to some degree of success. The eternal body itch could be a possibility. Now, wouldn’t that be sweet justice? Giving Pecs irritating rashes on every conceivable part of his body. Of course Jillian would talk me out of it. She lectures incessantly about the dangers of tampering with nature. Right now I can’t remember one word she’s said.

“What a moron, eh?”

I smile at Hannah’s description of Pecs’s personality. But the smile doesn’t last long. Something sharp hits my senses though I can’t place it. Something unnerving. I glance out of the window but see nothing but blue sky on a crisp autumn morning. I home in on Jarrod, careful not to probe past the outer ridges of his mind. It’s enough though. I feel his anger, and how he battles to control it. Fleetingly I want him to let loose. I have the feeling if he did these babbling idiots wouldn’t know what hit them. But my sensible side urges him to keep it hidden, not to draw more attention to himself. In this way I feel aligned to him on some unnameable scale. It’s how I live—skirting the edges.

Things start happening really quickly. Jessica Palmer, Tasha’s best friend, and one of the “trendies,” all highlighted blondes and sooty lashes, starts screaming hysterically as her half-filled beaker explodes. With the shattering of glass, chemicals spread a sizzling puddle across the bench, quickly slithering to the floor. Luckily for Jessica, her slender fingers, waggling crazily at the side of her head as she continues screaming, miss the scalding mess.

Mr. Garret’s voice rises for the first time in a year, yelling at Jessica to calm down and start cleaning up. He has it all wrong, of course. Jessica has nothing to do with that beaker exploding. She didn’t drop it or anything. It occurs to me that it’s probably better that Mr. Garret thinks Jessica is responsible. I’m not being vindictive, Jessica Palmer has nothing to do with me. God, she probably hasn’t spoken more than three words to me in the past two years. But my senses are heightened, alarmed. Something strange is happening, something that borders on unexplainable.

Pecs blames Jarrod. Mr. Garret shrugs it off as ridicu-lous. “Go back to your seat, Pecs, before I give you a lunchtime detention, and while you’re there, help Jessica clean up that mess.”

Personally I think Pecs is right, but I’m keeping my mouth shut. Pecs can fight his own battles, and I secretly hope he loses every one of them.

But, as usual, the jerk can’t stop stirring trouble. “He did do it, sir, I saw him,” he blatantly lies. “He threw something, sir. Yeah . . . he threw his . . . his . . .” It takes him a minute to think of this. “His lighter!”

Jarrod shifts so that he can see Pecs better. From seemingly nowhere Pecs produces a small, plastic, fluorescent yellow gas lighter. Evidence. I realize by the shared secret smile he exchanges with his friend, Ryan Bartland, how the lighter suddenly appeared.

Unfortunately Mr. Garret misses the smug exchange and starts examining the lighter as if it were Exhibit One in a murder trial.

“Why would I have a lighter, Mr. Garret? I don’t smoke.”

These are the first words I hear Jarrod say, and though they are uttered softly, calmly, I can tell this seeming serenity is nothing but a screen. Swinging right around, he throws Pecs a hostile glare; and I see his eyes darken eerily, the navy blue circles merging perfectly into those vivid green irises.

The intensity in these eyes intrigues me, so I have to do it. Just once more, I tell myself. Mentally I take a deep breath and start to probe, gently and as deep as I dare, but only for a few seconds. Alarm makes my nerves jump. The air around me suddenly thickens with a bizarre kind of power—restless with an uncontrolled aspect, like a tempest on the verge of breaking across a drought-stricken plain.