The Bridge (7 page)

“None taken. It means I need a focus. A lot of witches need focuses, and salt is the most common one.”

“Cool. Hopefully I’ll remember this wherever I go.”

With the shadows falling over the woods, Everett’s only option was to take side streets, doubling his travel time. Once he got home, he dumped salt in a ring on the kitchen tiles and the girl stepped in before he could even finish. The bridge formed upon the circle’s completion, and with a playful salute, she spiraled into a sphere and rocketed through the ceiling.

He released his hold on the bridge and didn’t expect it to remain. He dabbed his sweaty neck with a paper towel.

The bridge was a one-way connection for most witches; for Bridge Masters, they were a two-way street. How did a Bridge Master cross over?

Everett stuck his hand past the white flames of the bridge. The flames tickled his skin like strings of water. He pulled out and the water dried.

Maybe he had to stand in the ring. He dissolved the bridge and swept the salt into a dustpan. He’d save it for his training with Omar.

Buzz bopped his nose with a tentacle and rapped on the backyard sliding door. He opened it, and Buzz floated out, waving a tentacle in farewell.

“I’ll see you later?” Everett said.

Buzz saluted and left.

HE DID
a little housecleaning, primarily in the living room and kitchen, and added to his paranormal essay until his grandfather came home with their late dinner: toasted sandwiches from a grocery store.

“I sent a ghost over the bridge while you were gone,” Everett said as they set the table.

“I’ll send a notification after dinner,” his grandfather said.

After a short silence, Everett asked, “Why are we moving to the shop?”

“For your safety, primarily. Your new status as a Bridge Master has been registered with the Order. The list is private property, only accessible by those who can log into the website. It doesn’t mean it is completely safe.”

Only adult witches who underwent verification by Order officials were given the passwords to the website, which was disguised as an amateur paranormal investigator’s blog. One of the Order’s jobs was to maintain the website and make sure it stayed updated, false, and out of the public eye. Not many visited the blog anyway. The advertisements scared most curious noses away.

Everett wiped a smudge on the table. “When are we moving out?”

“We will clean the apartment out this weekend. Next week, we’ll start packing boxes and moving furniture. We will also host a garage sale for all the unwanted items we have. We should be completely settled within two weeks.”

“It’s so soon,” he whispered. “What about the house?”

“Sell it. The value has gone up immensely from when your parents purchased it, so we’ll have some financial security there.”

“Who is going to buy a house near a haunted wood?” When houses in the neighborhood went vacant, especially the ones on Everett’s road, they were sold to those unfamiliar with Ashville and in desperate need of distance from their former lives.

“Kanyar. She is investigating the happenings of the woods, so a house on this road will be beneficial.”

Kanyar was a scouting witch with a fat investment portfolio funded by her multimillion-dollar inheritance from her late grandparents. She would have no issue with purchasing the house in cold cash and remodeling it into something worth twice its value.

Everett’s parents had kept the house as simple as possible so they wouldn’t get sidetracked by the material side of life. They believed in the spiritual importance of relationships and adventure. When they left for the scouting trip in Las Vegas that ultimately led to their disappearance, Everett’s grandfather had spruced up the house with a little color in the form of sofa pillows, wall paintings, and potted plants. It still was plain and ugly—plain ugly.

“This is enough stress to last me a year.” Everett laughed, and it tasted like dust was spewing from his throat.

“It seems like a lot, and it is, but it isn’t impossible to manage.” His grandfather cupped his shoulder and smiled before taking a seat at the table.

“I know. It’s just a lot of change.” From his new status as a Bridge Master to training at the dojang to Bryce to moving, he needed a deep meditation session to take it all in without bursting a blood vessel.

OMAR ALLAN,
hero of the seventies’ bridging scandal, lived in a one-story house with a two-car garage on the corner of a block next to an old back road. The exterior walls were a fleshy color that complemented the darker tiles of the roof. Squat bushes lined the driveway and the front path, sloping to the front porch where they formed a small wall in front of the entrance. The front door was set in an alcove, a small porch light on an adjacent wall.

Everett appreciated the simplicity.

He rang the doorbell, sounding an unconventional chime. It was reminiscent of a tune his mother used to hum to lull him to sleep.

The doorbell’s echo faded. Nobody answered.

He rang it again.

Nobody answered.

He called his grandfather and paced the small rectangular front porch. “Are you sure the lessons start today? He’s not here.”

“I’m positive. Is he not answering the door?”

“I’ve rung the doorbell two times, and he hasn’t answered.”

“Ring it again.”

He did and pressed his ear to the door. He heard the doorbell echo, and nothing more.

“I don’t hear anything moving inside. I think he isn’t home,” Everett said.

“We agreed to a timeslot from ten to one. He confirmed it last night.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s not here. Does he have a habit of flaking out?”

Everett expected more from such a powerful and famous witch. He walked the perimeter of the house. What were the chances Omar was tending to his backyard? He peeked into the gaps of the wooden fence around the house. A wooden backyard dining set sat under a closed umbrella. Cobwebs connected the benches to the table. Tiny bushes ran along the perimeter of the backyard, a patchy green.

“He’s not in the backyard either,” Everett said, still poking around the gaps in case Omar was squatting somewhere hard to see.

“He’s a party animal, but he’s not flaky,” his grandfather said.

“I don’t think he’s here. If he is, he’s not going to answer the door.”

His grandfather mumbled profanities. He’d have to close the shop, and they’d lose early Saturday business. Everett should have driven himself here. Omar’s house had been on the way to the shop, so Everett had carpooled to save gas.

“I’ll pick you up. Stay in front of the house and don’t draw too much attention to yourself. Your aura has become very noticeable.”

His grandfather hadn’t explained why Everett’s aura needed to be concealed. He had never heard of witches hiding their auras. There wasn’t a need. Witch auras were very similar to human auras—to anyone who wasn’t a witch. It took a witch to know a witch.

Everett exposed all paranormal residues in a fifty-foot perimeter from the house. Nothing appeared.

His phone rang. His heart leapt at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bryce sang. “Are you free today?”

“I think. Why?”

“Ann has time to talk with your gramps about lessons, if you haven’t discussed it yet.”

Everett rubbed the stress line between his eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ll have time to do lessons. I’m… moving.”

“Moving,” Bryce deadpanned. “You’re moving.”

“Not far. Just from Ashville to Sundale.”

Bryce exhaled a long breath. “Can’t you commute from Sundale?”

Everett should have been bothered by Bryce’s persistence. Instead, he found it endearing.

“I try not to drive. Gas is too expensive to waste.”

“I could pick you up.”

For every class? “I don’t want to burden you.”

Bryce sighed. “Is there no way to convince you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m free after three tomorrow, so if you want to hang out, come visit the dojang.” Bryce hung up.

Everett watched his phone darken after the call. He sighed at his reflection in the tiny screen.

HIS GRANDFATHER
pulled up along the curb. Everett threw his bag in the backseat and dropped into the passenger seat, nearly clipping his head on the doorframe.

“I called Omar and the call went straight to voicemail. Wherever he is, he doesn’t want to be bothered,” his grandfather said, pulling onto the road as Everett buckled his seat belt.

“Does this mean there’s no lesson tomorrow?”

His grandfather cursed. “We’ll come back tomorrow. If he isn’t here, I’ll speak with the Order.”

“What are we going to do about my aura?”

“I’ll teach you how to conceal when we get home. First, we’re taking a detour to the Four Wings Martial Arts School. I got an interesting call from the master instructor. She’s offering you a scholarship.”

“Huh?” How had they gotten his grandfather’s number?

“One of her students noticed that you sat in on several classes and figured you were interested. He convinced the master instructor to give you a scholarship.”

Bryce convinced Ann?

“What’s with that smile and blush?” his grandfather asked.

Everett looked out the window and fought the corners of his smile. “Nothing.”

“Is that student the one you used spells on?”

“I used spells on multiple students.”

“But this one you’re interested in.” His grandfather chuckled. “Your pale skin is a curse. It highlights every blush.”

Everett’s blush deepened.

“Is this student the one who drove you home after you fainted?”

“Not saying.”

“How old is he?”

“Not saying.”

THE FIRST
class was scheduled to start in a little less than thirty minutes. The building was empty, save for Ann who was typing on the computer in her office.

The office was a small, square room, professionally furnished with a polished wooden desk, cushioned chairs, file cabinets, a wide-screened computer monitor, and no personal items. No family portraits or trinkets on the desk. No décor. The office could have belonged to anyone.

Everett and his grandfather sat on the cushioned chairs in front of the desk.

“We can manage fifty dollars a month,” his grandfather said.

“It’s still too much.” Everett hated to use money that could be saved for food or gas or bills. They weren’t groveling on the floor for money, but with his upcoming classes at Greenford, money had become scarce.

“Fifty dollars isn’t much. Compared to the usual price of a hundred sixty, it’s a bargain,” Ann said.

“We’ll still be saving money when we move to the shop,” his grandfather said.

Everett hadn’t thought his grandfather would be accepting of the classes. He
did
want the classes, wanted to get closer to the dojang
—
and Bryce—but he didn’t want to cost his grandfather. He felt enough guilt forcing them to abandon his parents’ home and move to the shop. Even if private lessons opened a window in his investigation, he could find another way. He could visit a small-group session or a private lesson if he was allowed. He didn’t have to spend fifty dollars for this.

“How does forty feel?” Ann asked.

Now Everett felt guilt for robbing the dojang of its profits.

“I wouldn’t want to lower your revenue,” Everett murmured.

What would it take to decline the classes and go home? The shop was still closed. Everett could imagine the potential customers standing before its glass doors, staring at the “Will Return” paper clock taped to the surface.

“You’re very considerate, as Bryce said. It’s a very admirable trait in martial arts,” Ann said.

Martial arts and consideration? Everett saw no connection, and he didn’t want to.

“I honestly don’t think I’d be very good at martial arts. I don’t have the black-belt mindset mentioned in your student creed—” Ann smiled at the reference, leaning forward as if she had something to say about the creed. “—and I don’t have the body to train.”

“You’re considerate, but not with yourself. You lack self-confidence, and we can help with that.”

“I don’t—”

Someone jogged to the office. “Hey, Kwang
—
Everett? I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

Bryce leaned against the doorframe, dressed in his uniform pants and a tight white T-shirt.

Everett tried not to stare at Bryce’s muscled arms. “I didn’t think I would, but Kwang Jang-nim called my grandfather.”

“I’ll sign him up.” His grandfather gestured for Ann to hand over the paperwork.

“What?” Everett said.

“Excellent.” Ann slid the signup sheets and a pen across the table.

Bryce’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Christmas came early.”

Everett gaped as his grandfather palmed the sheets and pen. “But—”

“Forty dollars is nothing, and I think martial arts is an excellent character builder,” his grandfather said, smiling as he straightened the papers in front of him.

“It certainly is. Look at me. I have great character,” Bryce said. He flexed an arm muscle, and Everett’s mouth dried in a second.

Ann chuckled. “You certainly do.”

Defeated, Everett slouched in his chair. He watched his grandfather scan over the fine print and whip signatures on the paperwork.

His grandfather made him fill out the emergency and medical forms. His numb hands trembled as he filled the sheets from top to bottom.

Bryce watched from the doorway. “Hey, Everett, did you bring salt with you again?”

Everett’s grandfather paused in midsignature.

“I did. Why?”

“I have unsalted pretzels in my car.”

“The salt won’t stick to the pretzels,” Everett’s grandfather said.

“I have Nutella as glue.”

“It’s in a fabric bag, not plastic anymore. It’s dirty. I don’t think you’d want to eat it,” Everett said.

His grandfather warned him with a stern look.