Of Thorns and Hexes

by C. J. Canady

“Training a witch or a wizard who is not family is acceptable, even if that witch or wizard had participated in the Flower Trials. They just can’t share what they’ve learned.”

  Justine once overs me, her green eyes trying to decipher something about me. “Still. It seems unfair.” Her black-stained lips imprint on the wine glass as she downs the dregs. “In any case, I guess I only have to worry about your son, Markus.” She tips the glass toward a devilishly handsome man, who looks to be in his early to late twenties.

  I can’t believe this ancient wizard has a son—a hot one at that. Markus greets us ladies with a nod of his amber-colored hair, slicked back on his head. He shares his father’s height, thick eyebrows, and wavy nose, but that’s where the similarities end. Markus has a square face, cleft chin, mesmerizing violet eyes, freckled cheeks, and hands, and is built like a brick house.

  “I can assure you,” Markus says, voice like the classical music echoing through the mausoleum, “I’ll be the one to claim my father’s chair. Unlike you pedestrians, I am allowed to train with the Elites. And they can share with me whatever they choose.”

  Aside from his prince charming looks, Markus is not a pleasant person to be around. Why are the hot ones always so rude? Add to his rudeness with the pressing issue that he is the son of an Elite, and what do you get? Stiff competition. Perhaps stiff is not even the right word for it. He’s a shoo-in to win the Flower Trials.

  Raising a brow, Markus smirks at me. “We haven’t yet been acquainted.” His entire holier-than-thou demeanor is flipped upside down for chivalry as he bows at me. “Would you care for a dance?”

  I blink at him. Justine blinks at me, then at him. Then at me again. The poor girl is as astonished as I am.

  My initial response would be to blow him off and find more finger food to stuff my face with. And yet, I find myself inching close to his offered hand. He’s still handsome, no doubt, but I have an idea in mind. Everyone has a weakness, something they’re afraid of. Allergic to. If I can extract that from him, I’ll have a leg up on the son of a wizard.

  My thoughts have become so dark and so competitive. Being around Vahilda for two weeks has unlocked that side of me that I didn’t think existed. I was never this person who’d think such profoundly malicious thoughts. But that has not dissuaded me from taking Markus’s hand as he leads me to the dance floor.

  “My, my, my.” Markus gently plants a hand on my backside. “Where have you been all my life?”

  “I’ve been... around.”

  Our gazes are locked with the intent to uncover what lies beneath one another. For me, it’s his weaknesses. For him, something lewd, sexual.

  Wetting his lips, Markus inhales as he slides his hand further down my back. “It’s tradition to consummate this event with some fun. Let’s make a deal: you drop out of the Flower Trials and be my betrothed, or die the most painful death. Lady’s choice.” The smug wizard flashes his pearly whites at me.

  Clenching my jaw as his unchivalrous hand grazes my bottom, I shove Markus away. “How about no? I would never stoop so low to be with a disgusting man like you.”

  And there goes any chance I have of learning anything about him. Markus bobs his head, shrugs, and walks backward. He smirks at me as he disappears into the crowd of dancers. That smirk was devious, for sure. I must watch my back come tomorrow because Markus has a target on it.

  “Nice work.” Justine’s voice makes me jump. She lingers behind me with her boyfriends. “A girl like you doesn’t deserve a man like Markus. Are you not Percy’s girl? You were with that weirdo at the café, correct?”

  “I’m not Percy’s girl.” I’d like to be. The dance we shared was far better than whatever I just experienced with the handsy Markus. I wonder if Percy is thinking about me. Our dance. Our almost kiss.

  “I applaud you for having a modicum of dignity about you.” Justine spreads her arms, fingers splayed. Her boyfriends each take a hand. “I wonder if he’ll wear that ratty old suit at your funeral?” her parting words to me as she’s lifted like a queen and whisked away into a dance.

  Death. The final act. The Fleur Cotillion is celebrating the coming massacre of witches and wizards for the Flower Trials. I’ll either be the one doing the killing or the one to be killed. Vahilda had shared something with me that saved her and my father when they were near death: snapdragons.

  Before the start of the trials, every participant can bring an arsenal of flowers for their disposal. Any flowers discovered during the trials can also be utilized at a witch’s or wizard’s disposal. The location of the Flower Trials changes each time an Elite steps down. Luckily for Vahilda and my father, they were dropped off at a starting point where snapdragons grow in abundance. From what little information Vahilda’s communicated to me about the flower and from what I gathered from my stint in jail, snapdragons are a neutralizer for magic. They can be used to restrict magic use of any kind for a short period of time. Though the plant is useful, the flaw is: the user who uses the snapdragon for defense will have their magic snuffed out until the effects wear off. So, snapdragons are a double-edged sword.

  I can only hope I am lucky to have a starting point where snapdragons are part of my flower cache.

  All participants are escorted via carriage to various spots surrounding the trial grounds where the Flower Trials will take place. No witch or wizard is privy to the location or how massive the landscape will be until they arrive at their personal starting point in the early morning. The Flower Trials may be held in a setting as large as the ocean or as small as the cottage I shared with my mum. I pray for the former. It’ll be a bloodbath otherwise.

  Shivering from the daunting thoughts, I shake my head. Vahilda may have had an excellent idea for me to mingle and conspire against my competitors, but this all feels like a waste. Right now, I just want to curl into a ball and catch some shuteye. All of Vahilda’s training has left me in a state of sleeplessness.

  Not wanting to draw any attention to myself, I carefully, like a thief in the night, slip out of the mausoleum and into the cold moonlight waiting for me outside. The chilled air is cold against my exposed arms. Rubbing my arms to warm myself, I walk about the graveyard, inspecting every headstone, tombstone, and statue. I wonder how many of these departed souls died from natural causes, magical causes, or were slain at the Flower Trials?

  As morbid as the thought, my curiosity has always fed my soul. Although my insatiable curiousness has led me down paths with no way to return to my innocence, it has never stopped me from learning and exploring.

  A familiar snickering emerges from a vastly smaller mausoleum further across the graveyard. My curiosity tugs me in the direction of the sinister guffawing emanating from within the crypt. That laugh. That ladylike chuckle belongs to Vahilda.

  Nearing the mausoleum, the moonlight trickles just right through the oak trees’ leaves to illuminate the surname carved in the center of the pitched roof. Marguerite. A family mausoleum. My family. A faint blue glow, mixed with spots of flickering orange from a candle’s light, spills out of the open chamber door.

  “Promise me.” A male’s voice gives me pause as I gently inch the door open, careful not to make a sound. “Promise me you’ll let her go, Vahilda. She’s innocent.”

  “She owes me her life, dear brother.”

  Brother? Is... Is Vahilda speaking with my father?

  Trembling down to my stockings, I peek inside and hurriedly press a hand over my mouth, suppressing a gasp. The ghastly blue outline of an incorporeal man shines like moonlight, drowning the crypt’s innards in deep blue. He looks just like the pictures Vahilda has in the photo album. The final photo, the one used in his obituary, is exactly how he looks now. My father is frozen in time, a young man with a promising future gone too soon.

  “Elyse will win the Flower Trials,” Vahilda says, arms crossed tight. The witch sounds so sure of my win, as if she has the power of foresight. “After such, you’ll be reunited with your daughter.”

 
“Don’t you dare!” He roars, hands tightening to fists. “You should’ve left her where she was.”

  “Your little girl would’ve been executed in front of a live audience.” Vahilda perches atop a sarcophagus in the center. “It’s not like you even knew her. You had relations with a mortal like the stupid drunk you were. I understand celebrating your win, but impregnating a hooker has got to be the highlight of your life. But we’ve all made mistakes, right, brother?”

  “My daughter is not a mistake.”

  I flinch, unsure how to process that. Mum was never shy to share her thoughts about me being the biggest mistake of her life.

  “You barely knew the whore or the bastard child she gave birth to.”

  “You stole that opportunity from me, you murderer.”

  The gasp I’ve been holding in slips out of me like a punch to the gut. Vahilda’s head snaps in my direction, her eyes wide with horror. This witch killed her brother—my father. I would’ve never guessed by the gallons of tears she shed over his death that she was the one responsible for stealing his life away. But why?

  “Elyse?” my father says my name in such a way I can’t help but shed tears. He said my name in a way my mum has never uttered. The care and tenderness behind it shatter my heart to pieces. I’ve never known who my father was, never cared to be honest. But now, I want to know everything there is to know.

  Swept in a typhoon of emotions, my lips quiver as they form the words, “Father...” It is only then when I’ve said that foreign word, a flurry of dandelion seeds like a torrential snowstorm, seduces me into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 12

  MY HEAD THUMPS AGAINST something solid, glass-like. I jerk to consciousness, bleary-eyed, pained, and spooked. Rubbing my eyes, I blink away the sleep that stole me away from my father and from confronting the evil witch who killed him.

  But I’m no longer in the Marguerite mausoleum. I’m in a carriage, and the sun is barely showing its face amongst the fog-laden world I’ve woken up in. To my left sits a potato sack tied with rope at the end. Taped to the bag is a note—a note from Vahilda.

  The note reads:

  I wish you the best of luck, Elyse. In this bag, you’ll find all the essentials you need for the Flower Trials.

  Best wishes, Vahilda

  That witch! I could think of worse names to call her, but what good will that do me now? I’m well on my way toward my death... or possible victory. I must win this, not for the chance to become an Elite. No. But to expose Vahilda as the murdering witch, she is. My poor father was never allowed the chance to get to know me, to love me like a father loves his daughter. All possibilities of life far, far away from my mum were stolen from me by Vahilda. I just don’t understand why. And I’ll never receive those answers if I should die.

  The sack rustles, and a soft mewl rises from within. Either the pounding in the back of my head is causing me to hallucinate, or there’s a cat in that bag. Undoing the knot in the rope, I open the bag to find the hitchhiking cat grinning at me, canines glinting in the candlelight. Leaping from the sack, Vahilda’s cat curls in my lap and purrs contentedly. I would question why the cat is here, but I think he needed a break from his witchy owner. Vahilda is not the greatest caretaker of the cat; she’s mean to it and abusive. I recall the knot on the cat’s head and the way she yoked him up when she found those snapdragons in her garden. I’m still puzzled by that.

  The fog is unrelenting, a thick layer of silver-gray mist obscuring my view of the field. Judging by the carriage’s rocking, the way I jounce in my seat, we are not on a designated road. Twenty minutes later, I depart the carriage and into the unforgiving fog. The driver’s lantern cuts through the mist as he waddles to me, his silhouette short and round. He hands me an envelope sealed with wax, imprinted with the Elite insignia of a golden flower.

  “Good luck, miss,” the driver says. “That list contains all the ingredients you’ll need to win. May the Goddess watch over you.”

  FAIRY WINGS. RABBIT’S foot. Egyptian Bean. Rosemary. Holy water.

  The list is straightforward—nothing more, nothing less. The only issue, though, I never learned the bynames for any flowers, just the scientific jargon. The only thing on this list that I’m familiar with is the rosemary. But where would I find rosemary in this thick fog? Worse still, the field I’m standing motionless in is barren; the trees are lifeless with bark that is cracked and dry.

  I check the bag for rosemary, hoping beyond hope, but all I find are colorful flowers of sunflowers, lilies, bindweeds, anemones, hydrangeas, cherry flowers, and dandelions. I frown at the dandelions, the memory of last night’s events still fresh in my mind. The Cotillion. Vahilda. My father.

  My father. Murdered by his sister. I can only assume the witch killed him because she wanted to claim the seat for herself. And then... and then she thought she’d be awarded Zerachael’s seat until that blew up in her face because she is a witch. It doesn’t excuse her for the murder she committed, though.

  The cat slinks around my ankle and rubs his warm fur against me. He then claws at my hoopskirt that I’ve been wearing since yesterday afternoon. I think the little critter is telling me I need to disrobe to allow myself more freedom for the challenges to come. I’ll be in my undergarments, but at least I’ll have the space to move my legs without restriction.

  Once I’m free of my dress, I kick off my heels, which were not made for long trips through the woods or wearing for periods longer than two hours. I start off in a sprint, sniffing the air for hints of mint and pine. Nothing comes from it. All I can detect is the smell of the earth and something rotten. The rotten smell plagues my nostrils, stings my lungs like a fury of wasp stings. My eyes begin to water as I trek further into the fog, deeper into the acrid stench.

  Suddenly, the fog falls away, inviting the harsh, bright sunlight and frenzied, hysterical clamor and buzzing. The cat hisses, arches his back in horror at the mayhem surrounding us. My senses are overwhelmed with a battleground of witches, wizards, and small, flying humanoid creatures. Fairies. A frolick of fairies swarm the competitors, biting, clawing, and... eating their flesh. Countless witch and wizard bodies are sprawled on the bloodied grass, lifeless, contorted in godawful positions.

  Volleys of magical fireballs, globes of water, and currents of electricity slice and hiss through the air, striking down most of the attacking winged beasts. The slain fairies are dewinged by the battle-worn competitors, who pocket the wings then sprint away to check off the next item on the list.

  It takes me but a moment to figure out that some items on the list are not nicknames for flowers. Fairy wings, the first thing on the list, literally mean fairy wings. I can guess a rabbit’s foot is actually a rabbit’s foot. But what of Egyptian Bean? Or Holy water? Are those items flowers or something else entirely?

  A cluster of buzzing fairies swing in my direction, cherub-like features twisted to devilish proportions. I grab the first flower my hand lands on—a sunflower. Sunflowers equal fire magic, and I don’t believe any creature enjoys being burned to a crisp. The fairies make a beeline for me, wings fluttering a million wing beats a minute. Wielding the flower like a sword, I summon forth the fiery magic hidden within. A flaming ball of orange whizzes through the air as the sunflower crumbles to ash. The ball of fire strikes a slew of the fairies. The tiny creatures cry out in pain. The sound, the terrorizing shrieks of agony, makes my heart skip a beat.

  Fire is a highly effective magic spell to use to clear a path of flesh-hungry fairies. However... I cremated the tiny beasts to dust, which does nothing to help me in my quest to obtain fairy wings.

  I curse under my breath. Searching through the crimson speckled field of human and fairy bodies, I try to and fail to locate a decent pair of wings. Of all the winged nasties lifeless on the battleground, most of them are missing their wings. I think some competitors are taking more than their fair share. But, then again, it is a competition.

  The cat hacks and wheezes beside me. It hurls
a mangled fairy body enclosed in a hairball with wings, perfectly fine wings, jutting out of the ball up into the air. Pawing at his ball of death, the cat pushes the ball to me.

  “T-Thank you.” I scoop the entire ball into one hand and plop it into the sack.

  The semi-cute feline smiles at me before its eyes snap to something behind me. He hisses in warning, but I’m too late to react. An electric pulse clambers through my entire body and steals the oxygen from my lungs. Crumbling to my knees, I jitter on the ground face first. Someone’s steel toe boot flips me on my back, and a familiar face full of deathly promise blocks out the sun.

  “I gave you a choice yesterday.” Markus stomps his boot into my gut so hard I nearly spit out my tongue. “I didn’t think I’d get the chance to kill you so early. One less competitor on my journey to victor—” Markus hisses in pain as the cat claws at his handsome mug. The brute loses his balance as he pulls at the cat, whose nails are embedded in his cheeks.

  Rolling on my stomach and pushing myself up to standing, I grab my bag and dig through it for a flower to use against Markus. I have no desire to kill anyone, although the act is perfectly legal during the trials. I won’t have the wizard’s blood on my hands like I do Igbob’s. All I need is something to get him out of the way.

  The cat yowls as Markus hurls the cat at me. Thinking quick, I use the sack as a cushion, softening the feline’s landing who comes crashing down into it.

  Markus wipes a finger across his bloodied face and licks his fingers. He smirks at me with red-stained teeth. “Say your prayers.” He reaches one hand over his shoulder and begins to rummage in a backpack on his back.

  “E-Elyse.” A voice like Percy’s sounds.

  I check over my shoulder, but I don’t see the blonde-haired man anywhere. And then I look down at the cat. It repeats my name, and I almost drop the talking thing to the ground as shock and confusion blanket my mind.

  “R-Run.” The cat sighs, eyes slowly blinking closed.