by Shay Cabe
I’m nervous about it too and not a lot makes me nervous.
After I break down the last box and toss it on the stack with the others, I stare out the window while wiping a forearm across my sweaty face. With my hand on my hip, I study the backyard. Someone has taken good care of it, the flowers lining the property are in full bloom, even though it’s fall. The grass is green, thick and looks like it will be soft on my bare feet. I plan on discovering if it's true. The night is beckoning me out to it, and I need some fresh air.
As I walk by Dad’s office, I ignore the low murmur of his voice. He’s on one of his many daily video calls. He gets ten or more of them a day. I used to try to snoop in on them, but he’s got a diffuser he keeps nearby that makes it all sound garbled while protecting the identity of whoever is on the screen. A spell that I can’t break without getting caught.
He’s the type that folds his gold threaded socks, so I doubt it’s anything cool.
So far it has been less painful than I expected, being here in this town. Maybe it’s like my therapist said, I’ve mostly healed; which is true. Don’t get me wrong it still hurts inside. Just not as much, or possibly I’m dealing with it better. Or maybe—just maybe, it’s because it feels like I have finally come home.
That’s the most disturbing part of this entire reverie.
With a sigh, I lean my head back and look up. The moon is bright in the sky, almost full. In its milky light I can see the magic that saturates and protects this town. A blue hazy dome rests above the town, thick enough to be seen by the naked eye in the air by those inclined to magic. Humans can’t come here to Singe, so they never see the unique beauty of this place.
While looking at the sky as a kid, I used to think I could reach up and pluck a star down to hide in my hand. A token to make me smile in my darkest days. I never could but it didn’t stop me from wishing for it every night. The stars are shining bright and the urge to sing Twinkle-Twinkle makes me giggle at my utterly dorky thought. In the process, relieving the tension I’ve been carrying around since we got here.
I climb into a patio chair and recline to continue looking at the sky. It’s so quiet here in Singe compared to the last place we were living. In Chicago, there’s so much noise and light pollution that you can’t see the stars. In most of the city, it wasn’t safe to go out in your yard at night to strain to see them through the haze of pollution in the air. That never stopped me from doing it—the smarter thieves avoided me and the dumb ones eventually learned.
I hate to say it, but I missed the tranquility of night time here in this surreal place of peace that’s existed for me since birth. That’s exactly what I need too. Peace in my mind, my life, my… soul. Strange that the place that planted the darkness in me, might be the place to fix it.
Absently, I look at the tattoo going up my right arm. It’s technically four separate ones that merge but Dad thinks it's one. After I bribed him with a thousand dollars, he signed the permission forms and went with me to get them. Even witch tattoo artists have to abide by human law in such establishments.
The initial reason to get it was to cover some of my more noticeable scars. Then something spurred me to talk to the artist about the dream I had, still have. Personally—despite the reasons I got it—I love the artwork. It looks like pure imagination painted my skin.
Just below my shoulder, the tangled forms of four beasts dominate the tattoo with splashes of vivid blues, deep purples, fiery reds and greens of leaves in spring. A snake, a black lion, a white wolf, and a red hyena look almost as if they will leap out at you. The illustration starts with them together, then the animals disappear into swirls of color leaving only their footprints to track down to the tips of my fingers.
Despite not writing, calling or emailing them, I never forgot the Hazards; this tattoo is a testament to that. I was too big a chicken to do anything but hide in my bubble of trauma because I was too messed up in my head to try to deal with the complexities of that part of my life. I don’t have any social media presence of any kind and I mostly use my phone to read with. So there was no keeping up with things happening in Singe—including them.
Honestly, I’ve been too lost to find my way out of my head. With resolve, I trace each animal on my arm with the tip of my finger.
I’m not lost anymore.
Chapter Two
When I turned the anticlimactic sweet sixteen, dad—with persuasion—took me car shopping. He then used my money to buy me the blue Jeep I wanted. The fun kind, a Wrangler, with removable doors and zip up windows. I do not understand why I picked it out of all the cars we looked at, but it called to me. Maybe it was the freedom it represents or maybe it’s because I love the color blue almost as much as purple.
Somehow, it suits me more than any compact car could. The dark windows are proving to be a perk, especially since I’m still a member of the poultry family and too chicken to get out of it and go into the school. I even got here early, and still, I sit, watching everyone arrive and laugh and talk and go inside. While I’m parked here, hunched down like a turd, I look at my phone and sigh; ten minutes until the bell rings and I still have to pick up my schedule.
The class schedule is a total mystery too. Dad was supposed to forward them my curriculum from the other school. The school wouldn’t let me do it because of my age. Human schools are way more strict about those types of things, and after going to a multitude of them, I have to say I’m not a fan.
Quit being a chickenshit, Nora.
Growling at my cowardice, I hop out before I can change my mind and grab my red backpack. Slinging it over my shoulder, I lock the doors and make myself turn, it’s harder than it should be, then head into the school.
Why am I so freaking nervous?
Oh yeah, I have four specific reasons.
Without looking too long at the cluster of people milling around me I step inside the front doors and stop. I search for a sign, or a map—some way of figuring out where I’m supposed to go. Where the hell is the office?
Eventually, a small sign up near the ceiling that says ‘Office’ points me in the right direction and I speed walk to it. Avoiding eye contact with everyone, I keep my eyes in front of me—because looking at people in a setting like this, sets you up for stupid shit to happen. The normal high school experience, bullies, cliques, dumb guys. It’s bad enough that I can feel their stares and their curiosity. That’s nothing more than I was expecting. This is a small town, and I’m an unknown face in a selective group of people.
Ms. Hazard home-schooled us as kids, so we didn’t socialize daily with most of the kids our age. She and mom insisted upon it, but it’s Singe, and ultimately the gossip will catch up to me. Especially when they discover that I’m the daughter of a relatively famous witch who was chewed up by a bear shifter.
Gritting my teeth, I keep walking.
Thankfully, the office is a lot less occupied, and when I open the door, the secretary looks up and gives me a bright, welcoming smile. A small piece of me relaxes a little. The office staff will already know who I am. After all, it’s not every day that you get the murdered coven leader’s daughter at your school. Mom had been royalty to this community, and some people still hold a fondness for her memory.
“Evanora Hex?” she asks and I cringe. I hate my name. It’s so freaking cheesy. Mom loved the Wizard of Oz, and our last name is the epitome of being a witch. Somehow she decided that the two of them sounded perfect together.
I nod, and the secretary shuffles through some papers on her desk. Holding a few out towards me she says, “Here is your schedule. We managed to get you in the classes that were requested. Do you need someone to escort you around?” I probably do, but I shake my head no. It’s a small school, I’ll figure it out. “All right, your first class is out the door and to the right.” Her eyes darken with sadness, here it comes. “I knew your mother; we were friends in school. She was a wonderful witch.” She folds her hands together and sits them on her desk. “You look like he
r.” That wasn’t as bad as I was expecting.
I don’t think I look like my her really, I’ve seen pictures of her when she was a child. She was beautiful and ethereal while I’m just… plain. Not that I look like my Dad either, thank you gods of creation. This lady is just saying that to be nice. I study the secretary, noting there’s a look of knowing in her eyes that makes me have to bite my tongue to keep from asking questions. She’s a bit old to have gone to school with mom, but in witch-land, you never know. Witches tend to guard their ages like dragons guard gold. I’m not entirely sure mom was the actual age she claimed to be. In our world you grow up fast and life can be incredibly hard.
Magic is a mean business.
Picturing these two as friends makes me have to fight even harder not to say anything. My mom was all business suits and power, while this woman reminds me of a sweet aunt who bakes you pies to cheer you up. She even has a soft pink, hand-knitted sweater laying across her shoulders with only the top button fastened at her throat. Her black hair, peppered with streaks of gray, is in one of those neat as a pin mom-cuts where the ends curl up towards her face. A bob I think it’s called? The small golden nameplate sitting on her desk says Ms. Maple, and that is the icing on the cake of the image she’s presenting to the world.
While my mom’s outer image hid the sweet, gooey person she was inside. I think Ms. Maple’s is hiding something completely different. Blinking, I let my other senses work for me. A particular, secret, talent of mine is sensing another’s skill level. She’s not coming off as a powerful witch, but she’s also hiding a dampening charm somewhere on her person. One that can hide the specific kind of witch she is and potentially how potent.
All witches have an affinity with certain types of magic. Human lore nailed that on the head. Some are elementals, who deal with weather and natural disasters, while others do more mundane blue-collar work—like metalists who have the ability to turn raw ore into metal and shape them into awesome things. You also have your green thumbs or growers, as they’re sometimes called. They deal with food, gardens, etc. That’s only the tip-top of the iceberg. There are way too many to list, and no one knows precisely how many kinds there are.
Ms. Maple is a mystery. I can smell the multitude of charms on her that protect her from prying eyes or in this case, nose. That skill is compliments of the bite marks on my body. Mr. Psycho-Bear left me with a few abilities that I shouldn’t have as a witch.
Her graying eyebrows shoot up in surprise. For a moment I worry that she knows what I’m doing, then she says, “Oh goodness, I almost forgot. Here’s your locker information. They’re downstairs and to the left, next to the outside lunch area.” Of course, it’s the opposite direction from my first class.
“Thanks,” I mumble, take the papers from her and leave the office.
I skip the locker until I have more time and go in search of the class. Finding it is incredibly easy, so there’s no excuse for me standing outside the door and not going in. Deep breath in, deep breath out. My hand lifts and touches the door; biting my lip hard enough to make it sting, I push it open and go straight to the teacher’s desk. Mr. Nelson—at least that’s what it says on his nameplate, looks up with a sour expression on his sweaty face, and waves vaguely towards the desks facing him. I head to the empty seat closest to the door.
Just in case.
Thankfully, he doesn’t make me introduce myself, so I dig a notebook and pen out of my backpack and tuck it behind my feet.
“Evanora,” I cringe a little at being called by my first name for the second time today. “I’ll have to order you a textbook, so for now you need to share with someone.” Shit. “Any volunteers?” he asks the room.
“I’ll share with her.” Thank the sticks, it’s a girl’s voice. Soft-spoken and shy, I can hear the quiver in it. I feel kind of bad for her. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with me. I look over to my left, a dark-haired girl with black glasses is scooting her desk closer to mine. With a shy smile, she opens her book and puts it on the space where the desks touch. I smile back, sort of, and focus on the lesson.
I’m bad with people, I always have been. Except with the Hazards, somehow, I did fine with them. Anyone else though and I’m Awkward Annie with a big mouth.
“Did you live here before?” she whispers, ruining the small hope that she will decide not to talk. Without looking up, I nod and keep taking notes.
“Her mom was the former coven leader who was eaten by a bear shifter.” My head jerks up to meet the dull blue eyes of what I’m guessing to be one of the popular girls.
Really, she’s going to go all mean-girls on me in my first five minutes here?
I fight down the words that want to come out of my mouth, the ones that will activate a spell I tailored specifically for people like her. Instead, I opt to be the bigger person and ignore her. For now. My moments of turning the other cheek are limited.
Mean girls are so unoriginal. The movies are right, they exist, but are still a total cliché. I’m not worried about dealing with them, it’s expected. My skin is thick enough that it doesn’t hurt anymore, but my temper has gotten shorter. If she pursues it, that’s her problem.
“Ignore her she’s on her period or something.” The girl next to me says. “I’m Ruby.” She introduces herself. I turn to my temporary partner and raise an eyebrow. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say here, the teacher told everyone my name when he was talking to me. “Evanora, right? Like the witch from the movie?” I nod again, at least we can get this part of the conversation over with. Thankfully, after I turn back to my work, she stops trying to talk to me. I’m not in the mood to try to make friends with people. I only want to make it through the day without turning no one into a dog turd.
When the bell rings I’m the first one out the door. Luckily, the next three classes pass quickly, and I don’t have to share anymore books. Sure, there are more comments, but I ignore them too.
I don’t care what these people think of me.
Lunch period rolls around, and I realize one glaring issue, I forgot to pack one. Standing just outside of the double doors, I give the lunch line a baleful look. The line of students wraps around the outside of the room, going out the door past me. By the time I get through it, lunch will be over. Annoyed with myself, I dig around in my backpack; I have a granola bar in here somewhere. It’s better than nothing, and if I try to get a hot lunch, that’s exactly what I’ll get, nothing.
Deciding to avoid the claustrophobic cafeteria I head to the outside lunch area. It’s packed too, but there’s more room and fresh air; that’s better than the alternative.
Enjoying the light breeze on my overheated skin, I pull out my phone to skim over an eBook. Reading is one of my favorite pastimes and I go through at least fifteen books a week. I munch on my granola bar while feeling relatively proud of myself for having the forethought to pack it. A sixth sense, the kind I pay attention to, persuaded me to drop it in at the last minute as I walked through the kitchen to leave.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up as the awareness of being stared at brings me out of my book. This feeling it gives me differs from the others. I lift my head and look around for the source. This is more than some gossipy people watching the new kid. The intensity alone is enough to cause concern. It’s giving me goosebumps and sending my fight-or-flight reflex straight to fight.
Interesting. Creepy too, but interesting. I can’t help but be curious. Which will soon be sated, it’s coming closer.
“You left us.” The deep voice comes from behind me, right where I expected it to be. That knowledge doesn’t stop me from startling, so hard I drop my phone and in total shame, squeak. The deep voice is familiar in an unfamiliar way… I’ve heard it before, dreamed about it, but it wasn’t that deep. As my mind spins and whirls with my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I slowly turn.
I’m surprised I don’t hear an eighties song playing in the background as the world slows down around me. I’m not surprised that
there are four tall, grown-up looking boys standing there staring at me. All with varying degrees of anger simmering in their eyes. Hazards. Holy shit.
The owner of the voice—that scared years off my life—has hair so black it looks blue in the sunlight. Staring at it closer, I question it, maybe it is blue? The sides above his ears are shaved, with the long locks on the top gently blowing over to one side in the wind. Ultra bright blue eyes meet mine, and I can clearly see the white star spanning out from the pupils. I know those eyes; how could I ever forget them? Oz.
He has definitely grown into his name. With a face that puts Johnny Depp to shame he studies me with a ferocity that I give him right back. There’s no denying Oz’s Samoan heritage, not anymore. He has grown into it well.
He was always the shy one out of the group, skinny and gangly. Something the other boys used to pick on him about it. I don’t think that’s an issue anymore. He’s got to be over six-feet tall, and although he’s still lean, I can see the definition of what he’s packing underneath his white shirt.
Teenage boys shouldn’t look that way.
Each one of his forearms is also sporting tattoos. I can’t fully see them, not with the way he has his arms crossed, but I can tell they match, and they look an awful lot like swords. His bronze skin is clear and almost glowing from being kissed by the sun. That’s the kind of tan women pay hundreds of dollars for, but never quite achieve. Some weird feeling in me wants to stand up, and poke the dimple on his right cheek, the one that appears when he suddenly smiles at me. The butthead likes that I’m staring at him.
Because I absolutely am.
Jerking my eyes away, to break that charged stare off, I end up locking onto to the next. Eyes so green they glow, pin me to the spot. Phoenix is living up to his namesake. For a few seconds my eyes meet his and before I can pull my gaze away to study his face like I did Oz’s. Phoenix has always been the one who was damn near too pretty to be a boy. He was the thoughtful one, the puzzle solver. As a child, his facial features were elfin and delicate. That’s not the case anymore; I don’t think there’s a delicate bone in his body, but his face is still pretty.
