King 03 - Restless

by Kandle, Tawdra

  “I guess it would be cool to use abilities to do stuff like that—you know, open lockers, close doors… make things move.” Rafe’s voice was tentative; he was probing, trying to bait me into admitting something.

  “I guess so,” I answered, keeping my tone non-committal. “Can anyone do that, do you think? Any of the King families, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. My grandmother knew someone who could set the table for dinner without getting up out of her chair. I think they all died off, though. But who knows? Maybe someone might… revive… that power.”

  I slid my eyes away from his, closed my locker and began inching away. “Maybe. It would be handy. Let me know if you come across—ow!”

  Rafe snagged my arm in a tight grip. “Tasmyn, what are you messing with?”

  My eyes rounded in assumed innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rafe. Let me go.”

  “You seem to forget that along with my other talents, I have a pretty good sense of perception about the powers around me. And I’m picking up a whole different vibe from you today. Not just the usual pearly pink aura you’re always trying to suppress… something darker.”

  I couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “You’re imagining it. And anyway, it’s none of your business.”

  Still holding my arm, he pulled me closer to him and bent his head close to mine so that I couldn’t help but look at him. His gaze pierced me, and I heard him distinctly.

  Maybe not right now. But I wish it were. You know I want that. Look at me, Tasmyn. Feel what I’m feeling. It was a demand, and I gasped a little at the intensity of his longing. He dropped his eyes to my lips, and for just a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.

  But instead he straightened and released my arm. “You need to be careful. I know something’s going on.” I stood, unable to move. Rafe brushed my cheek again, with the back of his fingers. “Don’t worry, Tas. I promised I wouldn’t kiss you again… until you asked me. But remember, I can’t hear your thoughts. You’re going to have to say it—out loud.”

  He wheeled around and was immediately absorbed by the crowd in the walkway.

  I was preoccupied for the rest of the day. No matter how much I tried concentrate, my mind kept wandering to Rafe’s words. Something darker… What could he know? What did he see in me now, what was different?

  At lunch, Amber looked in confusion from Rafe’s stony face to my own distracted eyes. I tried to smile reassuringly, but I knew I wasn’t fooling her. When I stood up to leave, she was right behind me.

  “Okay, spill. What’s happening?”

  I assumed the same innocent face I had shown Rafe earlier. “Nothing’s going on. Everything’s fine.”

  Amber narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “What are you doing after school? Come home with me… we can talk.”

  “Amber, I can’t today. I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to talk to anyone today. I just wanted to be home, alone, where I could suffer in peace. I briefly considered telling her the truth and then decided against it. Amber was loyal and I trusted her implicitly, but her feelings toward Marica were understandably negative. She’d support me about Michael, even though she didn’t agree with me. She hadn’t told my parents last fall about my secret classes with Ms. Lacusta, although she’d been worried about what might happen. But telling her that I was willingly spending afternoons with the woman who had—albeit indirectly—participated in our near-murder just might be the last straw for Amber.

  She gazed at me steadily. “Okay. Well… maybe later then. I’ll see you.” She turned on her heel and walked quickly away from me, leaving the faintest aura of hurt in her wake.

  I sighed as I headed for my afternoon classes. I was beginning to believe that this secret life was way too complicated for me.

  I spent the next week dodging Rafe’s suspicious eyes and mind and Amber’s worried face. I kept up a good front at lunch each day and hurried home after school.

  My bedroom was my refuge, where I could lay in the dark and let the hurt wash over me. I could sob and mourn by myself. Sometimes, when the crying was at its zenith, the handles on my dresser drawers rattled ominously. The decorative boxes that sat on my bureau flew across the room at times. I put away anything breakable so that no blood would be spilled again.

  But every day, I was careful to wash my face clean of tears and their traces by late afternoon. I was calm by the time my parents walked in the door. If they suspected the extent of my grief, they hid it well, and I avoided hearing their thoughts or detecting their feelings.

  The next Monday afternoon, I managed to avoid seeing anyone I knew as I slipped out to the parking lot. I stood by my car uncertainly, wondering if Marica intended to meet me there or if I should look for her.

  A moment later, a small black car pulled up perpendicular to my own spot and the tinted passenger window slid silently down. Marica sat in the driver’s seat, dark sunglasses obscuring her eyes.

  I waited, expecting to hear instructions, but she merely sat looking at me. I finally heard her, through the low buzz of static that often accompanied her thoughts.

  Follow me.

  I got into my car and threw it into reverse. Marica moved forward toward the exit of the parking lot. I glanced around, hoping that neither Rafe nor Amber had happened to witness our short exchange, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to us.

  I assumed we were heading to Marica’s house, but I wasn’t sure where she lived. As far as I knew, she had never held her “chemistry club” meetings there, although I was willing to bet that Nell had been to the house.

  We drove out of town, and I felt a twinge of anxiety when I realized we were nearing Lake Rosu. I hadn’t been back there since Rev. Pryce had confronted me during my first session with Marica. It had been a frightening experience, adding to my other unhappy memories of the place. I wasn’t in a hurry to return, but since it was a site of mystical convergence, it seemed inevitable that I’d end up there again one of these days.

  It wasn’t going to be today, though. I breathed a sigh of relief as we passed the turn for the lake and continued down the road. About a mile later, Marica turned left into a small subdivision of older houses. They were small, and although none were neglected, neither were they exactly up to date. It was, I thought, the kind of neighborhood where almost anyone could blend in easily.

  The black car in front of me pulled into the driveway of a small home that looked like every other one on the block. After hesitating a moment, I parked in front of the house. I waited until Marica opened her door before I did the same.

  She strode up the front walk without looking at me, and I lagged back, unsure. Only when she had unlocked the door and stepped inside did she turn.

  “Well? Are you coming in, Tasmyn?”

  I hurried across the yard and into the small tiled foyer as Marica closed the door behind me.

  I’m not sure what I expected, but it was a fairly typical house. Beyond the entryway, in a small, carpeted living room, I saw a sofa and easy chair. A coffee table held papers and books. The adjacent kitchen was compact, but clean and neat and looked out over the fenced yard.

  I jumped as I felt something brush against my leg. A large black cat with an absurdly fluffy tail looked up at me expectantly and blinked wide green eyes.

  “Tasmyn, meet Calypso, my roommate,” Marica said with a bit of humor in her voice. “She is hoping you might have brought her a tribute of some sort.”

  I glanced down apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t know.” Looking at Marica, I whispered, “What kind of tribute does she need?”

  Marica laughed. “What does any cat want? A treat of some sort. I have limited her lately because I sense that she is becoming too… ahem… rotund.”

  As if she understood, Calypso shot her mistress a reproachful glare before she stalked off to jump onto the easy chair.

  Still whispering, I leaned toward Marica. “Is she… does she have powers? What is her… role?”

  Marica laugh
ed at me again. “Her role is companionship. She is a typical cat, if there is such a thing. I was lonely when I first moved to King, and when we found each other, it seemed like fate. Although sometimes, I must admit, when I look into her eyes…” Shaking her head, Marica smiled wryly. “Perhaps in another age she might have been called my familiar, hmmm?”

  I wasn’t quite sure whether or not she was serious. I wasn’t used to Marica’s sense of humor—well, let’s face it; until recently, I never thought she had a sense of humor—and sometimes it was hard to tell when she might be joking.

  “Come.” Marica led me down the narrow hallway. There were three doors; I caught a glimpse of a bedroom through one and a bathroom through the second. I followed Marica through the third.

  It wasn’t a large room, but the windows gave it a sense of space and airiness. There were two simple wooden chairs against one wall and a long table opposite the chairs. The table was covered with interesting objects: small crystal orbs, a few silver boxes, books and—my breath caught in my throat. In the middle of all the trinkets lay a knife. And it wasn’t just any knife; it was the athame, the same one Nell had used to try to kill Amber… the same one that she had used to give me the scars on my neck.

  Involuntarily, my hands went to my throat. Behind me, I heard Marica’s small sigh. She laid a hand on my shoulder.

  “Tasmyn, you’re shaking. What troubles you here?”

  “The athame. It’s… what is it doing here?” My voice sounded hollow and far away.

  “I told you that it belongs to my family.”

  “But how did you get it? After Nell… wouldn’t the police keep it for evidence, or… something?”

  “There was no case against Nell, remember. No reason for the police to hold anything. It was returned to me.” Marica was calm, but I noticed a shadow in her eyes, and I wondered exactly how the athame came back to her.

  “Why do you have it out here, though? When you knew I was coming?” I didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but it did.

  “Tasmyn, you must learn to confront and overcome these fears and memories. The athame has great history and great power. It will be necessary for you to use it as your power advances. Exert your will. Rise above the fear and turn it to your own use.”

  Marica’s voice was very nearly hypnotic. As she spoke, I inched toward the table and tentatively reached out a finger toward the athame. I touched it, half expecting to feel Nell behind me again. Tracing the intricate carvings on the heavy silver handle, my finger tingled as though it had been asleep and was just awakening. My mind flashed to the last time I had seen it, when the blade held drops of blood from my neck and the handle still bore stains from Nell using it to bash me in the head.

  “Tasmyn.” Marica’s voice gentled. “We won’t use it today. But you must not fear it. Come.”

  I turned away from the table to face her. She looked at me appraisingly, and although she was blocking me from hearing her mind, I guessed that she was trying to gauge whether or not I had been completely shaken by seeing the athame. She gave a brief nod, which I supposed indicated I had passed muster.

  “Stand against the far wall,” Marica instructed. When I had moved into place, she stood opposite me and closed her eyes.

  Immediately my attention was drawn to one of the glass balls on the table. It shook slightly and then rose straight up into the air and hung suspended between us.

  “Focus on the orb.” Marica’s voice held a command that brooked no disagreement. I fastened my eyes on the clear pink crystal until I saw nothing else. I could sense its weight as though invisible threads linked it to my head.

  “Good… now, visualize it spinning… and then make it happen.” Without removing my gaze from the orb, I turned my eye inward and pictured it turning in slow circles. When I re-focused, it was indeed spinning, starting slowly and then faster and faster until—

  “Excellent.” Satisfaction oozed from that single word. “Now I want to hand it to you—I want you to take it from me. Be bold, but don’t let it drop. Allow some of your concentration to move from the orb to me. Feel the connection, and then take the weight of the glass from me and hold it yourself. Begin now.”

  This took much more effort. While still focusing on the ball, I had to shift slightly and become aware of Marica. In my mind, I saw her link to the orb as a thin glowing gold chain. I hesitated briefly, wondering how to make this happen. It felt as though I were using a new muscle: a little stiff, a bit sore.

  I pictured my own invisible chain to the orb growing stronger. I felt the weight increase until I was certain that I bore it completely. Only then did I mentally pull it slightly closer to me, to hold it myself.

  The ball dipped only slightly before I firmed my grip. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “Well done,” Marica praised. “Are you tired, or would you like to try one more thing?”

  “I’m fine,” I answered, never taking my eyes from the orb.

  “Then slowly move the ball through the air and place it gently back in its original spot on the table.” She spoke firmly and with complete expectation of compliance.

  I drew in another deep breath and began inching the orb slowly through the air. It bobbed and wavered a little, and it moved slowly, but eventually it hovered above the table. I lowered it bit by bit until it dropped onto the table with a hollow rap.

  Only then did I blink, and only then did the wave of utter exhaustion wash over me. My head throbbed, and I saw spots dancing in front of my eyes. I fell into the wooden chair nearest to me and held head in my hands.

  I don’t know how long I sat there before I sensed Marica standing in front of me.

  “Here,” she said, and I felt the cool smoothness of glass against the back of my hand. “Drink this. It is restorative.”

  The glass was filled with a thick red liquid, and I sipped it with a great deal of trepidation. To my surprise, the taste was mild, and once it touched my lips, I gulped it down as though I had been very thirsty.

  “What is it?” I asked when I had drained the glass and handed back to Marica.

  “An old family recipe. A combination of juices and powdered herbs that strengthen and support. Your head should begin to feel better shortly.”

  And indeed it did. I found I could move my eyes again without pain.

  “Marica,” I began slowly, “what is the purpose of this? Moving objects, holding them—well, it seems like parlor tricks to me. Why is it necessary?”

  “We’re stretching you,” she answered crisply. “Moving you outside your comfort zone, showing you what is possible. Moving objects mentally? Hardly something that will change the world. But what’s important is that you’re realizing that we have not even begun to tap into your real abilities.” She studied me for a moment and then turned.

  “If you’re feeling well enough, you should go home now. You don’t want to raise any questions with your parents, and of course you need some rest.”

  I stood, expecting to feel dizzy. Instead I found nothing out of the ordinary; even the pain in my head had subsided to a dull ache. I followed Marica out of the room in silence. She opened the front door for me and stepped aside.

  “You’ll need a bit of recovery time. Don’t bother coming over again until next Monday. You know the way now; come here directly from school.” As I went out, I turned back to say good-bye, but she had already closed the door.

  I was preoccupied as I drove home, still not quite sure what to make of the experience or of Marica herself.

  On the positive side, though, I had realized something: when I was working with Marica, my mind was too full to think about Michael. Even the part of me that still clung to him, broken and in pain, had to admit that the break was a relief. The new and harder part of me merely smiled in arched silence.

  Tas, it’s me. I had the worst feeling today—like something’s wrong with you. I mean, like you’re in trouble. I don’t know, maybe it’s just another way of m
issing you. I wish—would you just call and tell me you’re okay? Or email me—anything. I thought of asking my mom to drive over and check on you, but then I realized you might not like that. And maybe you’re not even checking these messages. Okay. Well—I guess that’s it. Call me. I love you.

  I was so exhausted when I got home that I climbed into bed in my clothes and fell asleep. My mother woke me up two hours later, concern lining her face.

  “Are you sick?” she asked, frowning.

  “No.” I tried to sit up and found that the room was spinning a little. “I’m just worn out.”

  She perched at the edge of bed and peered into my face. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes,” she announced. “And you’re very pale.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said dryly. “I feel so much better now.”

  “Tasmyn, are you… do you think maybe you’re depressed? You know, with everything that happened with Michael—and you haven’t been yourself lately. Maybe you should talk to someone.”

  “What do you mean? Like a psychiatrist or something? Do you think I’m crazy?” I was more than a little defensive as an image of Nell flitted around the edges of my mind.

  “No, of course I don’t. I just think it might be good for you to have someone to talk to about your feelings and what you’re going through—”

  “And should I tell them that I can hear their thoughts while they’re working with me? You know, ‘Hey, Doc, one of the things that really stresses me out is having to listen to other people’s minds all day.’”

  “Tasmyn!” My mother’s shock was clear on her face. “What’s wrong with you? I understand that you’re dealing with a lot of —of stuff right now, but there is no need to be disrespectful—or to take it out on me.”

  I shut my eyes and tried to find my well of patience. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really tired. I promise you, I’m not depressed or suicidal. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I guess it’s catching up with me. If you don’t mind, I’m going to change into my pj’s, wash my face and go back to sleep.”