Zora is a total vixen in her form-fitting yellow dress, her thick hair pulled back into a low, slinky tail and adorned with little red wildflowers. The scar across her cheek makes her look fierce, like a warrior princess.
We wait for Mother in the living room for a few minutes. Even I’m getting a little nervous. “This lipstick feels so weird,” Elidi says, rubbing her lips together.
“You look fine,” I assure her. “More than fine. You’re both gorgeous. I’m sure Harmon will pick one of you.”
At last, the door to Mother’s room opens and she sweeps out, as tall and regal as a queen. A haughty set to her jaw says she knows it. I realize for the first time that my mother was once beautiful, and still is when she’s not hiding it under dingy men’s slacks and flannel shirts, or, on rare occasions, hippie skirts and stretched out t-shirts. I hardly recognize her in her gold wrap dress that makes her eyes positively glow, her hair swept up into a glamorous updo.
“Let’s go, daughters,” she says, holding out one work-worn hand in the most elegant gesture, like a princess shoo-ing doves away. When she steps forward, I can see that under her long skirt, she’s wearing her usual work boots. But it doesn’t stop her from looking every inch a queen. She glides forward to the front door, then pauses. “Do I need to chain you up, Stella?” she asks, looking at me as though I’m a thieving maid who might raid her cabinets while she’s gone. She knows she’s won, that I no longer have the heart to run.
“I’ll be good,” I say, a lump forming in my throat.
“Good,” she says. “I won’t chain you, but remember this. If you leave this house tonight, you will die. It’s your choice.”
I swallow past the painful lump in my throat. I don’t want to go to their stupid wolf party. I just want to be part of this magical moment, as they all pile out the door, buzzing with excitement. Standing on the porch, I watch them walk up the short driveway. At the road, Elidi hesitates. I wait for something, I don’t know what. For her to call out and tell me to come, if only to serve food. I’d do it, too. Right now, I’d do anything not to be left alone in this empty house.
But she doesn’t say anything. She gives a little wave, her face momentarily awash in guilt. And then, although the strange psychic connection I had with her for a few months is long gone, the guilt leaps from her to me, and I feel guilty for making her feel guilty on her big day. So I wave like mad, smiling so hard my face hurts, like I’m the happiest person in the whole freaking community right now. She smiles, lifts up her puffy skirt so it won’t drag in the dirt, and hurries to catch up with her family.
I watch more people pass the turnoff to our house on their way to the party, laughing and talking in fast, high voices, almost running in their excitement. I recognize a few of my sisters’ friends, the kids and younger people running ahead, their parents following with baskets of food, chatting and laughing amongst themselves. The smell of freshly baked bread wafts towards me, mixing with the smells of the community, of wood smoke and wet leaves and fresh green grass wriggling out of the wet earth.
I wait for Harmon, knowing he’s coming. I can almost feel him, and my stomach knots with hope and dread in equal measure. Will he look this way? Do I want him to?
Eventually, after everyone else has gone by, I spot him through the trees. He’s walking with his father, whose once-imposing figure is now stooped and diminished, like a much older man. He walks with a cane, his motor skills impaired by the brain injury. Harmon walks beside him, tall, proud, as if daring anyone to look at his father with pity or contempt. My heart twists painfully at the sight, and suddenly, I would rather eat a poison mushroom than have him look at me.
That is my fault.
Before he has a chance to tell me as much with his eyes, I turn and slip back inside. My stomach growls, but the thought of food makes me sick. All I can see is Harmon, who could have run ahead with his friends, gloried in his moment, probably the most exciting one in his whole life. He could have bragged to the other guys, reveled in their respect, and soaked up the adoration of the girls. After all, it’s not every day that a wolf takes over a pack. Even I know that.
But he doesn’t do any of that. He stays behind to walk with his father. His father, now almost an invalid, because of me. Because I thought it was more important for me to escape than for their entire pack to be safe. I’ve seen Zechariah a few times since then, from the attic, and each time, I wish I could take his place, be the one with the brain damage and the slurred speech. I don’t need those things like he does.
I trudge up the stairs, ready to collapse onto my bed and sleep for a hundred years. Sometimes, I don’t even wake up when they howl. But when I open the door to my room, someone is sitting on my bed.
4
A shriek of surprise escapes me before I can hold it back. I know this woman. I’ve grown up with this woman, spent countless evenings at her house, days of boredom staring at her TV. I’ve eaten her mints and her frozen dinners, petted her cats, slept in her guest room when Dad worked late.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Mrs. Nguyen says, smiling with a twinkle in her eye. Something is different about her, and it’s not just that she’s wearing head-to-toe camouflage like she belongs in the army. I know her, I know it’s her, but I can’t quite reconcile my mind to the fact that my old babysitter, my next-door neighbor from the real world, has somehow crashed my nightmare.
“What—what are you doing here?” I ask. “How did you get here? What the heck?”
“Language, dear.”
“But seriously. How did you get in here? How did you find me? Why are you here? Is Dad…” But I can’t ask, because she’ll tell me, and then it will hurt again in a way it hasn’t for a long time.
“I came in through the door, same as you,” she says, smoothing her camo pants over her thighs.
“But how?”
“Come here and give me a hug first,” she says, holding out her arms. I go to her, crouch to take her soft, stiff body into my arms. She smells just like I remember, like mint and mothballs, old couches and cats. I inhale her, cling to her.
“Save me,” I whisper. It’s too late to act like this is normal, like I should offer her tea and have a chat about the wet spring we’ve been having.
“I’ll try,” she says in her quavering voice. I release her and jump up, rooting through my dresser drawers for something that will fit her.
“I don’t need new clothes,” she says from the bed. “But I am partial to that green t-shirt with the hole in the shoulder. I chewed that hole, you know. I didn’t think you’d keep wearing it. The Stella I knew wouldn’t wear a mouse-chewed shirt.”
“There’s a lot of things the Stella you knew wouldn’t do,” I say, stuffing the shirt back in the drawer once I find it. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on here?”
“Mind watching your language?”
“So you came through the door and you’re…a mouse?”
“Very good,” she crows, like I just aced a test. “Except I’m not actually a mouse. I only look like one.”
“So you’re a—weremouse?” I ask, trying not to laugh at the word.
“Oh, heavens no,” she says, wrinkling her nose like I said something distasteful. “I’m much more powerful than that. I only made you think I was a mouse. I can do much more than that. I have all kinds of magic.”
“Do you have the magic to teleport us out of here?”
She sighs. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my dear. There’s a cost to using magic. A cost, and limits.”
“Oh.” I sink down on the couch.
“Don’t look so dispirited,” she scolds. “Just hours ago, the sight of a little mouse would have cheered you up. And now here’s an old friend, come to see you.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I can’t bring my voice to convey cheer I don’t feel.
“Shall I change back into a mouse?” she asks.
“No,” I say quickly, the stab of panic at the thought surprising even me. This i
s the first time I’ve talked to a real person in so long. Except she’s not a real person, is she? “So you’re Tom,” I say. “But you’re also…what? A wizard?”
She scoffs. “No, dear. I am a witch.” She says it proudly, sitting up straighter and squaring her shoulders. “And I’ll have you call me Mrs. Nguyen, or even Yvonne, rather than Tom.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“At least you had the good sense to feed me instead of snap my neck in one of those awful traps.”
“I don’t get it, though. I mean, I get that you’re Tom. But why are you here?”
“I most certainly am not Tom,” she says, all in a huff. “Why do mice all have to be men, I’d like to know.”
“Okay, fine, Mrs. Nguyen.”
“I’m here to watch over you, of course.”
“If you were here the whole time, why didn’t you do anything sooner?” I blurt out.
“I wasn’t here the whole time,” she says. “Your father sent me when he was captured. Otherwise he would have come himself.”
“Dad,” I say, grasping my chest like I’m having a heart attack.
“Yes, dear,” she says, standing. “Your father is alive. And he’s here.”
“Here? How?” My knees won’t hold me anymore. I have to sit down right on the floor. This must be a dream. I’ve fallen asleep and I’m dreaming this.
“Time’s wasting,” Mrs. Nguyen cautions. “Why don’t you put on something more…presentable. For when we get to town. We don’t want to draw attention.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. “How long has he been here? Who captured him?”
“He grew up here,” Mrs. Nguyen says. “I lived here for a long time as well. You ever wonder why he was such good friends with the old woman next door?”
“Actually, I did.”
“It’s because we knew each other way back when. I love your father, Stella. That’s why I’m going to get him out. But I need your help.”
“How can I help?”
“You can start with a little motivation,” she says. “I’ve checked on you a few times recently, and you don’t seem very keen on leaving this place. I can’t imagine why. The Stella I knew would’ve been sneaking out every chance she got. And here you are, just sitting on your hiney, apparently as content as can be in your shackles.”
Without another moment’s hesitation, I grab a pair of frayed denim shorts, more fray than denim to be fair, and pull on a sweatshirt over my t-shirt.
“Comfortable shoes,” she orders.
I stuff my feet in a pair of tennis shoes and quickly weave my hair into a side braid. “Okay, now where’s Dad?” I ask.
“He’s in the shifter community over the mountain,” she says. “They’re holding him hostage. We’re going to spring him from their prison.”
5
As Mrs. Nguyen and I hurry down the stairs, I remember that man, Efrain, and the way he threw Zechariah to the ground with no more effort than swatting a mosquito. I shiver. I wonder what they did to Dad, and if he got caught coming to rescue me. I can’t think of any other reason he’d be out here in the backwoods of Arkansas. If he’s from around here, he sure didn’t show any interest in returning for the past ten years. After spending a couple years here, I understand why.
“Do we need weapons?” I ask, stopping in the kitchen. “Mother says they’re violent outlaws.”
“I don’t think they’ll notice a little mouse running about,” she says with a wink. “I’ll have to find the exact location, but I know he’s there. I projected over there to listen in a few times. I’ll find him.”
“What’s this projecting stuff?” I ask, heading out the front door.
“It’s a skill,” she says. “Some people can do it, some can’t. I can.” Again, she sounds so proud of herself I have to smile.
“So witches taught you to do this?”
“Actually, your father did,” she says. “It’s very rare nowadays. Technically, anyone can do it, but some people have natural talent, like your father.” She breaks off and winks. “And you.”
“I’m so confused.”
“I can explain everything on our way there,” she says as we step out onto the wide path. Empty. I let out a breath I’d been holding without awareness. “In short, you project yourself into something else instead of transforming your own body. I am not a mouse. I borrowed that body.” She fishes a little mouse body from her breast pocket and holds it up by the tail.
“So how did your body get here?” I ask, looking away from the sight of poor little Tom hanging there like a dead thing.
“Same way yours did,” she said. “Only I had to creep through the woods and wait until everyone was busy to go to your room. I did that a few days ago. Hid myself under your bed while I took on a bird form so I could go out looking for your father.”
I shudder and hug myself. “So your empty body was lying in my room for days?”
“Exactly,” she says gleefully.
A twig snaps in the woods and we both jump a mile. But when we look, it’s only a squirrel searching for long-buried acorns.
“But how is Dad alive?” I insist.
“Well, you may not know this, but your father is extremely talented and practiced in projection. He’s been doing it for years, coming back here to check on your sister from time to time. When he left your mother, he gave her a mirror with a seeing stone, so she could look in it and see you, too. That way, they could each check on their absent children, even though they couldn’t be with you.”
The mirror. I remember Mother’s wistful look when I dragged it out and cleaned it up. So much for her checking on me. She obviously hadn’t looked in it for years. “So what happened?”
“When you’re away from your body during a prolonged projection, it can appear dead. The heartbeat and breathing can slow to almost nothing. He never wanted to scare you, so he made sure you never caught him doing it. Until the last time.”
I turn on her, fury flashing through me. “You knew all along? You let me think he was dead!”
“I didn’t know what to do,” she says, as if she did nothing wrong. “You see, when your father was here checking up on your sister he got…stuck.” Mrs. Nguyen breaks off and cranes her neck, searching the woods. “I know the trail is around here somewhere…”
“What do you mean, stuck?” I growl.
“There’s a danger in projecting, like anything involving magic,” she says with a sigh. “While you’re out of your body, you can get trapped. Usually a witch will trap people in trees, so they can’t get away.”
“The Enchanted Forest.”
“That’s right,” she says. “Luckily, we were able to get his body back to him, but then he was caught escaping. So we’re going to get him out.”
I stew for a minute, then decide that right now, it doesn’t matter if he has some weird ability he never told me about. I want my father back, no matter what he kept from me. “If you can project into something else, you could become a prison guard and let him out,” I say.
“Oh no,” Mrs. Nguyen says quickly. “You can’t project into another human body. Not while they’re alive and awake.”
“Why not?”
She looks at me blankly. “You’d be stealing their body. An ordinary person can’t come back into the body if there’s someone already there. You can do it in a pinch, if they’re sleeping, but there’s always the danger they could awaken while you’re there. Then their soul becomes detached, because you’ve pushed it out and there’s no room for them to come back. You have just murdered someone, and created an angry wraith, seeking vengeance. You don’t want that. And it doesn’t take long for people to notice that you’re a mirror, not the real person.”
The second my own mirror steps into view, it all falls into place. Why they’ve all treated me like a horrifying freak show.
“Oh, fudgebucket,” Mrs. Nguyen mutters.
A memory of my first day flashes in my mind, Fernando whispering, “She’s Amira.�
� Except he wasn’t saying a name. He was saying, “She’s a mirror.” I’m an abomination, something horrifying and disgusting to the wolves, a body-snatcher. Or at least I look like one, because I look like Elidi but I’m not her. They’re nothing if not superstitious.
“Stella?” says Elidi, her voice high and her face as mask of confusion. She’s alone, fifty yards down the wide, packed dirt path, a pair of silver heels dangling from one hand and her sequined clutch in the other. She’s already seen us, but I don’t know what to say, how to excuse being out, how to explain Mrs. Nguyen. So I put a finger to my lips and hurry ahead to meet her. She takes one hesitant step back, like she might turn and bolt back to her pack.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper when I’m standing in front of her.
“I broke the strap of your shoe,” she says, lifting the pair. “What are you doing here?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m leaving.” It comes out so sure that for the first time, it sinks in that I’m really doing this.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I’m coming, too.”
“Elidi…”
“I’m coming, too,” she repeats. “If I go back there, that’s it for me. If you don’t have to be stuck here your whole life, why should I? I can control myself. I don’t have to transition every month. We can hold back sometimes, if we really try. And when I have to, you can put me in…a cage. Zechariah has one.”
I shiver at the memory of the sounds I heard that day from his house. I’m not putting my sister in a cage. “I thought it wasn’t a choice,” I say. “Can you stop it?”
“It’s not a pleasant one,” she says. “But as long as I do it every three months, I’ll be okay. Look at me now. It’s a full moon. Am I a wolf?”
“No, but—.”
“We hold back during the eclipse all the way until the height of it, when the moon is fully shadowed. Then we’ll transition.” Her eyes nearly glaze with ecstasy at the thought, and I can tell she’s already holding back from what her body is telling her to do. Become inhuman. An animal.
Unlikely Magic: A Cinderella Retelling (Girl Among Wolves Book 1) Page 16
