by Rene Sears
I pulled my baseball hat down low over my eyes and cut away from the SUV, toward the road that led back to the highway.
"Hey! Hey!" a voice called from the SUV. I tucked my chin and walked faster, pulse speeding. There was no reason for anyone to be looking for me. My aunt was the only person who knew who I was, and she had flown to Puerto Rico to be with her pregnant daughter. Feet pounded on asphalt as he ran to catch up with me. I whirled around as he reached for my arm.
He was older than me, but not much, and he looked strangely familiar—but I knew I'd never met him before. The circle of my acquaintances just wasn't that big. His eyes widened as he took me in, and his hand twisted up and to the side. I didn't need spellsight to recognize it as the trigger gesture to a spell. Which one? I wasn't going to wait to find out.
Most spells took time to set up, but there were ways around that. My mother had made me dozens of little charms over the years, ways to track me, protect me as I ran wild through the woods. The frog at my neck had been one of them, a chirping coquí from the home my mother had renounced and I'd never been to. It fell silent when she died—all her spells did. I hadn't been able to fool myself that she was still living for very long.
I'd made my own charms, braided threads wrapped around beads set with spells. I was guessing he had something similar on him somewhere. When he started to cast, I grabbed the collection of cords around my wrist. My father and I had worked out a simple spell of misdirection. The strands of the spell snapped into a complex web that would take him precious seconds to unpick—and while he was doing that he wouldn’t be able to see me or get a fix on a spell.
His face contorted; confusion or frustration, I wasn't sticking around to find out. I took off running, ducking behind the row of shops, ignoring the rotten stink of the dumpsters as I sucked in breath. I jumped over a concrete retaining wall into the woods behind the shops, shoving through a tree break for about twenty feet until it opened onto a residential street.
I stopped for a moment, heart hummingbird-fast and hands trembling with adrenaline. A scratch on my face from a branch I hadn't noticed burned. I tightened the straps of my backpack and set off at a fast walk. As much as I wanted to book it, a dirty kid running through a neighborhood was going to attract the wrong kind of attention. I went right at the next intersection, then right again, then left. A mom and two kids were throwing a ball in front of a yellow house. The mom frowned at me; I waved a hello and kept walking.
Who the hell was that guy? What did he want from me? Maybe he'd been friendly, and maybe I shouldn't have run—I was looking for other casters—but then why had he opened with a spell? It was hard to interpret that as anything other than aggressive.
Maybe he was like me, just looking for another caster...any caster. I shook my head, despair a flat flavor over my tongue. I'd finally found a caster—or he'd found me—and I'd had to run away. But I'd known I'd have to be careful. My father had warned me that there were groups of casters—"My enemies," he'd said, with a sour twist to his lips—who hated him. Whether or not this guy was one of them or just an opportunist looking to...whatever he wanted...I'd better be careful.
My pulse slowed as I walked and there was no screech of wheels behind me. I'd cut straight into this neighborhood, but if he didn't want to abandon his slick car, he'd have to drive around and around to get from the strip mall to here, and the confusion spell should have kept him distracted long enough that he wouldn’t be sure exactly which way I'd gone.
I followed the residential street a few more blocks. When I came to a secluded stand of trees at a crossroad, I pulled a lump of incense out of my backpack. I'd been using my little coquí to store power since Mamá died, and I pulled a thread of power from it rather than look for a leyline here. I broke off a chunk of incense the size of the tip of my thumb and cupped it in my hands. I thought of fire, of the spark that jumped when I thumbed the wheel of a lighter.
I hadn't needed a lighter in years.
The incense smoldered dully, sweet smoke dribbling out between my fingers. It burned against my skin, but the pain was only a minor distraction.
This was the slow way to cast, not nearly as efficient as what my father taught me, but not nearly as distinctive either, and if the guy—or the monster from my aunt's apartment—were following me, this tiny blip of magical energy shouldn't register.
I had a thousand memories of my parents showing me how to cast. I swallowed as a sudden pang of loss surged out of the ever-present ache of grief. I couldn't let it interfere with the spell. My father wouldn't have wanted that, no matter how basic the casting. I waited until the smoke was thicker, then focused my need and pulled a trickle of magic from the air. I need to find someone like me. Someone who will help me. A lump of sadness or panic threatened to choke me, but I swallowed it down. They can't all be dead but me and that guy. I need other casters. Show me where they live.
The smoke wavered, sweet and thick-smelling, then spilled out in a line, ahead and to the west, as if a strong but very pinpointed wind blew it flat. It was a thin line, and not as decisive as I would have liked, but for the first time since I left my aunt's place, it was there.
Relief weakened my knees and I stumbled even though I was standing still. I wasn't alone. The Savannah flu hadn't killed them all. There are others like me, out there somewhere.
I pinched out the incense. The smoke dissipated until all that was left was the memory of the smell.
Now I just had to keep walking.
One step after another. I headed west.
*
I tilted my head up to the heavy clouds. In the days since I had left the magic shop, I hadn't felt watched, either by magical means or mundane. I licked rainwater from my lips and shifted my backpack, trying to make it more comfortable. It was a lost cause.
My sneakers had started squelching miles ago, and I didn't remember the last time my feet hadn't ached. There was no one out but me—no surprise; it was night, and rain had been falling for hours. Reflections of orange streetlights smudged the wet asphalt. There were no cars, no pedestrians.
I shook my head violently, rainwater spattering off the hood of my sweatshirt and into my eyes.
I was hoping to find a place to sleep. The rain came harder, pounding my head and the asphalt with a thousand tiny bombs. My left sneaker had a hole where the canvas was ripping away from the rubber sole, and the wet edges were rubbing new blisters in my ankles. If I could find an awning or overhang—even the door to a store or gas station, closed for the night—I'd be dry. Dryer, at least. I'd slept in worse places since leaving Atlanta.
An image flickered into my head: a small but sturdily built house, chickens pecking in the yard, the smell of shrimp on the boil with onions and corn. Sunshine and warmth. You can never go back. The sense of hope that had sustained me since the incense pointed me toward other casters was hard to find right now.
I shivered. The spring air wasn't cold, exactly, but it was getting colder as the sun went down, and I was tired and hungry. There were a few granola bars in the bottom of my backpack, but I'd find a place to stop first and get out of the rain before I ate.
My shadow flared out along the road: headlights behind me. A faint echo of magical energy straightened my spine. It was so small, it could have been residual energy from one of my own spells, or something in the woods. It didn't have to be from the approaching car. My pulse spread up regardless.
I hopped over the curb, long grass lashing my jeans, and turned to watch the headlights creeping closer, turning the rain gold in the column of illumination. I fully expected the pickup truck to pass by, like every other vehicle had, but it slowed beside me, and the passenger window rolled down.
A woman leaned across from the driver's seat and called out to me. "Need a ride?"
I hesitated.
"I've got a towel in the cab. Tell me where I can take you." Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the sky opened up even more, pelting me with water. I looked skyward, blinking wa
ter out of my eyes. She was headed the way I wanted to go. I pulled open the door and swung up into the cab, bringing a wave of rain in with me.
Water puddled on the leather seats. "Sorry," I said. She pulled a faded blue beach towel from the floorboards and passed it to me. I scrubbed with the towel. She was older than I thought at first—maybe my parents' age. My fists clenched and I made them relax.
"Don't worry about it, it'll dry. Where can I take you?" When I had to think about it too long, she frowned. "Do you have anywhere to go? I can call your folks if you want."
"You can't." I turned my face to the window and watched raindrops hit the glass and trickle down like tears. "They're dead."
"Oh hey—I'm so sorry." Her voice had gone soft, gentle. "Listen—I've got a guest room if you want a place to stay. If there's some other family you could call..."
The only other family I knew about was in Puerto Rico, and I couldn't go to them. Of all of them, I only knew my aunt, and I already knew she couldn’t help me right now. I didn't know anything about my dad's people, not even where they lived in any sense narrower than North America. I glanced to my left. The woman was watching the road, but her mouth was twisted in a concerned frown. I didn't think she was a serial killer or a weirdo, and I couldn't sense anything of magic on her. It had just been an echo after all.
"Yeah," I said, and in my mind, my father snapped Manners! "I mean, thank you. That's really nice of you."
She made a noise like ffffftp. "What's your name?"
"Javier."
"Nice to meet you, Javier. I'm Morgan." She put her blinker on and changed lanes. "We're not far from my house. I live with my nieces. We've got a big hot water tank if you want to shower, and I can probably find some dry clothes that kind of fit while we wash these."
Something inside me relaxed. If she was an aunt that took care of her nieces, then I already related to their little family pretty well. She glanced sideways at me and took a right. "If they didn't burn the rice there'll be dinner when we get there, but if they did, we'll get a pizza."
She drove and I dried from soaking to merely very wet. We turned down a few increasingly sparsely populated streets, until we finally turned down a long, graveled drive. The truck dipped and sent muddy water sheeting away as we hit potholes. We pulled up in front of a one-story house with a welcoming yellow porch light shining to greet us. Morgan pulled the truck up close to the front door and turned the engine off. It was suddenly quiet in the cab except for the patter of rain on metal.
"Grab your stuff," she said. "Let's make a break for it."
We unclicked our seatbelts and ran for the front door and the small overhang that covered it. When we got beneath it, she shook the rain from her dark hair. I didn't bother—there was too much water on me to make any difference. I made another pass with the towel, but it was pretty wet too. She fumbled the key into the lock, twisted it, and shoved the door inward. The hallway was warmly lit, with shoes piled next to a hall tree festooned with jackets and sweatshirts.
Morgan frowned at my wet shoes. "Sorry about the water—" I said, and pulled them off. My socks were filthy beneath them.
"Don't worry about it." She looked at me and smiled. "Hang on just a sec and I'll see if I have anything that fits you. I can throw your clothes in the wash while you take a shower, but—"
She broke off at the sound of footsteps. "Morgan!" came a voice further down the hallway. "I had a question about—"
A girl came around the corner, saw me, and came to an abrupt halt. She was my age or maybe a little younger, pretty, with long blond hair, dark brown eyes, and high cheekbones. "Hi," she said uncertainly.
Morgan smiled. "Javier, this is my niece Iliesa. Iliesa, this is Javier."
"Nice to meet you," she said. One eyebrow raised as she took in the state of me. I flushed and fought the urge to hide my feet.
"Why don't you grab a couple of towels?" Morgan said to her niece. "We can get Javier a shower and then something to eat." The girl shrugged and disappeared into the back.
Morgan showed me to the guest room, an add-on that looked like it used to be a garage, on the other end of the house from the family bedrooms. It had its own bathroom, a luxury after the gas station bathrooms I'd washed up in for the past week.
I stayed in the hot water for what felt like a long time, washing all of me twice and then just standing until I felt warm even in my bones. I had to think about what I was going to tell Morgan, and how I was going to get where I needed to go next.
Morgan had left me a black t-shirt with a white "I ♥ Sportsball!" logo and a pair of sweatpants. I toweled off and changed. I'd been washing as best I could in truck stops for the past week and never feeling completely clean.
When I came out, the smell of chicken mixed with a sharp tang of lemon greeted me and my stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl. I'd been eating junk food from gas stations for days. Morgan, Iliesa, and another girl were waiting around the kitchen table. She didn't look much like her sister at first glance; her skin was a few shades darker, her hair thick and black, and her eyes were a surprising green. But there was a similarity to their pointed faces, the curves of their mouths. Morgan introduced me to Igraine, then served me a healthy scoop of rice with lemon chicken on top. Unlike my parents and my aunt, no one said grace, so I just started eating. I made myself eat slowly, both so that I didn't make myself sick, and so that I didn't look like I'd been raised by wolves.
"Where are you from?" Igraine asked, after a while.
"South Carolina," I said, and then took a big bite of chicken so I wouldn't have to elaborate. I knew I was in Alabama—I'd crossed the state line a day or two before—but I wasn't sure exactly where.
"And where are you going?" her sister asked. They looked like they were the same age.
"Are you twins?" I asked instead. I'd never met twins.
Iliesa smiled. "Yes."
Igraine cut me a sideways look. "You never said where you were going."
"Igraine," Morgan said mildly.
"I don't know exactly," I said, which was true enough. "I need to go west."
Morgan leaned back and took a sip of iced tea. "You can stay here as long as you need to, while you figure out where to go."
After dinner, I meant to stay up and cast a ward, but I was full and clean, and I fell asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. Tomorrow, I thought, as I drifted off. Tomorrow, I'll figure out where I need to go.
*
I woke in a strange place, which was not unusual lately, but warm and not hungry, which immediately brought back where I was. Light streamed in the window, showing dust motes hanging in the air and a braided rug coiled on the floor. My feet were still sore as I swung them to the floor, and maybe that was why I stumbled.
I caught myself on the bed, but my feet slid and kicked up the edge of the rug. I frowned. There was a curve of white paint against the hardwood floor. I bent down to look closer, ignoring the popping in my knees, and rolled the carpet back. The curve continued around beneath the rug, marked at the cardinal and intercardinal points. I bit my lip and stared, then rolled the rug back into place.
It seemed like I had more to talk to Morgan about than I had thought. It had been her magic I'd felt on the road. Whatever personal wards she carried were well shielded.
I sank back down onto the bed, and pulled the silver needle out of one of the Ziploc bags in my still-damp backpack. I opened my mind to the thin currents of magic around me, and cast my will around the needle, backed by the slightest amount of power. The needle spun like a top and spellsight showed me strands of silver overlaying the walls, the floor, the roof. Yes. There were wards everywhere, little grace notes of magic to make their lives easier or prettier.
A lump rose in my throat unbidden. This house was a mix of the house I'd grown up in and the house that had taken me in: my parents' house had been full of just this sort of homely magic, and my aunt's apartment had been full of this love for a child not her own. Longing for either of th
ose homes bubbled up in me.
I jumped as someone pounded on the door. "Are you up? Morgan says if you are there's breakfast." Igraine, I thought, though I wasn't sure through the door. I let my spellsight fade away and the needle stopped spinning.
"Just a minute," I said, and footsteps receded.
All right; this changed things. If Morgan and/or her nieces were magic users, things had just gotten easier and more complicated. My father had enemies among spellcasters—for all I knew, he had enemies among the non-magical population too. But he'd warned me about organizations among casters. There were good people among them, he'd said, but if they knew who I was, they'd make trouble for me.
But maybe she could help me. The thing that had found me at my aunt's apartment wasn't something I could handle on my own, and not anything I wanted looking for me around nonmagical people. Morgan seemed like someone who wanted to help. Or maybe she could put me in touch with someone who could. But I needed to find out if she was Association, and if she was, I needed to be very, very careful.
My clothes were washed and folded in a stack on the chair. I changed and felt a little better with my own clothes on, even smelling of someone else's detergent. My shoes were still wet, which time could cure, and full of holes, which it wouldn't, so I went barefoot.
My pulse thumped too fast as I walked into a kitchen that smelled of bacon. It looked different in the sunlight, warmer and more welcoming. It looked like home—not my home, but someone's. I was grateful they were letting me share it for a little while. Morgan was stirring a bowl of eggs. The skin around her eyes crinkled with her smile when she saw me. "Hope you slept well," she said.
"I did, thanks." I watched her grate some cheese into a shallow bowl, and swallowed. The twins weren't here yet, and I wasn't likely to have a better chance to talk to her than now. "I wanted to ask you—" It was surprisingly hard to get the words out. The need for secrecy had been drummed into me over and over again by the people who loved me. Come on, Javier.
