Spell Fire (The Teen Wytche Saga)

by Ariella Moon

  "Bacon?" Aunt Terra asked, bringing out a steamy plate from the tiny kitchen.

  "Yes, please." One taste and I could tell it was top grade, applewood-smoked, and probably made from pigs raised without antibiotics or added hormones. I downed my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety meds with freshly squeezed orange juice. If a solicitous waiter had lurked at my elbow, I would have sworn I was brunching at the Ritz. Which made me worry Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun had fried their food budget to impress me. "Everything looks delicious."

  "I see the family sugar addiction got you too," Aunt Terra said as I practically licked the powdered sugar off my French toast.

  "Big time," I answered between bites. I didn't care what anyone said — sometimes cupcakes were hugs. The trick was self-discipline.

  Jazmin and I had strict rules regarding food. We never brought a bag of chips or platter of cupcakes to the table — or worse, to the television. Way too easy to mindlessly graze. Instead, we would put a handful of chips on a plate or a cupcake on a napkin. That way, we had to think about whether or not we truly wanted or needed more. If the answer was yes, then we still had to get up off the floor (Mom would freak if we sat on the silk sofas), and drag our sorry butts to the kitchen.

  "Eat up, ladies," Uncle Esmun said in his island accent. "We roll in forty-five minutes."

  As if I could get ready for the mysterious Jett in so little time. I didn't care, of course. Instead, I wondered if Mom and Dad had boarded their ship yet.

  "What's your workshop about?" I expected them to say astral projection, shamanic drumming, or something dangerous, like seven ways to stop a vampire.

  Aunt Terra swallowed some juice, then said, "Conscious eating."

  "What?" Uncle Esmun's voice raised half an octave.

  "You know, dear. You have to eat in silence and be mindful of every bite."

  There hadn't been much joking around since Mom and Dad had become verbal gladiators, so I almost missed the sly, play-along-with-me look Aunt Terra threw Uncle Esmun.

  "Oh, right." Uncle Esmun stabbed a piece of French toast. "Which is why I be eating as much as I can now."

  "Truly?" I wavered between playing along and showing them I was more astute than I appeared.

  Uncle Esmun regarded me for a moment while he chewed. Actually, his glance was focused on a point just beyond me, as if he was reading my aura or something. He jabbed his fork in my direction. "Almost had you going!" He flashed a huge, moon-colored grin, then slipped another piece of French toast into his mouth. Aunt Terra stood and planted a syrupy kiss on his cheek.

  I tried to picture Mom kissing Dad in the same way.

  "Think she'll like Jett?" Uncle Esmun asked.

  Aunt Terra sat down again and broke off a piece of bacon. "Oh, they'll get along. But only if you stop matchmaking."

  I decided then and there to change into a nicer top and dig out my black stilettos.

  ****

  No one had told me mountains surrounded Palm Springs. Not rolling foothills like we had back home, but gigantic, rocky, jutting-into-the-sky, snow-tipped, breath-stealing mountains. I wondered how I had missed them last night in the dark. After the blue sky and palm trees, they were the first things I noticed when we got into the car. The second thing I noticed was Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun's rattletrap received only two radio stations: an all-Spanish channel, and one devoted solely to Christmas songs. They opted for the latter.

  I stared out the window, trying to shut out memories of making Christmas cookies with Mom and searching for the perfect tree with Dad. I watched for stores that might sell disposable cell phones and cards with prepaid service. The pickings were slim as we left the outskirts of town. The litter-strewn desert, a barren wasteland, soon dominated the landscape. Acres of sand whisked by while "Little Drummer Boy" and "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" droned in my ears. I wondered where I would be stuck next Christmas if my parents split up.

  The car began a steady upward climb through a rocky mountain pass. "How long have you had your mystery school?" I asked.

  Aunt Terra swiveled in her seat. "We've had the store for seven years. We started the mystery school four years go."

  Hmm. I wondered if the two endeavors had been recession-proof. It seemed doubtful.

  Finally, Uncle Esmun pulled the car up to the curb in front of a brightly painted facade. Purple spirals angled across a salmon backdrop led to the words Spiral Journeys.

  "Here we are." Aunt Terra wore a jade tunic over flowing black pants. Before getting out of the car, she put on a little turban-like hat. Mom would have appeared ridiculous in it. Aunt Terra seemed almost chic. It occurred to me she never had said what the workshop was about.

  A moon-and-wolf wind chime clanged above the cash register near the front door when we entered. Had my dream been some sort of premonition? Flickering candles perfumed the air, and my gaze was drawn to the mural painted above the bookcases along the back wall. The scene depicted a cobalt sky framed by treeless, rust-colored mountain peaks. The perspective — what my seventh grade art teacher had called "a bird's eye view" — caused my stomach to lurch.

  Lightheadedness threatened to topple me. I dug my stiletto heels into the carpet to anchor myself, but it was too little, too late. I felt my spirit slip, ghostlike, from the crown of my head and fly between the mountains. I reached for the nearest display table to steady myself.

  "What do you think of our baby?"

  Aunt Terra's voice propelled my essence back into my body via what felt like a flip-lid in my head. I tightened my grip on the table and willed the blood to return to my cheeks. "I'm…dazzled."

  "Are you okay?" Alarm tinged Aunt Terra's voice.

  "Sure." I wondered if Mom had told her about my stint in the mental ward. It didn't seem like the sort of thing she would share in a Christmas card.

  Aunt Terra studied me for a moment. It wasn't one of Mom's here-we-go-again anguished looks or one of Dad's tight-lipped, frustrated expressions. Just a hmm look. Terra waved her hand as if dispelling bad mojo, and her expression brightened. "Let me show you around. We custom-blend the anointing oils and handcraft the spell candles and talismans."

  "Wow." I had no idea what she was talking about, but figured handcrafted must be better than mass-produced when it came to magic.

  "First, come meet Jett," Uncle Esmun insisted.

  I released my death grip on the table and straightened my spine. My ankles wobbled, then recovered. I finger-combed my long hair as I trailed Uncle Esmun to a trio clustered around a tall glass case. The couple, both seventy-ish and wearing what appeared to be expensively designed turquoise jewelry, pretty much blocked the third person from view. All I could see was part of a black blazer and black jeans.

  The woman noticed us and broke off the conversation. "Esmun!"

  "Betty. Arthur. How you be?" he asked, giving the woman a quick hug.

  "I'm well." Betty patted her super-short, wispy gray hair as though there was a connection between it and her wellbeing. She glanced at me and asked Esmun, "Is this the niece you've been expecting?"

  Thanks to two years of Junior Cotillion, I flashed the woman my most welcoming smile. "Hello. I'm Ainslie." I made eye contact for a few seconds, oozing graciousness as my gaze slid to include her husband. Then, with feigned detachment, I checked out Jett.

  Long dark bangs angled across his forehead, obscuring his right eye. A stray lock slashed in front of his left eye. Our gazes collided. Faint attraction buzzed my insides. Jett gave me the once-over, not pausing until he reached my black stilettos with the peep toes exposing my Drop Dead Red pedicure. His lips hardened. He glared at me with disdain.

  Suddenly, he didn't look so cute anymore.

  "Jett, this is Ainslie," Uncle Esmun prompted.

  "Hey," Jett said. Not a pleasant, friendly, welcoming hey but a grudging, I'm-only-acknowledging-you-because-I-have-to hey.

  Burned. The blatant diss kicked the mental locker where I stashed my hurt. I wavered, off kilter. Sucker-punche
d. The tears I had held back since my parents' big announcement threatened to bubble to the surface like a toxic spring.

  Inside my head, I heard Jazmin's voice say, "The guy's a jerk. Don't let him get to you."

  I realized I had blinked several times in rapid succession and forced myself to stop. I cleared my throat. "Hey." I kept my voice low, almost neutral, but with a faint, bring-it-on edge I hoped would make Gong Li and Maggie Q proud.

  Jett's attention shifted to the customers. "I'll put this by the register for you." He indicated the pink crystal the woman cradled, reaching out with fingers as long as a concert pianist's.

  "I'll take it," Aunt Terra said.

  "Thank you, dear." The blue veins stood out on Betty's skin as she handed over the rock as though it were a newborn chick. Arthur slid his arm around her waist and gave her a reassuring hug. Betty lit up like Cinderella at the ball.

  Uncle Esmun clasped my shoulder, then Jett's. "Please excuse us," he told the couple. "We need to set up for a workshop."

  "Of course." Betty beamed as if every day was a gift.

  Jett pinged me with a surly look.

  My Viking blood boiled. My right hand flexed, as if searching for one of my confiscated throwing stars. I wished I could have packed them. All I had on me was a small cross-body handbag containing a hundred dollars in twenties, my prepaid credit card, sparkle lip gloss, and my new almanac. This would never have happened to Gong Li or Maggie Q.

  As Uncle Esmun maneuvered us toward the back, I heard Betty say, "Don't they make a cute pair?"

  Jett and I exchanged horrified glances. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

  No way.

  Chapter Nine

  Uncle Esmun led us past a unisex bathroom and into a dim hall. It could definitely use skylights. But since I had read Joshua Tree could reach a hundred and fifteen degrees in the summer, maybe not.

  "Are those classrooms?" I asked as we passed two closed doors.

  "Nah. Too small," Jett answered.

  Oh, he can speak to me.

  "We rent them out when we can. Tarot readers. Psychics. Massage therapists," Uncle Esmun explained, sounding defeated. Were he and Aunt Terra having financial difficulties? Probably the last thing they needed was another mouth to feed. A sick, guilty feeling constricted my throat. Anger bubbled to the surface. Hadn't my parents thought of anyone but themselves?

  I reflected back on the nearly empty store. On a Saturday this close to Christmas, it should be packed. Where were the locals? Where were the hikers and rock climbers on their way to Joshua Tree National Park? Wasn't there a military training camp nearby? Didn't the recruits get any free time?

  My mind ticked back to last year, when I'd been on the Teen Fashion Council for Lohan's Department Store. I had attended an all-day seminar about merchandising and how to entice customers.

  Hmm…

  "Here be our little mystery school." The door Uncle Esmun opened had been painted to resemble an arched wooden door overhung by greenery. In the painting, the door was ajar and bright violet light streamed through the crack.

  "Cool." Maybe we could hire the same artist to trick out my bedroom doors. I pictured a lunar eclipse, or maybe Saturn.

  We filed into a warm, good-sized room. Sunlight cascaded through crystal light catchers and stained glass hangings of dragons and angels. Glints of colored light dappled my forearm. I bet if the fairy realm had a disco ballroom, it would look like this, except without the rolled-up yoga mats sticking out of cubbies beneath the windows. I figured the purple floor-length draperies running the length of the left wall curtained off another classroom.

  Before I could peek, bird songs trilled from Uncle Esmun's pants. He extracted a cell phone from his pocket and stared down at it. "I have to take this. Can you two set up?"

  "Sure." In these shoes?

  Uncle Esmun threw me a grateful smile, flipped open his mobile, and started talking while he headed for a door at the end of the room.

  "We need to move this to the corner." Jett walked to the far side of a heavy-looking glass table in the center of the room. His face morphed into an unattractive smirk. No way could I walk backwards in stilettos while carrying the weighty table. I knew it, and Jett knew it. Checkmate.

  I slipped out of my heels and became four inches shorter. Surprisingly, Jett's expression softened. He actually appeared friendly and cute in an Emo Boy kind of way.

  Next time, I am so wearing flip-flops.

  We dragged the table out of the way, then arranged seven folding chairs into a wide circle. Sunlight continued to slant in through the large windows. By the time Jett motioned me over to a carved cabinet, I was pretty sure my deodorant had failed. I was quite sure every sweat gland on my head had plastered my hair to my scalp. I tried not to visibly pant.

  Jett tugged on the metal pulls. The cabinet doors swung open and a spicy incense smell assaulted me. If kung fu movies came with surround smell, theaters would reek of this.

  "Now what?" I asked.

  Jett handed me a green flagstone. "Place this in the center of the circle."

  I decided to mess with him and batted my lashes. "What's the magic word?"

  He blinked. "There are tons of magick words."

  I should have remembered I was in woo-woo land. "I just meant, 'please'."

  "Oh." A shadow cloaked his eyes, making me wonder what kind of magic he practiced. Surely, if he worked here, he dabbled in something.

  I whirled and carried the slab to the center of the circle.

  Jett followed with a bucket of smooth white rocks. "Now we build a spiral so people enter it by walking clockwise into the center."

  "Okay. No problem." Sandalwood and jasmine incense tickled my nose as I knelt beside him. We reached into the bucket at the same time. Our fingers touched — a jolt of heat between the cool, smooth stones. The clock on top of one of the cubbies suddenly ticked more loudly.

  Jett withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. "You first." His breath reeked of cinnamon — not cozy gingerbread-fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon, but sharp gum-with-a-chemical-undertone cinnamon.

  The rocks clattered against each other as I scooped them out. I waited until Jett had gathered a handful and set the first few stones. Then I took a turn. We developed a rhythm, and the spiral emerged, a mini galaxy against the moss-colored carpet.

  Jett stood after he placed the last stone. "I'll get the handouts. Esmun always forgets them. There are two pouches and a glass bowl in the cabinet. Can you grab them and put them on the altar?"

  "Sure." Though I saw nothing resembling an altar. I located the two velvet pouches on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. The ebony drawstrings on both had been pulled tight and knotted. I hefted the larger one in my palm as if weighing pirate booty. Secret treasure. I so wanted to investigate.

  "Find them?"

  I jumped at the nearness of Jett's voice and had to act quickly to save the purple sack from toppling off my palm.

  "Just the pouches." I handed them to him so he wouldn't realize I was clueless about the altar. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied tidy stacks of handouts on the table.

  "I forgot," Jett said as he placed the pouches on the flagstone. "The bowl is on Terra's altar. One sec." In the doorway, he glanced back at me. "The tingshaws need to go on the altar too." He must have sensed my bewilderment, because he added, "The flat-looking silver bells on the windowsill."

  Oh. As Jett hustled out, I picked up by the tingshaws by their leather connecting cord. The bells dinged against each other. A high-pitched, sustained ring sliced my eardrums and headed for my tattered nerves. I hurried to the stone altar and snuffed the tingshaws into the carpet.

  Ah, silence.

  I slipped into full ninja mode, slitting my eyes to check both doors before I reached for the ties on the larger pouch. The satin cords slid between my fingers. I barely had time to loosen them before Jett reappeared, holding a blue fluted bowl and a scarlet pillar can
dle. I plastered an innocent expression on my face and prayed he couldn't detect the loud train wreck happening inside my chest.

  Jett blinked in my direction twice but said nothing. Instead, he placed the candle and bowl onto the altar.

  "So what's with all this stuff?" I asked.

  "It represents the four elements."

  "Fire, water, air, and earth?"

  "I heard you were a quick study."

  "Ha, ha." I couldn't turn off my brain or my mouth. "Why do we need them?"

  Jett did a one-shouldered shrug. "For protection. Besides, dragons embody all four."

  My brain stalled and sputtered. So this is what it felt like to not be the smartest kid in the class.

  Uncle Esmun returned, wheeling a small ebony table with squeaky casters. My head whipped in a double take as I spied the foot-high dragon statue on top of the table. At least I thought it was a statue. It changed from green to red and then blue — surely a trick of the light. For a second, I was convinced it had bobbed its scaled head toward me. Maybe the table had jiggled, or Uncle Esmun had hit a bump in the carpet.

  Yes. It must have been a bump. I released the breath I had been holding. My heart resumed somewhat normal beating. This was so not a class about conscious eating.

  "I better cover the store for Terra," Jett said.

  "Tell my beloved we are ready." Uncle Esmun rubbed his hands together. "You be okay for a few hours, Ainslie?"

  I beamed him my Junior Cotillion smile. "Of course."

  He gave me his eyes half-lidded, aura reading look again. "I'd invite you to sit in, but it's an advanced shamanic workshop."

  "No problem." Great. Dragon shamans. Jazmin would love this. I grabbed my stilettos, whirled, and smashed against a rather solid mass that smelled distinctly male with an undertone of lavender and sage.

  "Sorry!" The word exited my mouth in a breathless gasp.

  The guy was probably two years older than me, though I couldn't think of another seventeen-year-old boy with wavy blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Like Uncle Esmun, he wore a white, collarless shirt over well-worn jeans. With one hand he straightened the long, ruby ribbon draped over his shoulders. His other hand hefted the hourglass-shaped drum at his side. He stared down at me, and his amber-flecked eyes twinkled with surprise, or maybe amusement.