Edge of Seventeen

by Cristy Rey

  Stephen turned to glower and silence Cyrus.

  Cyrus dropped his eyes in a show of submission to his leader, but not without continuing to speak, this time addressing his Alpha.

  “She is playing games. Our pack isn’t a bag of toy soldiers for her to play with.”

  Stephen turned and reiterated Cyrus’s concerns to the woman.

  “Yours is a different kind of magic,” she explained. “We did not anticipate what her magic would do to us, and we do not anticipate what your magic will do to her. If you do not succeed, then we will pursue other options.” Her voice was all finality. Her request had been made, her position had been argued, and now she waited for the Alpha’s decision.

  Stephen remained stoic, massive arms crossed against his chest, dark eyes staring into those of the powerful witch. The standoff lasted minutes while the other werewolves looked on, eyes fixed on their Alpha. However long it would take him to voice it, they knew as soon as he had decided it. They would agree to find the girl and bring her to Seattle.

  Stephen returned to the pack with Cyrus, Angel, and Neal. They convened a meeting and Stephen informed them of his decision to move forward with the contract to retrieve the Incarnate. The entire excursion would take no more than three days, one for travel, another for them to take her, and the last to deliver her to the coven. Stephen would take Angel with him to Louisiana. That’s where they had been told the Incarnate resided under the name Sunday.

  They would find a way to take the girl while she was away from home. The pair would then take the girl to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where Cyrus would be waiting. Once the three wolves reunited, and with the Incarnate in tow, they would contact Bernadette and hand off the Incarnate. It was all rather simple considering the risks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sunday rushed into the kitchen nearly knocking over Sister Amy’s latest decoupage creation. The once plain green vase rocked an inch from the edge of the counter, and Sunday came to a high-pitched screeching halt as her sneakers pivoted on the tile. In one swoop, she leaped toward it, catching it as it teetered and resettled it, albeit a few inches further from the edge. Over her shoulder, Sister Margaret, or Maggie, as everyone affectionately called her, shouted, “Just one minute! Don’t run out the door just yet!”

  “I gotta go, Mags! I’m running late.”

  She jogged to the table to pull her bag from the back of the chair where it always perched, from when she got home from school to when she left the next morning. From the living room, she heard the sounds of Maggie shuffling quickly to make it to her.

  Sunday looked up at the clock hanging beside the kitchen door. It was already past seven o’clock, and she was going to miss the bus. Clark would only wait for her so long before he’d drive off again. She had to be there in fifteen minutes, or she could consider herself tardy and grounded in detention for at least an hour after school. Besides that, it was going to rain soon. The last thing she wanted was to spend a day sopping wet and then be punished for it by having to stay in those clothes even longer than usual.

  Maggie made it to the kitchen just as Sunday fastened the top button on her jacket. As soon as the nun crossed into the room, Sunday felt the gloom emanating from her body. The slight smile Maggie wore was a fraud. It’s not like Maggie didn’t know that Sunday could sense her mood, but she didn’t want to make a big production of it anyway.

  “What’s wrong?” Sunday asked, suddenly stilled.

  Maggie forced her grin wider, but it did nothing to change Sunday’s perception. Maggie was always so refined. Her silver hair was pulled back into a low ponytail from which not even a single thread stuck out. Her clean, pale face was almost translucent. Her clear blue eyes saw straight to her soul and, Sunday knew from years of intimacy, that Maggie was truly that transparent. There was nothing about the woman who had raised her like a mother since her own had died that Sunday didn’t trust. At this moment, however, Maggie was trying her best to hide something. It just wasn’t working.

  “You’re not telling me something,” she continued. “You know I won’t buy it if you lie to me, so spill.”

  Maggie took a few slow steps toward her, and stopped just shy of arm’s length. The closer she got, the more evident the feeling of dread became. It was a penetrating sensation that made Sunday’s belly flip and tightened her chest around her heart. Her face fell to match Maggie’s expression, even forming a wan grin to reflect hers.

  “Sunday, there is something that I need you to know,” Maggie said, visibly hesitating to speak. Her lip quivered as she paused, and she gulped hard. Softly, she raised her hand to Sunday’s face, leaning closer so she could reach her. It was rare that Maggie touched her at all. Maggie’s eyes glistened with moisture, and she tucked her chin slightly as she watched her finger trace the line of Sunday’s cheek.

  If Sunday wanted to speak, she couldn’t. The lump in her throat was growing until she could hardly breathe. Maggie’s aura pulsed with sadness and grief. Maggie had a gift. Hers was the ability to know things, really know things, before they occurred. She rarely talked about it and even more rarely acted upon it, but it was something that she was keenly aware of all the time.

  Sometimes, if Sunday was paying close enough attention, she could even guess a little bit of what Maggie knew. It didn’t transmit like clear images on a television screen or even like a voice through radio static. It was just a feeling, an emotion. Maybe Sunday and Maggie would be sitting together at the park, and then a warm feeling would come over Sunday like a cosmic hug that made her all gooey inside. Maybe, just for a second, her heart would flutter like she was falling in love. Then, she’d look at Maggie, and she could see in Maggie’s expression that she was feeling it too. But it wasn’t Maggie that was falling in love, it was someone else.

  When Sunday followed Maggie’s line of sight, she’d see a man walking his dog. He wouldn’t even know that Maggie and she were watching, and he’d go about his walk without a care in the world. He’d even pass a woman pushing her kid on the swing without thinking about her twice. What neither the man nor the woman knew was that Maggie was watching their life together play out in her mind. Crystal, perfect images flicking by as though she was flipping through a photo album of theirs, except it was of a life they hadn’t lived yet.

  Maggie didn’t tell anyone this and, even though the other sisters knew, it wasn’t something they talked about either with her or when she wasn’t there. It was, however, something that Sunday felt privy to, in part because of her power to tap into Maggie’s energy just like everyone else’s. But, right now, Maggie was working hard to rein in her gift, just as she’d trained Sunday to rein in hers. Whatever Maggie was thinking wasn’t something that was going to spell out over her head in fluorescent neon letters. Sunday would just have to take whatever Maggie said.

  “Today,” she started again, her voice wavering, “is going to be a difficult day for you, I believe. But, you need to remain strong, and remember that you are a very special girl with very special gifts. You must never forget what we have taught you, and what your mother had taught you.”

  Maggie paused, and removed her hand from Sunday. She shook her head in apology, her eyebrows tight, deep age lines carved in the space between them.

  “Mags, what’s going on?” Sunday asked, hammering her words harshly while shaking her head.

  “It is not our place to stop Fate. You can do a lot of things, but you cannot do that. No one is the exception, Sunday. Not even you. And you remember this as your life goes on and until it ends, because you will try to fight it. You’re my prize fighter, no matter how much I push you to let go. You’re a little rebel, Sunday, but you can’t rebel against everything—not against the way that things, simply, are. Some things, like this, you must just accept.”

  Sunday took a step closer to Maggie, but Maggie took a step back. Her blue eyes, now a few blinks from streaming with tears, hovered over Sunday’s shoulder, and she pointed to the clock on the wall with her chin.
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  “Maggie, what the heck is going on?” Her voice cracked, the raised pitch of her question coming out in a whine.

  Rather than answer her question or even close the distance to give Sunday the comfort of her embrace, Maggie simply turned around and stepped slowly toward the living room. Without turning, she spoke, raising her voice just enough for Sunday to hear.

  “Whatever happens, my girl, you’ll be alright. I have seen it.”

  Winter in St. James Parish, Louisiana wasn’t anything like the winters in Salem, Massachusetts. It wasn’t so much the lack of snow. It didn’t snow in Salem all that much, anyway. It was everything else. In Salem, where Sunday had spent the first half of her young life, the air was crisp. Even the sea breeze had a certain definition about it that the Mississippi and Gulf air didn’t have. Seasons changed with such richness in Massachusetts that it permeated every aspect of life. It was in the colors of the leaves. It was in the local harvest. Even the energy that hummed through the air changed.

  In Salem, everything about the transition from spring into summer into fall and into winter was something Sunday could feel from the hair on her head to the soles of her feet. It was life. Electric, vivid, and invigorating life. Winter had always been her favorite season because, with it, came the joy of Christmas. Around her, people buzzed with excitement about the possibility of snow. Even if it was unlikely at best, everyone in Salem wished for a white Christmas. School broke for the winter and people swarmed the streets in search of the perfect gifts for their loved ones.

  For all the years of memories that had accumulated since then, one stood out from the rest with such clarity that she was hard pressed to believe it happened eight years ago. It was early December, and she was only six years-old at the time. She and her mother walked hand-in-hand down Downey Street, beset on either side by small shops. The aroma of fresh baked pastries streamed from the open shop doors lining the road. Every window they passed was decorated with tinsel and glittering red and gold Christmas ornaments.

  The bravest of all orange leaves clung desperately to an otherwise bare tree that they passed. Sunday stared at it through upturned eyes as her mother gently squeezed her hand and guided her forward. A slight breeze blew and the leave shook terribly but never let go of its impossibly strong grip on its branch. Her eyes were still on that leaf as her mother stopped moving forward and turned to her.

  “Sweetheart Sunny, you’ve got to look ahead or you’ll bump into something.”

  Her mother’s large chocolate eyes glistened in the morning sun. Cascading brown waves framed her face and swayed with the pull of the soft wind. Looking down on her like that, Sunday’s mother was larger than life. And all of her, every inch of that towering frame, beamed with uncompromising, absolute devotion to her daughter. Even then, Sunday knew that she was different. Sunday knew that the way she felt her mother’s love wasn’t the way her mother felt hers. Yet, her love was just as complete, just as all-compassing.

  Sunday pointed her gloved finger to the single leaf dangling from the tree that they had passed.

  “It’s holding on so strong, mom,” she said. Her small voice came out in squeaks, and her mom’s freckled nose crinkled as a grin formed on her face.

  “It’s just one of a million leaves that holds on until it can’t anymore. In the spring, another will come up in its place and, in the next winter, that same leaf will hold on just as hard as this one. It’s all just a part of what happens. You can’t just fixate on that, or you’ll miss everything else happening around you.”

  She raised her arm and brushed over the canvas of Downey Street around them. Sunday’s eyes followed it, and her world opened up. Her mom was right. The shops, the people milling about the street, and the cool winter air were all a part of their narrative that day. The leaf had a role in it, but it was just a small part.

  In her small corner of Louisiana eight years later, it was almost the direct opposite. There was no Downey Street to walk down. No little shops with cracked-open doors welcoming in the passersby for Christmas goodies. The trees were green as they had been months ago and as they would be months later. Perhaps, like the last morning she spent with her mother, this last morning with Maggie would stay etched in her mind for all time. At least, Sunday hoped, as she forced herself to take each step farther and farther from her home, that would be true.

  The road Sunday walked from the convent to the bus stop was long and lonely. On either side of her were long stretches of grass before half-ruined houses with For Sale signs staked into the lawns. She’d never seen a factory till she came to Louisiana. Not in real-life, anyway. Here, there were at least two. A black smoke stack rose to the west from the metal plant that sat on the east bank of the Mississippi River. Even from miles away, Sunday could feel the pollution seeping in through her pores. If anything, it made her wish her guards were stronger, but she doubted that she wouldn’t notice it anyway if she were mundane.

  The temperature changed little, and the humidity, even in the winter months, was stifling. Sure, people noticed that it got a bit colder, but they didn’t exactly celebrate it. It was just another thing that Louisianans took in slow, steady strides like everything else in the world.

  That even-temperedness was good for Sunday, in a way. It meant that she could coast through her days without sudden spikes in emotion or agitation that would send her reeling. Her ability was such that unexpected eruptions of passions could spell devastation. If she wasn’t prepared to handle them, she’d ignite. She was sensitive to the world around her, even more so to the people around her. Dynamic energy buzzing and spiking about her ignited fires within her.

  It was magic. That much she knew. But her kind of magic wasn’t like everyone else’s. Her mother was a witch, and the nuns who looked after her were witches too. Yet those witches, along with every other witch she’d ever known about, were gifted in other ways. Moreover, their gifts had been honed through years of study and practice, something that Sunday didn’t have.

  The nuns who’d fostered her were kind, kind enough to tutor her in the ways of the spirit and of the mind. They’d taken care to honor her gifts and treat her as a kindred soul. To them she wasn’t a threat. Maggie was the closest thing to a mother that Sunday had since her own had died. Sunday didn’t think that woman could ever compare with Maggie. Maggie loved her and Maggie taught her. Even when Sunday argued with Maggie to let her go to the movies with Brad Bower (he was so cute), and even when Maggie got upset with her for copping an attitude like adolescents were wont to do, what they had was love. Mother-to-daughter, tutor-to-student love.

  Now, however, Sunday wasn’t sure she’d ever see her again. It devastated Maggie, and it devastated her equally.

  Sunday hardly noticed the bus pull up in spite of the harsh screeching of its ancient brakes. She’d been staring off into the distance across the empty road rather than looking down the street, eagerly, for her ride. The sky had grown heavy with ominous grey clouds during her walk. The hairs on her skin rose to greet the oncoming rains still miles from where she stood. Her gifts made her a lot of things, and one of those things was a walking, talking Farmer’s Almanac, except much more precise. Still, the storm wasn’t what distracted her.

  This might be the last time I ever see this.

  “Got the world on your shoulder’s today, Sunny?” Clark asked. His gravelly voice came out more a bark rather than human, but he was one hundred percent mundane. Even so, Sunday hopped back as he’d spoken, his voice startling her into attention.

  “You okay, kid?”

  Hooded eyes inspected her head-to-toe to make sure she was alright. Clark was a good man, and he’d been a good man the entirety of Sunday’s life in St. James Parish. His wife ran the grocery store by the convent where Sunday lived, and Sister Margaret had been acquainted with their family for decades. For years, she saw him nearly every day. Same gravelly voice and same familiar manner. But, today, it caught her off guard because she’d been expecting something else. She
wasn’t quite sure what, but she knew it wouldn’t be good.

  Sunday’s eyebrows pinched and she bit her lip.

  “Sorry about that,” Sunday answered, pulling a dollar from her pocket and feeding the ticketing machine at his side. “Just have a lot on my mind today is all.” She looked over his shoulder and out the window toward the gathering slate clouds. “It’s gonna rain soon. Probably going to pour.”

  Clark gave a somber smile.

  “Glad I showed up now to get you out of it, then.”

  He leaned forward against the steering wheel, and pointed his head to the empty front row bench across the aisle from the driver’s seat.

  “At least your spot’s not taken.”

  Sunday grinned weakly, brow still heavy, and with a gloomy expression. She pulled the strap of her bag tighter over her shoulder as she crossed toward it and dumped herself onto the seat.

  The bus ride was unusually quiet that day. Mostly, this ride was a lonely one until a few stops closer to her school, but there was at least always another person taking the ride with her. This dreary Monday, however, there wasn’t a soul on that bus other than Clark and Sunday. After a minute or so on the road, Clark noticed the emptiness too. His head bobbed from the poorly maintained road, and he peeked over his shoulder to his frequent passenger. Sunday stared out the window with squinted eyes and that ever-pinched expression. She could sense his question before it was asked. Still, though, she sat motionless and pensive.

  “Maggie give you a rough time this morning or something?” he asked with a half-chuckle and an inviting smile.

  As much as that ridiculous question might have usually garnered a roll of the eyes and an incredulous headshake from Sunday, she didn’t respond. Instead, she sighed and her shoulders slumped a little heavier. The driver turned his face back to the road, and they continued along in much the same silence even when others embarked at the next stops. When they finally reached Sunday’s school stop, she rose quietly and dragged her feet forward to the door, never once making eye contact with her friend.