T*Witches: The Power of Two

by Randi Reisfeld

  Her mom was standing at the two-burner stove, scrambling eggs. And smoking, of course. Alex stood behind her, frowning, wishing someone or something could get her to quit.

  The cigarette suddenly fell out of her mother's mouth and landed in the frying pan, sizzling. "What in the world?" her mother gasped. Then, glancing suspiciously over her shoulder at Alex, trying to hide a smile, she said, "Very funny. Cut that out."

  "Don't look at me, I didn't do it," Alex vowed. Although it was exactly what she'd been thinking of doing, yanking the butt out of her mom's mouth and trashing it. "What time's your appointment?"

  "At the clinic? Around three, I think." Her mother grabbed the crumpled dishtowel lying on the chipped Formica counter and used it as a potholder. "And you're not taking off from work, okay? I can handle this just fine by myself."

  "Mom, I want to go with you. I had another totally weird dream—"

  Fishing the soggy cigarette from the frying pan, her mother pointedly cut her off. "So what was that crash?" she teased. "Girl meets shelf again?"

  All Alex heard was the wheezing between her mom's words. "Naturally. What else would it be?" She forced herself to sound cheerful, too. "I thought you asked Beeson to take it down."

  "Hardy Beeson? Only about ten times. I'd do it myself if the bolts weren't so rusted. Your daddy would've had it off and out of here in five minutes."

  Yeah, and if he hadn't split on us, Alex thought but didn't say, we wouldn't be stuck in one of Beeson's overpriced tin boxes.

  "Mom, let me go with you today." She quickly changed the subject. It had been more than six years since her dad, Ike Fielding, had left. She'd been barely eight years old. But she still didn't like talking about it.

  They'd never exactly been rich, but things had gone downhill fast since Ike disappeared. The bank had foreclosed on their runty little house and people had come out of the woodwork demanding money they claimed Ike Fielding owed them. Even working two jobs—daytime at the laundry in town and nights at a greasy diner—her mom could barely keep up.

  "How'd you become such a worrywart?" her mom asked cheerfully, as if she'd read Alex's mind. "I didn't rear you that way. And didn't you say Evan's driving you to Big Sky this morning?"

  "He'll be here in ten minutes," Alex suddenly remembered. She grabbed a slice of white bread from the bag on the table. I'll call you later at the laundry. You can have the eggs. I'm not all that hungry."

  "Since when?" Her mother forced a laugh. "You were born hungry."

  "Oh, yeah, right. Is there any peanut butter left?" Alex stared in the half-refrigerator that sat under the counter. It was pitiful. A pint of milk, a jar of jelly, a ball of wilted lettuce, two puckered tomatoes, and a just about empty jar of store-brand peanut butter.

  Something was up. Her mom, Ms.-together-we-can-do-anything, was not taking care of business. However little money they had, there'd always been food—delicious, nutritious, lick-your-plate-clean food, and lots of it. Sara was positively witchy in the kitchen. She could turn Cinderella's coach into a pumpkin pie.

  Alex grabbed the peanut butter and a spoon. She was leaning back against the counter, scraping the last lumps out of the jar, when they heard a truck pull up.

  "Is that Evan?" her mother asked.

  Alex's nostrils flared as a rank odor assailed them. "No," she said, before she even peeked out the window.

  A skinny man with leathery skin and two wisps of greasy gray hair plastered over his bare, sunburned dome climbed out of a shiny red pickup. "I knew it," she muttered. "Ugh. It's Hardy Beeson."

  "Oh, no. I told him we're not paying a penny more for this place. He hasn't fixed one thing he promised to." Alex's mother began to cough again, so violently that she bent double over the stove. She pressed the crumpled towel to her lips, trying, uselessly, to stifle the noise.

  "Sit down, Mom," Alex ordered. "I'll talk to him. You just sit and rest now."

  The metal trailer door rumbled as Hardy Beeson pummeled it with his fist.

  Involuntarily, Alex sniffed the air. The sour stench of the man grew stronger—the smell of burnt animal, basted with gasoline and sweat. She recognized Beeson by it, the way a wisp of baby powder told her Lucinda was near, or the rich sweet smell of dark chocolate was Evan.

  "Just a second," Alex called. Pulling the stool out from under their two-seater table, she eased her mother onto it.

  With a grating squeal, the trailer's door screeched open. And there was old Hardy, his hand already reaching for the money he believed due him. "Now, Sara—"

  "Why didn't you wait?" Alex demanded, the smell of him making her want to gag, making her dizzy. "I said, 'Just a second.' I didn't invite you in."

  She set the peanut butter jar down on the yellow Formica. The spoon still sticking out of it rattled, sounding nearly as irritable as she felt. "And don't call her Sara," Alex warned, turning to face the leathery landlord again. "She's Mrs. Fielding to you."

  Beeson ignored her. "We ain't gonna argue about a couple of dollars. Sara—"

  The peanut butter spoon, trashy aluminum with a cheap, red plastic handle, was suddenly sailing past Alex's ear. Whizzing like a whole hive of hornets. Ping! It bounced smack off the middle of Hardy Beeson's wide forehead, leaving a big welt.

  Hardy reeled backward, hanging on to the narrow doorframe with two hands. Stunned, he shook his head gingerly, trying to come back to his senses—or the pure meanness he mistook for reason. "I'm finished with you two," he hissed, backing down the single step. "I'm finished tryin' to be fair." The door slammed shut behind him.

  "Mom!" Alex gasped, astonished, shocked, proud. "That was awesome!"

  "What?" her mother said, her voice muffled by the towel.

  "The spoon. The way you hurled that sucker!" The words were hardly out of Alex's mouth when a sudden chill raised goose bumps on her pale arms and an alarming certainty bristled the hair on the back of her neck.

  Her mother hadn't tossed the spoon. Her mother hadn't touched it.

  Chapter 5 — The Grove

  Karsh was too impatient to wait for the ferry. With an effort that made his bones ache, the old warlock transported himself across the great lake.

  The moment his boots touched Coventry Island, he found himself wondering if he had done the right thing.

  The best way to reach young witches, he'd found over the years, was to let them know that some good soul needed their help. Their natural desire to be useful would do the rest.

  Karsh had used this method to test the skills of hundreds of fledglings. He'd point them toward trouble and see what they could do.

  None had ever come close to Apolla's and Artemis's abilities. He'd seen Artemis deftly deal with a rude classmate, and even though she did it quite by accident, Apolla blinded her rival in a soccer game, causing the player to stumble and fall.

  So Karsh had tried to convince Artemis to stay close to poor Sara and he'd hinted to Apolla that the celebrity was in danger.

  But had he truly done all he could to carry out Ileana's wishes? Or had his stubborn belief that the young ones should never have been separated in the first place wormed its way into his intentions? Karsh massaged his throbbing temples as he hurried through town, scarcely aware of the greetings called out to him.

  As one willing to die to save Aron's daughters, he had done what he thought best. As one pledged to serve their headstrong guardian, he'd probably fallen short. In truth, Karsh had to admit, this attempt to keep the girls separate had been half-hearted at best.

  Had he placed them in harm's way, then? In Thantos's way? Was Ileana right? Did their desperate uncle want them both or not at all? Did he want to harness their power to increase his own?

  Of what possible use could the youngsters be to such a powerful man—a man who'd achieved boundless success in the world beyond Coventry Island? A captain of industry, a millionaire several times over?

  It was impossible to know. The foul tracker had left the island long ago. Fourteen years ago, Karsh marveled, m
ere days after Karsh had found protectors for the infants.

  Bees drifted lazily among the wildflowers lining the path to Ileana's cottage. Her orange cat, Boris, napped on the slate doorstep. Karsh stepped over the indolent creature and rapped at the cottage door. "Ileana, where are you?" he called dutifully.

  There was no answer. I'll just leave her a note, he thought, relieved.

  "Oh, for pity's sake," came a drowsy voice, "I'm here, in the forest, Karsh."

  He heard her hammock creak as she stirred.

  Shading his eyes, the troubled trickster gazed into the shadowy woods. "Still sleeping?" he called, spotting her.

  "Well, I was." Ileana stretched lazily.

  Karsh made his way through the herb garden, absentmindedly taking stock. He saw tender violets, which sweetened all about them; basil, known for bringing wealth; burdock for cleansing negative feelings; roses for use in love magic; purifying lavender, courage-inspiring thyme, peace-giving chamomile, and victory-enhancing laurel. The fragrant plants looked pleasingly lush. Even in his nervousness, Karsh was impressed by the bounty of Ileana's garden.

  He wondered if she used fertilizer or incantations. A bit of both, he guessed, feeling surprisingly proud of her.

  He, alone, was responsible for Ileana's training—as he had been for dozens of young witches and warlocks before her. He interfered only when she, or the course of action she chose, was dangerously wrong.

  She'd come a long way in every area of her training, except social, Karsh lamented. Bright and beautiful as she was, Ileana was still vain, self-centered, and well, disrespectful.

  "Oh, no, don't tell me you've been out scaring children again." Her silvery laugh sealed Karsh's chagrin. "You're too ancient to go about with an unadorned face, old trickster—"

  Karsh sighed. "I would not have been heeded in disguise today. I needed to be myself. I made an appearance. Two, actually. One physical, the other in a dream. While you, your witchness—"

  "Goddess." Ileana yawned.

  Arguing with the hotheaded Ileana was too tiresome, however. So he gave in to her silliness.

  "Goddess, lady, your magickship, obstinate elf! Get up and get over yourself Ileana. The children are in danger—"

  "My babies? Both of them?" She sat up abruptly, blinking her steel-gray eyes. Though fourteen years had passed, Karsh thought, she looked no older than her charges.

  "In danger of meeting," Karsh finished his sentence. "That's all I meant." He was tempted to say more, but what was the use? They'd been all through this. She believed they were safer apart; he'd always thought they should be together. But up until now, no harm had come to them. "Apolla is going west," he announced.

  "West is a big place, Karsh," Ileana responded, annoyed but fully alert now.

  "West to Montana," the old tracker explained.

  "Whose bright idea was that?" Ileana swung her slender feet to the forest floor, brushing leaves and twigs from her peacock silk robe.

  "Whose idea, indeed," Karsh said meaningfully.

  "If this is Thantos's doing," she raged. "If he brings them to harm—"

  "I tried to talk Apolla out of it," Karsh reported. "I warned her that her new friend would be snashed—"

  "Snashed?" Ileana was waiting for an explanation.

  Karsh grinned proudly. "It means taken, stolen. It's what they say these days."

  "Snatched!" she corrected him. "Why don't you speak plainly?"

  "I like to keep up-to-date on language," Karsh asserted. "I also alerted Artemis. Of course, it's possible that Lord Thantos is behind this. But it's also possible, oh, grumpy goddess, that the time simply has come. They have the power. They're already using it. Ah, but together, they'd be capable of so much more."

  "Which is exactly why Thantos must not find them together," Ileana insisted.

  "But if he did—I'm just saying if—wouldn't their combined strengths serve them better than if each encountered him alone?"

  "Thantos, that black-bearded, murdering hulk of a warlock, is a tracker, Karsh. A monstrously accomplished, shape-shifting tracker. The joined magick of two little girls, no matter how talented they are, could never defeat him."

  "I've seen them." Karsh couldn't help smiling. "They're awkward and untrained, it's true, but also remarkably gifted. And, Ileana, they're not babies anymore."

  Chapter 6 — A Random Decision

  MARLEIGH STILL MISSING!

  The headline on the Montana Mountaineer blared the shocking news. Worse, there was no update on her Facebook page, her twitter feed. This was not good.

  From the front seat of their rented minivan, Cam's mother, Emily, read the story aloud. "It's been four days and still no sign of the young recording star who disappeared Friday from a high school soccer match in suburban Massachusetts."

  "Unbelievable." At the wheel of the van, Cam's dad, Dave, shook his head. "A famous kid, a teenage celebrity, just vanishes in broad daylight. No one saw anything, no one heard anything—and still there's no sign? I'm not buying it."

  But there had been a sign, Cam thought, leaning forward from the backseat to read over her mother's shoulder. The old skinny guy she'd seen in the stands, he'd tried to tell her someone was in trouble.

  She needs your help, he had warned.

  Or had Cam imagined it? Had she just spaced at the championship game, been flattened by stress, crumpled in the crunch? And what? Conjured up a scary old guy from her dreams who no one else seemed to have seen or heard?

  "It's so surreal," Beth said, startling Cam. Chin propped on the backrest of the front seat, Beth absently twirled a strand of thick, curly hair. "I mean, we were there."

  Emily Barnes turned to smile at them. "And now we're here. On vacation. And we're going to have a wonderful time—"

  "Or else," Dave teased, his bushy mustache accentuating his grin.

  "It's really a terrible thing." Emily shut the paper. "What must her parents be going through? I can't think of anything worse than losing a child."

  "Dylan thinks we should have canceled," Cam said. Her brother, a year her junior, was spending the month at X-treme Sports Camp in the Berkshires. As soon as he'd heard about Marleigh's disappearance, he'd called Cam. "How can you leave now? This is the biggest thing to hit Marble Bay ever. And you, actually talked to her."

  "There was no point in canceling our vacation." Emily glanced at them again, her pretty blue eyes peering from under her blond bangs. "What could we have done? Besides, the town is completely overrun with reporters and tourists."

  "You know," Dave mused, "this whole 'disappeared diva' angle is just too pat. It wouldn't surprise me if it turned out to be a publicity stunt."

  "Cam is sure Marleigh was kidnap—" Cam's sharp elbow to the ribs stopped Beth midsentence.

  "What makes you think that, princess?" her dad asked.

  Dave Barnes was a lawyer. But not, Cam liked to point out, one of those shark types. He was seriously sensitive and often took on cases for people who couldn't afford his firm's usual fees. Pro bono it was called, and Cam was super-proud of him.

  Except for his shirt.

  He was actually wearing the Hawaiian monstrosity his office gang had given him as a vacation going-away gift. They'd meant it as a gag, Cam was sure. But here he was, wearing it.

  Ordinarily, she'd never think of lying to her dad. Right now, however, she couldn't tell him the truth.

  What was she supposed to say? That a skinny old white-haired guy she'd been dreaming about since childhood had suddenly appeared in Marleigh's seat and urged Cam not to go to Montana? That he'd hinted Marleigh would need her help? That he'd said something like, "She's going to be snashed." Which sounded a lot like snatched. Which, last time Cam had checked, still meant taken, grabbed, stolen, or kidnapped.

  Right. That would go over as big with her folks as it had with Beth. Especially with no-nonsense Mom, whose goal in life was to produce healthy, well-balanced children.

  "I don't know," Cam said, shrugging and fiddling wit
h her baseball cap. "Nothing really. It's just a hunch, an intuition." She tried to make light of it. "You know, my famous sixth sense."

  "Oh, I forgot," Beth intoned suspensefully. "She... sees... kidnapped... people."

  "You put the 'un' in funny," Cam muttered, wishing desperately that her best friend, or someone—anyone—besides herself, had seen the bony old guy in the stands. What was Beth going to do next—remind her how she'd blown the game? One goal was all they'd needed. Instead she'd heard his scratchy voice, seen his face, and she'd frozen. Single-handedly causing Marble Bay to lose the tournament. A whole season down the drain. Because of her.