by Diane Farr
Scary Cool
by Diane Farr
Book II of The Spellspinners
© 2012 by Diane Farr Golling
All rights reserved.
Books by this author:
The Nobody
Playing to Win (originally published as Fair Game)
Falling for Chloe
Once Upon A Christmas
Dashing Through the Snow (originally published as Reckless Miss Ripley in the anthology A Regency Christmas Eve
The Fortune Hunter
Duel of Hearts
Under the Wishing Star
Under A Lucky Star
Wicked Cool
Scary Cool
Information available at dianefarrbooks.com
Dedication
To JEFF BEZOS and MARK COKER
who made this book possible
Acknowledgements
The author thanks Diana Belchase and Suz deMello for their excellent book midwifery.
Chapter 1
I knew he'd come back. Well, I was right. So why was it such a shock to see him in my homeroom? I guess I was thinking of other things. I mean, hey, it was the first day of school. Lance Donovan was the last thing on my mind.
For once.
What I was thinking about was my new look. Call me shallow, but changing my look had been a big step for me. Now that I was actually walking through the doors of Cherry Glen High, I was a teensy bit nervous.
It's my clothes that are new, not me. I still have long, black hair, way-too-pale skin, and violet eyes. But on the inside, I had changed a lot over the summer—and the new Zara just couldn't wear the old Zara's clothes.
The old Zara was all about camouflage. Blending into the wallpaper. Flying below the radar. It's hard to blend into the wallpaper when you have a sort of built-in, natural, spooky look. So my clothes have always been boring. On purpose. Like, don’t look at me.
The new Zara? Hmm.
I guess you would say I'm sick of hiding. Now I'm like, yeah, I'm different. I've always been different. Deal with it.
I must admit, it feels great. There's something about new clothes, especially clothes that reflect who you really are. Even the way I walk in them is different. Smoother. More confident.
Except that my confidence slipped a little when I actually got to school.
I guess it's easier to maintain an in-your-face attitude when there are no faces to get in.
The only face I had actually gotten in, and that was a couple of months ago, was Lance Donovan's. I had done it in my old-Zara clothes, come to think of it, so maybe the new wardrobe isn't as important as it feels. But the day after I got rid of Lance, I went shopping.
I was feeling pretty full of myself. Nothing like banishing a demon to give a girl a power rush.
Okay, Lance isn't exactly a demon. In fact, he's a hottie. But he's a hottie with (a) supernatural powers and (b) no discernible conscience. So I banished him. (Temporarily, as it turns out. Oh well.)
It's a long story.
Anyway, I hit the back-to-school sales with—Meg tells me—a dangerous gleam in my eye. Megan O'Shaughnessy is my best friend. She goes to St. Francis, so she has to wear a uniform. No back-to-school wardrobe for Meg. She went to the mall with me that day because she likes to live vicariously.
Meg uses a lot of big words.
I walked right past the racks of bland, unthreatening clothes that matched everything I owned, and headed straight for a skirt that I actually liked. I had never done such a thing in my life.
I saw Meg's eyebrows climb. “Zara. What do you think you're doing?”
I held it up. It was a kind of smoky mulberry color, with a subtle pattern. It was clingy and floaty. It looked like somebody might have sewn it together from scarves. This was not a blend-into-the-wallpaper skirt. It wasn't loud or anything. But it was sort of ... I don't know ... dramatic. Interesting.
“I like it,” I said. “I'm trying it on.” I pulled out a top that went with it. And another cool skirt—a dark purple silk wrappy thing, with a hemline of knotted fringe. It looked like something a gypsy might wear. A fortune-teller's skirt.
I looked at Meg. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
As if I hadn't heard.
Meg went into the dressing room with me. When I put the stuff on, her eyes got big. She shoved her glasses higher on her nose and cleared her throat. “Well, well.”
“How do I look?”
She sighed and shook her head. “It's you, Zara. It is so you.”
“So why the long face? I think I look cool.”
She nodded glumly. “You look wicked cool.”
I had to laugh. “You say it like there's something wrong with that.”
“There is. And you know it.” She glanced around, as if somehow we were being watched inside the dressing room. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Zara, you can't get away with this look. It's witchy.”
“It suits me.”
“It sure does.” Her expression was grim. “I thought you didn't want people to notice?”
Rebellion stirred in my blood. I looked at my reflection. My reflection stared back at me with stormy eyes.
Amethyst eyes.
Yeah, I looked witchy. Yeah, people were going to notice.
So be it.
“I'm sixteen, Megan. It's time.”
Poor Meg. She looked so worried. “Don't get me wrong. I like it. It's a great look for you. It's just ...”
“I know.” I bit my lip, then smiled. “Hand me the next skirt.”
Like I said, I was feeling pretty full of myself.
Nonny almost had a heart attack when she saw what I brought home. You'd think I was flashing a lot of skin or had gotten a tattoo. Most parental-types would be worried about sexy, right? Not my Nonny. Sexy, she could probably handle. Anything that made me look like other teenagers, she could probably handle. But I had chosen stuff that made me stand out from the crowd—at least in Cherry Glen. And Nonny was scared to death of my standing out from the crowd.
I gave her a one-armed hug and told her to buck up. “I know you're just trying to keep me safe,” I told her. “But don't worry. We've hidden long enough. If the Men In Black were coming to take me away, they would have shown up by now.”
This was the closest we'd come in ages to talking about It. “It” being the deep, dark secret at the heart of our tiny, two-person family.
This is how bad it is: Nonny never even told me, until a few months ago, that she and I aren't actually related. Not by blood, not by marriage, and not by adoption. She found me, more or less, when I was a tiny baby. And just…kept me.
That's bad enough, but that's the small half of the secret.
The big half is, I have all these weird powers. Even I'm not sure what they all are. And that's the secret that Nonny and I have been tiptoeing around since I was way little. I think she's hoping that I've outgrown my, uh, abilities. And if I haven't? She really, really doesn't want to know. So we don't talk about it.
Meg's the only person I can talk to about it. She's the only person on the planet, other than Nonny, who knows. (If Nonny even knows, any more.)
I use the word “person” advisedly. Because, obviously, I know. And so does Lance Donovan. But he and I aren't regular people at all. We're spellspinners.
I have Lance to thank for putting a name to what I am. Until he came along, I didn't have a clue. So okay, I'm grateful.
But at this point, that's the only thing I feel like thanking him for.
He spent the summer trying to teach me what being a spellspinner is all about. Let's just say it ended badly.
So I walked into homeroom on the first day of school in my ne
w-Zara clothes, trying not to notice the curious looks slanted at me. I didn't return any of the looks, mind you. I wasn't feeling that bold. But at least I kept my cool.
I tossed my books on a desk and was just about to slide into the seat when I heard it. Lance's voice, inside my head: You look hot.
My composure instantly shattered.
I whirled around, and there he was. Standing in the doorway. Leaning against the doorjamb with one arm, and gazing at me as if we were the only two people in the room.
The thing about Lance is, no matter where he is or what he's doing, he always looks perfectly relaxed. I was willing to bet he'd never set foot in a public school classroom before, but you'd never know it. There isn't a nervous bone in that boy's body, I swear.
His arrogance is maddening.
It's understandable, though. I mean, he's not only gorgeous, he's a creature of power. And unlike me, he's been brought up knowing it. And using it. And feeling superior.
Which, to be perfectly honest, he is.
The jerk.
If I seem a little conflicted in my attitude toward Lance, it's because I am, in fact, a little conflicted in my attitude toward Lance.
He genuinely thought I looked hot. I know this, because I could read it in his mind. I thought he looked hot, too. But Lance did not know this—I hope—because I blocked him out before he could pick it up.
I think.
It's amazing how quickly I'd forgotten the effect he has on me. The instant I lay eyes on the boy, half of me wants to give him a swift kick in the shins. The other half of me wants to fall, swooning, into his arms.
I try to hide that last half. But with the weird mind-meld we have going on, I'm afraid a little of it gets through to him—at least sometimes.
It's so annoying! How can a treacherous fiend be so attractive??? It's not fair! For one thing, he's lusciously tall. I'm on the tall side, myself, so encountering a boy who is taller than I am is a rare, yummy event. Plus the lock of dark hair that falls across his forehead always gets me. And the green, green eyes? Killer.
You're weak, Zara. Weak.
Finding him luscious does not mean, however, that I want Lance Donovan in my homeroom. Far from it.
So I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and walked right up to him. Figuring, you know, that the best defense is a good offense.
I gave him my fiercest scowl. “What are you doing here? I thought I got rid of you.”
A faint smile played at the edges of his too-sexy mouth. “I couldn't stay away, cupcake. I missed you.”
Cupcake? I let him feel my outrage. He almost laughed.
“Don't you dare get cute with me. This is my town. This is my school. This is my turf. You're not wanted here, Donovan. Go back to Spellhaven.”
“Make me.”
Fear knotted in my stomach. I fought to keep him from sensing it. Why was I still afraid of him? Hadn't I proved that I was stronger than Lance?
Well, no. Not quite.
Still, I didn't flinch. I narrowed my eyes and sent him a silent message: You know I can make you. I've done it before.
You took me by surprise, he shot back. That won't happen again.
And then he gave me his slow, sexy smile. “I'm here, babe,” he whispered. “Get used to it.”
“Don't call me ‘babe.’“
As if his lame nicknames are what worry me. Yeah, right.
The bell sounded, right above our heads. It was loud, but neither of us jumped. We were concentrating too hard. The room was full of chattering kids, and Mr. Poncia was calling out for everybody to find a seat. It all seemed very far away. But I flipped my hair back—a great gesture for expressing dismissal—I hope—and returned to my desk, shutting Lance out of my mind.
I needed some space. Thank God for homeroom.
Roll call. Welcome back. Announcements. It was all blessedly boring. Mr. Poncia's voice droned on while I struggled to get a handle on my racing thoughts.
I reminded myself that I had known (sort of) that Lance would be back. Basically because everything I've ever done with my powers has, eventually, come undone. And banishing Lance wasn't like turning a pumpkin into a coach and being safe till midnight. (Something I've never tried, by the way.) This pumpkin had powers of his own. So I had known, at some level, that he would show up long before I wanted to see him again.
Of course, I had been hoping for a few Lance-free years. Not a few Lance-free weeks.
Papers were collected. Books were handed out. Lockers were assigned. The bell rang, and homeroom was over. I snatched up my stuff and headed out the door, ignoring Lance.
The noisy crowds in the hall swirled around me. Everyone had the same mission: find locker. Open locker (always a challenge, the first time). Dump the heaviest books, organize, blah blah blah. And finally, locate next class.
Most of the kids laughing and shouting in the hallways had secondary agendas, something I’d never had. Reconnect with friends. Flirt. Exchange gossip. I'd spent all my time at school as a complete loner. So it was something new, for me, to have a boy dogging my steps as I threaded my way through the mob.
A totally hot boy, no less.
Lance is tough to ignore. For one thing, he has the ability to read my mind. So in addition to ignoring him, I have to block him out of my head. I could feel him tap-tap-tapping at the edges of my thoughts, trying to find a way in.
I scanned the rows of identical lockers, counting the little number plates until I found 103A. Sure enough, when I found it and stopped, Lance stopped, too. He leaned against 104A and smiled down at me.
I gave him a frosty look. “Do you mind? This is private.” I unfolded the scrap of paper Mr. Poncia had given me and studied the combination printed on it.
“Allow me,” said Lance. And my locker popped open.
Neither of us had touched it.
I glanced around, terrified that someone had seen. “Don't do that,” I hissed.
“Just trying to help.”
“Yeah, right,” I muttered. I tossed most of my books into the locker. “Always thinking of others.”
This was sarcasm, of course. Lance Donovan is the most selfish individual I have ever met. He does have beautiful manners, though. Go figure.
He looked at me with sad, puppy-dog eyes. (Lime green puppy-dog eyes. But still effective.) “You're always mad at me,” he said.
“Lance,” I said. I slammed my locker shut. “You tried to turn me into a zombie.”
He actually placed his hand over his heart, as if I had injured him. “It wasn’t like that,” he protested. “You misunderstood.”
“No,” I said. “You misunderstood. You thought you could break me. You found out you can't. Now get lost.”
I shoved my English Lit book into the crook of my elbow and strode off without a backward look.
And would you believe he followed me into English Lit? I made a point of sitting where there were no empty seats, but Lance found one at the back of the room. I could feel his eyes on me.
Mrs. Clark is made of sterner stuff than Mr. Poncia. She actually noticed that there was a boy in the class whose name wasn't on the roster. She assumed that Lance had wandered into the wrong class, and gave him a hall pass so he could go find the right one.
I had to cover my mouth to hide my smile. I knew darn well that Lance wasn't registered for any class. And the good news was, he couldn't get registered. How could Lance enroll in a public school? Or any school? You have to have at least one parent or guardian. And an address. And transcripts from your prior schools. Hah! Registering Lance Donovan would be like trying to register Peter Pan.
So if Lance planned to follow me around Cherry Glen High, the Powers That Be would soon put a stop to it. Or so I thought.
Unfortunately, it didn't go down quite the way I thought it would.
He was waiting for me when I left English Lit. I knew he would be, because all through class I could feel him out there, lurking in the hall. I pinned him with a glare the instant
I stepped out the door. “Isn't there a house you could haunt? I've got things to do.” I brushed past him.
He fell into step beside me. “High school? You've got to be kidding. Why bother?”
“It's what people do. So leave me alone and let me do it.”
“You don't need it. Drop out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Great, Lance. Thanks. You should be a guidance counselor.” We arrived at my locker. I waved him aside so I could open it. “You know what you're doing? You're loitering. You can't hang around here.”
“Why not? It's a public school.”
“Yeah, but it's not your school. There are laws to protect girls like me from boys like you. You ever heard of stalking? It's a felony.”
“Aw, come on. You wouldn't call the cops on me.”
“I won't have to. It's a school, Lance. They're in the business of protecting kids.” Right on cue, the vice principal and a couple of his sidekicks came into view, pushing purposely through the crowd with their eyes on Lance.
Sweet.
I batted my eyes at him as the Cherry Glen bouncers arrived. “Buh-bye.”
They were all polite and stuff. But they definitely had Lance's number. He wasn't able to b.s. his way out of a trip to the office, escorted by three burly guys.
Lance, as I think I may have mentioned, is a creature of power. It really didn't matter how burly the escort was, or how many of them there were. He could have vanished into thin air if he'd wanted to. The thing is, we spellspinners have to be choosy about when to use our powers. So, rather than cause a sensation, he walked meekly off with them.
Giving me the best laugh I've had in ages.
Still, it wasn't exactly easy to concentrate on my classes today. And when I left school, there he was—leaning against the flagpole and managing to look perfectly at ease, as if flagpole-leaning were the most comfortable thing in the world. He didn't seem to notice all the girls' eyes cutting towards him as they walked past on their way to the bus stops. His kryptonite eyes were focused only on me.
