Scary Cool (The Spellspinners)

by Diane Farr

  “No, I couldn’t. My spells don’t hold. And besides, you need a license to practice medicine, so I’d have to go through school just like you.”

  I was screwing the top back onto the clear nail polish so I didn’t notice for a second that Meg had gone utterly still and silent—which is so unlike her that otherwise, I would have noticed. I finally looked up at her. She had a strange expression on her face. Excited and hopeful, plus ashamed and guilty.

  “What?” I said.

  “You could help me, Zara. I would totally understand if your spell didn’t hold. And even if it didn’t hold, you could just, maybe, redo it.”

  “Redo what?”

  Her face was turning pinker by the second, but she didn’t drop her eyes. “You could make Alvin like me.”

  “Oh no.” I set the little bottle down. My mouth had suddenly gone dry with anxiety. “Love spells? No.”

  “Yes! You totally could.”

  “Meg, it’s wrong. I’m not going to mess with people’s heads. I don’t even want to try.”

  “Why not? What could it hurt?”

  “Come on! How would you feel if somebody did that to you? It’s not fair. It’s creepy. No.” Then I had an idea. “Besides, maybe he likes you already. Did you ask him to Homecoming yet?”

  Her face went even pinker. “I couldn’t, Zara. I was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Nothing scares Meg. I reached over and gave her shoulder a friendly shove. “Aw, Meggie. Get real. You don’t need me to run interference.”

  “Yes, I do.” Her chin was taking on a stubborn tilt. “You know I’ve never asked you for anything like this before. But just this once, I’m asking you. Help me, Zara. I know you can do it, and it just… just… kills me to think how easy it would be for you, when it’s so hard for me.”

  I bit my lip, feeling guilty. She was right, of course. And naturally I wanted to help my bestie—how could I not? But what she was asking me to do was wrong. I knew it in my bones.

  “What, exactly, do you want to happen?” I asked carefully.

  She leaned forward, her eyes alight with hope. “Make Alvin ask me to Homecoming.”

  “I thought you were asking him?”

  “If he asks me, I won’t have to.”

  Well, duh. I flopped backwards on the bed, groaning and covering my eyes.

  “Come on, Zara. Please? For me? I would do it for you. You know I would.”

  She probably would.

  I did not uncover my eyes. “Okay,” I said at last. Mentally, I was hedging. “I’ll help.”

  I did not say I was going to use the Power. But Meg was squeeing and bouncing around the room, too thrilled to notice.

  “But you have to help, too,” I warned her. “No more of this girl-scientist stuff. I mean, of course you can be a girl scientist. Just stop looking like one.”

  She stopped bouncing. “What do you mean?”

  I’d been thinking about this for a while, actually, so I was glad the moment had finally arrived when I could say it.

  “You know how you’re always moaning about how gorgeous Bridget is, and saying you’ll never be pretty like her? Well, she’s your sister. Guess what? You look like her.”

  Bridget was off at college, so I was perched on her bed. I reached over to the nightstand, picked up her senior portrait (which was sitting there, framed), and waved it at Meg. “See? What does she have that you don’t have?”

  “Boobs,” said Meg promptly. “And no glasses. And auburn hair. Also she’s taller.”

  I could tell she was going to go on, so I waved my hand dismissively, interrupting. “What she has is confidence. It’s all in the packaging, Meg. You aren’t playing up your assets.”

  Meg looked glum. “I’m not allowed to. No contact lenses, remember? No high heels, no push-up bras, no decent clothes—by which I mean, no indecent clothes. My mother thinks I’m a child.”

  “Okay, let’s work within those parameters. We’ll start with the hair, if that’s all we’re permitted to touch.”

  Megan does not have bad hair. She has great hair—a mop of dense curls that most straight-haired girls would kill for. But she hates it. So I knew that if she made a change, she’d feel prettier—and that would make her, in fact, prettier.

  And maybe I wouldn’t have to put the whammy on Alvin.

  And meanwhile, all this girl-talky stuff distracted her from asking about Lance.

  I really, really didn’t want to talk about Lance. Because I knew exactly what Meg thought of him, and what she would say if she found out I’d spent yesterday afternoon with him. Worse: Even when I wasn’t with him, now, I was thinking about him. So I just didn’t want our conversation to go there. Ever.

  Spellspinners don’t need much sleep. Maybe we don’t, technically, need sleep at all. I love to sleep, but if I don’t sleep, I don’t fall apart the way sticks do. So if I want to see Lance—and for some perverse reason, I do—I don’t have to do it in broad daylight.

  School had been in session for less than a week, and already I was planning to live a double life. By day, I’d be a high school junior and Megan O’Shaughnessy’s best friend.

  But my nights I would give to Lance.

  And Meg and Nonny need never know.

  Now all I had to do was tell Lance.

  Chapter 7

  I got my chance sooner than I thought I would. I was on my way home, just gliding around the turn onto Chapman Road, when I heard the distant thrum of a motorcycle. It could have been anybody, but I knew it was Lance. And I knew he was looking for me.

  My heart rate accelerated. I was almost home. There was really nowhere to go. Our house, and the nursery, are the only things on Chapman Road that don’t belong to the Chapmans. But I couldn’t go to either place, because Nonny would have my hide for bringing Lance onto her property. If I sailed on past the house and nursery, Lance would follow—but what if Nonny or Tres looked up at the wrong moment and saw me heading, inexplicably, to the Chapman place? Or, more likely, looked up to see what idiot was coming to a nursery on a motorcycle, and saw Lance.

  Nowhere to hide, as usual. This was not the first time I have wished we lived in the city. Any city.

  Muttering under my breath, I swerved my bicycle onto the narrow foot path that runs through the field to the creek—the only possible stopping point before coming within sight of the house. With luck, the tall grass would provide some cover. I skidded to a halt, tapped the kickstand down, and walked back to the edge of the path, where I could watch Chapman Road.

  When Lance came into view, I sent him an image of where I was standing. The boy is too smooth to startle. He poured that wicked-looking machine right over to the edge of the path as if that was where he’d been headed all along. Riding that low-slung, gleaming chopper, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses and all, he looked like a teen idol from a 1950’s B-movie.

  I stepped delicately through the grass toward him, stopping before it thinned out near the road. “Fancy meeting you here,” I remarked, feigning surprise.

  “I figured I wouldn’t be welcome at the O’Shaughnessy place.”

  “You aren’t welcome at the Norland place, either. Nonny objects to my socializing with a boy who hit me.”

  He nodded, unfazed. “I get that.” He took off his sunglasses. His green eyes were piercing. “Rune’s not crazy about my seeing you, either. But here I am.”

  A breeze stirred the tall stalks of meadow grass, surrounding me with rustling, swaying feathers of gold. Yes, I thought. Here we both are.

  Something softened in his expression. He almost smiled—but not quite. “So how are we going to do this, Zara? When can I see you?”

  Adrenaline danced through my veins. I looked away, trying to hide it from him. “Well,” I said, stalling, “there’s always school.”

  “Not good enough.” And you know it.

  I could feel a smile tugging at my mouth. “Okay.” I took a deep breath and let my eyes return to his. “Nonny’s usually asleep by
eleven. I could see you at midnight.”

  “Tonight?”

  I nodded. “Every night,” I said softly.

  The motorcycle engine, even at a standstill, was pounding loudly. I’m sure he didn’t hear what I said. But between the two of us, hearing words was unnecessary. His breath stopped momentarily and I knew he had read me loud and clear.

  Lance is too cool to let emotions show on the surface. If I hadn’t had inside knowledge, so to speak, I would never have guessed the excitement my words sent through him. He didn’t show it, but he was pleased. Oh yes.

  He gave me a brief nod. “Midnight it is, then. Where?”

  An image of the skatching well at his apartment flitted through his brain, but we both rejected that immediately—for different reasons, I noticed. I didn’t want to be so completely on his turf. He didn’t want Rune to know he was seeing me. Interesting.

  My word, we’re getting good at this wholesoul thing.

  “I guess the gazebo is okay,” I said. “We can figure it out from there.”

  He nodded. “Cool.”

  A car turned onto Chapman Road. It wasn’t a car I knew, but I automatically ducked my head, hiding my face behind the curtain of my hair. Lance slipped his sunglasses back on. “This cloak-and-dagger stuff sucks,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later,” I agreed.

  His engine roared to life. I watched as he turned the motorcycle in a graceful loop across the road, then sent it leaping back toward town like an unleashed tiger. He looked sharp. He looked cool.

  Scary cool.

  My heart was thumping like I’d just run a race. I felt anxious and excited and guilty. And determined. I was putting myself in Lance’s hands—metaphorically, of course. Not literally.

  Not yet, anyway.

  I shoved that thought quickly out of my mind, afraid Lance could pick it up somehow—although our ability to read each other’s thoughts fades with distance. Still, it was safer not to go there.

  I retrieved my bike, walked it out to where the dirt ended and the asphalt began, and started pedaling, again, toward home. The top half of the house was already visible, with my bedroom window halfway opened above the porch roof, curtains fluttering prettily in the breeze as if waving in welcome. Home.

  Sadness squeezed my heart as I thought about what I might soon be giving up. I love this place. This house. My room. Nonny. Even the meadows are dear to me—the sweet smell of the grass, the birdsong. The peach tree that shades my window seat, on the side of my room that faces the Chapman place. The Chapmans’ silly roosters, waking me with their crowing in the grayness before dawn. The even-sillier chickens, congratulating themselves at the top of their lungs every time they lay an egg.

  I frowned, vowing to sternly repress any sentimental nonsense that stood in my way. I had to do this. I had to choose Lance over home. Lance over Meg, over Nonny, over everything.

  My life depended on it.

  This still didn’t seem real to me, but I knew it was true. Or, rather, I knew Lance believed it to be true. And I had to take it seriously, because he had more information than I had.

  That would change, I promised myself. Starting tonight.

  I was wired all evening. Even Nonny remarked on how keyed-up I was, and asked if I were all right. I assured her I was, but I wasn’t. The breeze that had begun earlier turned into a typical September wind, warm and gusty. It would drop to nothing, then suddenly slap the air, rattling the dry grasses outside and making the trees toss their heads like nervous horses. It made me skittish, too, adding an extra twist to the slowly-cranking knobs that were pulling my nerves tight. After Nonny went to bed, the breezes gusting in the silence startled me, and I thought, every time, she’d woken up and was heading upstairs toward my room for some reason. Guilty conscience much?

  By 11:30 I was a wreck. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I slipped my shoes back on, shrugged into my jean jacket, and skatched.

  The abrupt plunge into darkness was disorienting. I should have turned my bedroom light out and let my eyes adjust before popping downtown. I couldn’t see a thing for a few seconds, but knew exactly where I was, of course—I had chosen the entrance of the gazebo for my skatching point. I reached out blindly, encountered the rough wood of the roof support, and clutched it, waiting for the world to take shape around me. I knew Lance wouldn’t be here yet.

  I briefly considered returning to my room to do my bit for the planet and turn my light out, but was distracted by a sound. Tick, tick, tick. I knew the sound, but couldn’t place it for a moment. Then, just as another gust of wind drowned it out, I saw what it was: Amber, in her high-heeled boots, was striding beneath the street light at the corner of the park, heading right for me.

  Too bad Lance hadn’t taught me yet how to create a glamour.

  Of course, there was no point in hiding anyway. She had seen me. And—come to think of it—why should I hide? I stood as tall as I could, lifted my chin, and waited. My only regret was that I was dressed like a teenager and Amber was dressed like a supermodel. She looked elegant and wicked. I just looked, you know, like me.

  The heels gave her extra height, and the woman had to be six feet tall to begin with. She moved with a lithe, intimidating confidence. The wind tossed her hair as she approached, making her look like something out of a movie—an evil goddess, or maybe a villainous-but-gorgeous spy from a James Bond thriller.

  She stopped near the foot of the steps, put her hands on her hips, and looked me over. Her lips were curled in a cold little smile. I could not pick up her thoughts, but I could sure read her feelings. Waves of hostility emanated from her and beat against me like strong surf.

  “You must be Zara,” she drawled.

  “And you’re Amber.”

  “That’s right, sugar.”

  She sounded pleased. I was at a loss to know why—until I realized she thought Lance had talked about her. It was my turn to wear the contemptuous smile. “Lance pointed you out the other night,” I told her.

  Her smile vanished. “So you were here. I knew it.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I remembered what Lance had told me: She isn’t very powerful. I sat down on the steps and stretched my legs out in front of me. “So tell me—now that we’ve met—what brings you to Cherry Glen? You’re a long way from home.”

  I was judging by the Southern lilt in her voice, of course; I had no idea where she lived. But I sensed, again, her assumption that Lance had told me all about her. She laughed, tossing her head so the wind could blow her hair back from her face. “Why, I just had to see you in person. See what all the fuss was about. After all, it concerns me, too. Anything that concerns Lance concerns me.”

  Something cold seemed to stab me in the gut. I didn’t move a muscle, grateful that she couldn’t read me the way I read her. I tried to look mildly curious. “Why on earth is that?” I marveled. “What is he—your baby brother?”

  Ooh, that made her mad. “Very funny,” she snapped. “You know exactly what he is to me.”

  The cold knife in my gut twisted. “Actually,” I said—grateful that my voice sounded perfectly normal—“I have no idea.”

  Her anger shifted slightly as she directed part of it at Lance. “That son of a—“ Several choice epithets salted the air.

  “Well, why don’t you tell me?” I suggested. “Since he didn’t.”

  Her eyes glowed a funny color in the tricky light. Catlike. Yellow. Another gust of wind rattled the trees around us. “Well, then. You might as well know. Lance and I have been Chosen.”

  “Chosen for what?”

  She gave an incredulous little laugh. “Don’t you know anything? Chosen. We’ve been Chosen.” I must have been giving her a blank look because her foot started tapping impatiently. “By the Council. You know.”

  My expression obviously did not change, because her eyes narrowed. She leaned down toward me. “Do you really not understand? Or are you just pretending? Lance and I will be mated, sugar pie. We’re g
oing to bring the next spellspinner into the world. Don’t you know the rules on that? Well, no, come to think of it.” Her lip curled with contempt. “You wouldn’t.”

  I understood her now. I just couldn’t speak. So she went on, pacing in her stiletto heels, reminding me of a leopard in a cage.

  “There have to be forty-nine spellspinners. No more, no less. There’s only so much Power to go around. We can feel it, you know. When one of the Council members kicks the bucket, and there’s only forty-eight of us, we all get stronger for a while. Then, right around the New Year, the Chosen ones mate. And come the next July, there’s forty-nine of us again.”

  I found my voice. “Why not stay forty-eight? If you’re stronger that way. Why not skip the whole mating thing? I mean, wow, imagine how strong you’d be if there were only ten of you. Or seven, since you seem to have a ‘thing’ about sevens.”

  “Well, think about it, Zara.” Her voice dripped contempt. “When our numbers drop below forty-nine, spellspinners are not only stronger, they’re fertile. So when the call goes out, we have to stop having sex. What if we mated with sticks and started reproducing all over the place? Why, in a year or two there’d probably be no spellspinners at all—the Power would get diluted and diluted until there was nothing left! No, it’s better that the Council choose a couple—based on bloodlines, you know—and make it happen by decree. They choose way in advance. Lance and I have known for years that we would be next.”

  But now I was genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean, stop having sex? Can you do whatever you want, the rest of the time?”

  Her laughter was high and childish, like tinkling bells. “Just one of the many advantages we have over the sticks, sugar.”

  Her laughter, her pacing, her antagonism, even the gusts of wind, were distracting me. There was something important tugging at the edges of my brain—some nugget buried in what she’d just told me—but I’d have to pull it out later. When Amber was gone. And after I’d managed to stop picturing Lance with her, because frankly, the mental image was making me nauseous.

  She suddenly stopped in her tracks, facing me dead-on. “So now you know,” she said, “if you didn’t before, why you have to go.”