by C. L. Bush
“I know we weren’t planning on presents. It’s okay. I mean if-” Damen started, but she just flicked her hair and smiled benevolently, picking up one of the presents. There was one marked for Clara, right next to it. Sam insisted on putting it right there - a reminder to her parents, but to herself as well, that she was expecting her best friend to come back. Sam gave the present a quick nod before turning back to Damen.
“I got you this in March,” Samantha said, giving him a burgundy-colored package. Damen unwrapped it with eagerness and confusion. Wrapped in crinkled paper, soft and tempting, the jersey of his future university pick laid. He took off his sweater instantaneously and quickly replaced it with the emerald emblem he was counting on. The kiss he gave to Sam was soaked in relief that she still had plans for them, but she didn’t feel it herself. “This was supposed to be our big year, Damen. And now, everything is crumbling in pieces.”
“The coven will figure it out. We still have a future to look forward to, Sam.”
“I can’t afford to think about the future. I have to fix the mess I have right now,” she explained, cracking her knuckles and taking a deep breath. “But you’re right; I need to get the snow under control. I need to talk to JJ. Maybe he can help me figure this craziness out.”
Damen shifted in his seat, reluctant to respond. “He’s with his family tonight. He kinda needs a timeout, Sam.”
“What do you mean, a timeout? We don’t have a time for any of us to be timeouting,” Sam said annoyed, pushing her inner empath back in the dark corner from which it tried to crawl out.
“I meant from you,” Damen admitted quickly, exhaling and inhaling nervously as his girlfriend motionlessly observed him. “You’ve been through a lot. I mean, all of us have been, and JJ has been soaking it all up... He just needs some way to sort things out.”
“Oh,” Sam mumbled, ignoring the discomfort on Damen’s face, gluing her eyes to the sweatshirt he was wearing. “Well, yeah. Make sense.”
“But I can help you,” he suggested immediately, desperate to fix her. “We can do focus exercises, and you can ask Zoey for help. Maybe she knows something different. Or maybe you can ask Clara’s mom? She has that shed of herbs. Something in there must be helpful.”
“I’m not going to Clara’s mom because I can’t get my shit together,” she responded and Damen just nodded desperately. “I just cost the woman her daughter. She probably hates my guts.”
“Come on, Samantha. Cathy doesn’t hate you. But okay, I get it.” He admitted defeat, although the need to fix her was so strong it was almost tangible. “Hey, maybe the sleep stone will help you as well. You know, you’ll get some rest and then it’ll be easier.”
“Of course.” She smiled, gently cupping his cheek as her mind slowly cleared and decisions formed. She lied for a second to both Damen and herself, for both of their good. “I’m sure everything will be better after a good night sleep.”
“Exactly,” he said proudly. “Things always look better in the morning.”
Samantha snuggled into his arms without a word, and Damen hugged her wistfully, observing with relief the wavering snow. What he had hoped was a sign of Samantha calming, was calm before the storm. A blizzard was no match to what was brewing in Samantha’s mind.
CHAPTER TWO
Day One
CLARA
Her eyelids flickered, fighting the darkness. She had become numb to the pain, but it was still all-encompassing. Her fingers tightened around the warm hilt of a dagger and a sharp sensation spurred through her body. Flashing images scratched her mind, and Clara jumped up, clenching the dagger in front of her. The movement reopened her wound and drops of blood tarnished the bed sheets.
Her bed sheets, Clara realized as she regained her focus and adjusted her eyes to the dusk light piercing her bedroom windows. Her room was as messy as it was before leaving for school that morning - books and notes everywhere, highlighters forming a formidable stationary army on her desk, clothes forgotten in a corner.
Relieved to be home, to be alive, Clara dropped the dagger on the floor and rushed to the hallway.
“Mom?” she called out, eerie silence mocking her. “Mom?” Nothing. “Sam?” Nothing.
She ventured from one room to the next, discovering nothing but silence. She ran back to her room, but there was no trace of her phone. In a moment of desperation, she turned to the landline in the kitchen.
“Hello?” Clara tried but there was no dial tone, no signal, just indiscernible whispers. She gave up on the phone and looked around. There wasn’t much to do except find out what had happened and to find others.
With no time to waste, Clara wiped her bloody palm on her shirt and ran back to her room. If she was alive, only one possibility made sense - she overloaded the Arch, breaking the protective barrier and tsunamiing her town with supernatural darkness. Clara paused, seconds away from packing her dagger into her bag.
Supernatural darkness. When did this become her reality?
She shook her head and returned to focusing on the task at hand, and pushed the dagger to the bottom of her backpack. Supernatural, that was the keyword. She walked with more certainty than she felt when she opened the doors of the attic wide.
Supernatural threat means supernatural ammo, she thought to herself, looking aimlessly at the piles and boxes. How was she even supposed to know what counted as ammo in this new reality of hers?
Nevertheless, Clara rummaged through the boxes, randomly selecting objects that felt occult enough to be a weapon - an ornate magnifier, delicate scissors, flat plates and silver bookmarkers. She piled them into her bag, time ignoring the stacks of books dominating the corners for the first. A cuff bracelet, flat and silver, without any markings on it, clattered to the floor. Clara picked it up, thinking about its previous owner before placing it on her own wrist. Her decisions were intuitive and uninformed, and they made her rather uncomfortable. She did it anyway. Partially, because she was being practical, logical and cautious by arming herself, but partially, because she hoped her mother would suddenly come back home, yelling about messing around with precious family heirlooms.
Her mother, however, was nowhere to be seen and Clara worked hard to ignore the piercing questions in her mind. As she wiped away a stray tear, Clara went back to her room and placed her grandfather’s pocket watch in her bag.
With a sigh and a bag full of heritage, Clara opened the front door of her family home and stepped into the outside world.
“What the-” Clara mouthed as ashes slowly fell to rest on her shoulders. The sky was reddish, dying. The air dry, motionless. The neighboring Harrison house was nothing but rubble, as was most of the street. She stepped forward, uncertain and horrified.
Was this Richmond? Was this what she brought into her hometown?
She followed the cracked road under her feet, letting it take her away from home. It was Richmond, all right, but a Richmond suffocating in shadows and whispers.
“Worst birthday ever,” she mumbled to herself, observing her surroundings. She walked as fast as she could, but her body resisted. There was no energy in her, only adrenaline to pump her heart as fast as a hummingbird’s.
There wasn’t a living soul around her. Clara was certain that Richmond’s citizens were just escaping in the corner of her eye, or at least she hoped they were Richmond’s citizens. Her instinct told her differently.
The whispers followed her every step and Clara kept to the lit side of the street, the one still visible, the one still real. Her bag clanged with every step and the sound, which should have echoed through this void of a world, only ruffled the quiet occasionally.
She saw a weak glow at the end of the street and rushed to it. Sam’s house - still standing, still whole. And although Clara felt as if she had walked for an eternity, she ran toward the promise of the radiating home. Her lungs burned as she arrived at the MacDonald’s gate. Clara pushed the simple gate of white wood, but it refused to budge. The white of the house’s exter
ior was as preserved as ever, and in her delirium, Clara imagined the house smelling of oranges and spices, cinnamon and cookies.
“Sam!” she yelled, her voice muffled in the dead air. “Anyone?”
No response came and Clara wobbled the creaking white wood of the picket fence. Ashes covered the yard. Soft light came from the windows, taunting her. A frustrated scream ripped from her chest, and raw magic erupted from Clara. The picket fence splintered as the window cracked.
Frightened by her own outburst, Clara took a step back from the MacDonald property line. Shaken, disturbed, and bewildered, she observed the house for a moment. She searched for a pebble, and flung it harshly toward the front door. The pebble disintegrated into dust, and dispersed across the porch into oblivion. Clara attempted it again and again, but the pebbles all disappeared in the same manner.
Through the silence, the sound of distant steps emerged. Clara turned toward them, hesitating between running to the sound or running from it. She clumsily searched for her dagger in the bag, realizing it had cut through the fabric. The sharp blade mirrored the red, sickening sky, and Clara swallowed heavily before untangling it.
She clutched the blade, opening her palm again with the strength of the grip. Blood dripped between the cracks on the road, giving color to the depleted concrete.
The whispers grew louder, as if the very wind was comprised of them. Clara turned around, only to notice the side streets descending in shadows heavier than before. The echoing steps were no longer steps, they were a slither, a flutter, a crawl.
Clara stuck out the blade, its point trembling. The steps stopped for a moment, and in an eternity of a moment, it rose out of the darkness.
Slick and tall, with elongated limbs and a muddy, greenish skin; the creature stepped in front of Clara. Its eyes were sick, crystalline, and colorless. Dark water dripped down its skin to the ground as it slowly stepped toward Clara. Unable to scream or run, Clara gripped the dagger tighter, her blood mixing with the beast’s essence on the concrete at her feet. The creature suddenly moved with a speed and dexterity she hadn’t anticipated, wrapping its long fingers around Clara’s wrist. She let her instincts and basic training take over. Sure, supernatural beings were out of her comfort zone, but she was from New York City and damn well knew how to get out of a dangerous situation in a shadowy alley.
She quickly raised her entrapped hand and pushed the other one forward. Her dagger-holding hand was now free, but the creature barely changed its position. Clara briefly glanced at her hands. They were covered in mud where her skin had touched the beast and they burned slightly. As she moved closer to the picket fence of the MacDonald house, the burning sensation grew.
The beast turned to check its back, but there was nothing there. In a blink of an eye, the creature opened the thin line that seemed to be its mouth and screamed. Clara’s blood chilled and she felt the wood behind her slowly disintegrated. Her magic’s doing?
What was the thing they told her just last night? That magic was there to protect her, that it was part of her?
The air around her cracked with electricity as she stubbornly decided that this wouldn’t be the moment she died. The cuff around her wrist suddenly burned, sizzling the acid mud off her hand, but Clara barely noticed it, too focused on the danger in front of her.
Unable to close her eyes or move fast enough, Clara thrust her dagger. The blade only slid over the watery skin of the demon, enraging it. An electrical buzzing around her momentarily suffocated the whispers
“Move away, Clara!” The order came from behind the furious creature. Clara used the opportunity to stumble out of the way.
The woman who gave the order stood steady before the monster, not a hair on her head disturbed. She waved her hands and muttered words that escaped Clara’s hearing and the monster’s skin burst into flames. The unbearable screams of the creature caused Clara’s blood to run cold, but the lady didn’t give it any additional thought.
“Common water wraith,” the woman announced as the creature disappeared in a pile of ashes, slowly turning into a puddle.
“Common? Was-was- was that a demon?” Clara asked, gradually regaining her breath and sanity.
The lady scoffed. “A demon would be much more work. And you wouldn’t be alive,” she added, eyeing Clara poignantly. “Are you planning on waiting for the rest of them like a daisy on that lawn?”
Clara’s focus snapped back to her surroundings and she scrambled to her feet. She noticed the woman assessing the dagger in her hand and the steady stream of blood Clara had been inadvertently ignoring.
“Only inexperienced fools cut their palms when casting a blood spell,” the woman added. “How do you expect to fight against anything if your palm is constantly injured?”
Blood rushed to Clara’s cheeks. She was embarrassed for not coming to the same conclusion.
“Now you know better so don’t do it again,” the woman said impatiently, rushing down the street. “Well, are you coming?”
Clara sped up cautiously, her bag dangling foolishly on her shoulder as she wiped the rest of the mud off her pants. The cuff bracelet glistened, untarnished.
“Who are you?” Clara asked, throwing a glance over her shoulder to the puddle that once was a mere wraith. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re in Richmond, of course,” the woman answered as Clara struggled to match her pace.
“But this is Richmond,” Clara insisted desperately, failing even to convince herself.
“This isn’t your Richmond.” The stranger’s answer sealed the disappointment and relief in Clara.
“Then, which Richmond is this?” Clara asked but got no answer. She rushed on and then suddenly came to a stop as the previous hours settled in her mind. “I’m in the Arch, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” The answer was short and painful.
“Who are you?” Clara asked, glancing once more at her savior.
The woman walked with a steady pace as someone who walked the same path countless times. She wore simple khaki pants, one you would expect to see in a country club on a Sunday afternoon in autumn. Over her shirt, she had a big scarf, ready to be discarded on a moment’s notice. The woman’s dark hair was tightened in a bun at the top of her head, white streaks showing - not as a sign of old age, but as a warning of wisdom and experience. And, as the woman moved decisively through the decaying streets of what cruelly resembled Clara’s Richmond, Clara noticed a tiny, aged tattoo right on the back of her guide’s neck. It was a metallic insignia of the Parkers’ family tree, the alder tree.
Clara stopped, putting distance between her and the woman.
“You’re a Parker,” Clara voiced and the woman froze mid-step. “How are you here? How are you alive?”
The woman turned around, her lips pressed tightly together.
“We don’t have time. The water wraiths will be back, and there will be more than one. If you’re interested in dying, you should have told me not to waste my time saving your life,” she shortly retorted.
“Who are you?” Clara repeated and the woman meticulously fixed her scarf.
“I’m Helen Parker,” she said with only a streak of hesitation. “I’m your grandmother.”
Clara’s eyes widened, her mouth frozen in the open position. Her grandmother? But she had died years ago. What in the hell was she doing inside the Arch? And how had she found her just when she needed saving?
The woman picked up the pace and Clara silently followed, her mind too overwhelmed to ask any questions. Instead, she studied the streets as they passed, shivering at the state of them. They were leaving the town, Clara realized as they pass Damen’s house. It shimmered with a light glow, similar to the one both her home and Samantha’s had.
“Why do some houses glow?” Clara asked, thirsty for any factual knowledge, but hungry to end the silence as well.
“Magic,” Helen Parker responded simply. “Most magical families protect their homes from supernatural intrusion, as they shoul
d. It creates the soft glow, an energy field.”
“Is that why I couldn’t enter the MacDonalds’ house?”
“Yes.”
“But I visited their house a million times.”
“Not in this form,” her grandmother responded simply and Clara’s eyes widened.
“What form is that?” she asked but received no answer. Instead, Helen unexpectedly continued.
“Magical objects have a similar glow. Be careful when using them. They’re transient,” she noted and Clara frowned, uncomfortable with her own lack of knowledge. “It means they’re between the real world and the Arch. If you move a magical object here, it’ll move in Richmond as well.”
“Wait. That means I can contact my mom,” Clara said, excitement spurring her to grab Helen’s wrist. Helen cocked an eyebrow at the touch but didn’t say anything “I can contact Sam, and the coven. They can help us.”
“You can’t contact anyone without too great of a risk,” Helen responded and watched Clara’s grip fall limply. “I’ll explain more once we’re safe.”
“And where’s safe here?” Clara asked in annoyance. “I know we’re at the west edge of town now. Where are we going?”
“Home,” Helen declared shortly. “You mustn’t use magic while here. It was your magic that brought the water wraith to you. The water wraiths are easy to defeat, but highly sensitive to any magic use. Next time something far deadlier might find you.”
“But I wasn’t using magic,” Clara retorted, glad for once to have the upper hand. “I don’t even know how to use it. I found out magic exists twelve hours ago.”
“You’ll have to learn fast,” the woman warned, disapproval obvious behind her words. “And you did use magic, just unintentionally. Your survival instinct kicked in to save your life, and you’re wearing that retched bracelet, after all. Either way, your magic is awake now and it needs to be exercised regularly. Avoiding the practice or limiting it for too long would just harm your mind eventually.”
