Crystal Magic (Clearwater Witches Book 1)

by Madeline Freeman

  “She was,” I murmur.

  Lexie’s eyes brighten with intrigue. “Really? I wonder if she can confirm my theory. Do you think she’d know if my aunt was a witch or not?”

  My stomach knots and a flush warms my cheeks. The thought of Lexie knowing the truth about the witches of Clearwater, of knowing what I really am, unsettles me. If she knows I’m a witch, she might lump me in with Crystal Jamison, and I don’t want her to think of me that way. I don’t want to lose her friendship. “This probably isn’t the best place to ask her about it.”

  Her face falls and she sighs. “You’re probably right.”

  Jodi removes herself from her group of friends and scans the foyer for me. She smiles at Lexie and waves for the two of us to follow her down the hall. At the door to the room is an easel with a sign spelling out Mrs. Cole’s name: Shelly Tanner Cole. I try not to look at it as I pass.

  Soft piano music plays at the front of the room. All around us are the sounds of low murmurs and tears. Jodi finds a spot near the back and the three of us settle down.

  A slide show plays at the front of the room, displaying Mrs. Cole’s life in images. There are pictures of her as a baby, held by a smiling mother and a proud father. There are pictures of her ripping open presents on Christmases and with cake smeared on her face on birthdays. As the show progresses to her teen years, the woman I knew becomes more visible: Mrs. Cole smiling beside a trophy, Mrs. Cole with her arms slung around the shoulders of a pair of girls. One of the girls looks familiar and, with a pang, I recognize my aunt’s face.

  Silent tears stream down Jodi’s face and another realization strikes me: I didn’t cry. At my mother’s funeral, I didn’t cry. It was too quick, too surreal. I listened to the words the funeral director said, but I didn’t hear them. The words were generic. It could have been anyone’s funeral.

  All around me I hear murmurs of comfort and sadness, I see the shaking of shoulders as tears fall. Beside me, even Lexie is sniffling. Mrs. Cole has been a part of these people’s lives for a long time, and I feel like an outsider, intruding on their grief.

  Yet I have grief of my own. Yesterday with Owen was the first time I allowed myself to cry for my mom. I tried so hard not to think about her for too long, for fear that I’d lose it, and guilt swells within me now for not allowing myself to remember her. She deserves better from me. We were alone in the world. If I don’t dwell on her memory, if I don’t grieve for her, who will?

  At the front of the room, a gray-haired man in a tailored suit enters and begins speaking. I don’t hear him. The air in the room seems thin and I struggle for breath. I have to get out of here. I can’t sit in this room with the oppressive weight of these people’s grief pressing in on me.

  I stand and scramble over Lexie to get to the aisle. She makes a move to stand and follow me but I shake my head. I need to get away, to be alone. I don’t want to explain to her. I don’t want to have to explain anything.

  I push through the swinging door at the back of the room and rush down the hall toward the entrance. I shove open the heavy glass door and step out into the chilly October air.

  Gulping in great breaths, I settle myself on the cold concrete steps. The world blurs and I rub at my eyes, tears spilling onto my fingers. Everything I felt yesterday with Owen returns, amplified now by the sadness of all these people, and my own guilt. A sob claws its way up my throat and out of my mouth, and my whole body shakes with the force of it. I long for the feeling of Owen’s arms around me again, but he’s not here. No one’s here with me.

  I hear the sound of shoes on concrete and feel someone settle beside me on the step. The hand that touches my shoulder is small and warm. Lexie. I don’t look at her, I can’t look at her. And though she doesn’t ask, I have to tell her. I have to share something of my mother with her just to alleviate some of the crushing weight of bearing her memory by myself.

  “When I was five, I was afraid of thunderstorms. I would scream and cry until they were over. My parents tried everything they could think of to distract me—cartoons, stories, games—but nothing worked. And then there was this crazy storm and the power went out and I was just freaking out. My dad wasn’t home and my mom was beside herself trying to deal with me. So she built this giant fort in the middle of the living room and told me this story about how it was a magical place where thunder couldn’t reach. She found an old radio and turned it up really loud and put flashlights in the corners of the fort and started doing this crazy anti-rain dance. And it was just so ridiculous, I couldn’t stop laughing at her.” I suck in a breath. “My mom died,” I say, my voice trembling. “That’s why I’m here in Clearwater. Jodi took me in because I don’t have anyone else. My mom’s dead and my dad’s gone and I’ve got no one else. I’m alone. I’m all alone.”

  Her hand slides around my shoulder and she hugs me close to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The voice isn’t Lexie’s. My eyes snap open and I turn. “Crystal?”

  Crystal’s eyes, usually so cold, are clear and open as she looks at me. “I saw you come out here. You looked like you needed someone.”

  I shift away from her, wiping at my face with the backs of my hands. I don’t know what to say to her. I bared a piece of my soul, one of my favorite memories of my mom—something I haven’t told anyone—not Owen, not Lexie or Bria. My stomach twists.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.” She sounds genuine. “If I’d known…”

  I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. Irritation flares in my stomach. There’s no excuse for how she’s treated me. “If you’d known, what? You wouldn’t have been a complete bitch to me since my first second of school here?”

  Crystal’s mouth opens in surprise, like I’ve slapped her. The shock makes me wish I had slapped her. My grief is overtaken by another emotion: rage. I stand and round on her.

  “It doesn’t matter that I just lost my mom. That shouldn’t be the reason you feel bad for treating me the way you have. You should feel bad about that because it’s terrible. You’re a terrible person. You’re nothing but a bully—so afraid you’re not as good as everyone else that you make everyone else feel like shit so they don’t notice how insignificant you are. You’re nothing. And I’m done being pushed around by you or anyone else. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here alone and grieve for my mother!”

  Crystal looks small, seated on the stairs below me. Her lower lip trembles and she tugs at the ends of her hair. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. She stands and ascends the steps toward the entrance, but she stops halfway there, turning back to me. “I’ve been trying, you know? I’ve been trying to be nice to you, or haven’t you noticed? I can’t take back the way I treated you when you first got here, but I’m trying to make up for it now.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  She looks down at her shoes. “I deserve that. But… I misjudged you. And I want the opportunity to start over.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “That isn’t up to you. You don’t just get to decide you get a second chance.”

  “I understand. But I hope you’ll consider it. I think you’ll find… we’re more alike than we are different.”

  “Why? Because of the whole founding families thing? Lexie told me how you’re obsessed with it.”

  “Well, that’s part of it, but…” She shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  How can she be so condescending? I ball my fists. “What don’t I understand? That you’re a witch? That you and your little witch friends think you’re special and other people don’t matter?”

  Crystal’s eyes widen and I can tell she didn’t expect me to know what I know. It takes a moment for her to regroup, her expression switching from surprise to excitement. “How long have you known?”

  I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is I’m not interested. I have friends—real friends. People who like me for who I am, not for what I am or what I could do for them. So all this contr
ition is wasted on me. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

  She takes a few steps toward me, intensity building in her eyes. “How can you say that? Have you ever actually done it? Magic? On purpose, I mean—not just the outbursts you can’t control—like in history class.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to admit I haven’t, but she seems to have surmised as much on her own.

  “You don’t like me. I get it. If I’m honest, if I were you, I probably wouldn’t like me either. But we can’t go back and change what’s happened between us. Believe me when I tell you that you owe it to yourself to learn how to control your magic. It’s more amazing than you can imagine.” She takes another step toward me, so she’s barely an arm’s length away. “I know what it’s like when the magic just kind of erupts out of you. It’s scary. But once you actually learn how it works, how to use it, that doesn’t happen anymore. You can control it.”

  My insides ache at the idea of being able to control the magic I possess. I spend so much time afraid that if I’m too upset something crazy will happen. What would it be like not to carry that burden? And if I could do some simple spells—like light a candle the way Jodi did—what would the danger of that be? But it’s Crystal. Can I really trust her? Do I want to learn more about my magic if she’s the only avenue? Jodi offered to teach me about herbs and stones and other items that possess magical qualities, but she didn’t seem too keen on me learning to use my magic. Whatever happened to Crystal Taylor all those years ago scared her away.

  Crystal opens the small purse she carries and pulls out what looks like a receipt. She places it between her hands and presses her palms down on it, closing her eyes. Her lips move soundlessly for a moment before she hands the paper to me. I stare at it. The black ink has reordered itself. It doesn’t display the name of the store or the items purchased anymore; instead, a phone number and address are spelled out in neat script.

  When I look back up at Crystal, she is moving toward the door we both exited through. “If you ever want to talk—if you ever want to learn—call me.” She looks at me a moment longer before crossing the rest of the distance to the main door. She opens the door and takes a step through before turning back to me. “You don’t have to be alone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jodi goes out with friends after the funeral. She drops me off first, and I change out of the leggings and black skirt into my favorite jeans. I try to get comfortable in the house, but my conversation with Crystal keeps replaying in my head. You can control it. You don’t have to be alone.

  When Jodi talked to me about my magic, she used the word control too, but she meant something different from what Crystal did. Jodi wants me to learn to rein it in, to tamp it down. What Crystal offered me is more appealing. Why would I have this power in me if I’m not supposed to use it?

  The air in the house is thick and oppressive. I need to get out. I find one of Jodi’s jackets in the hall closet and pull it on over my sweater before heading out the door.

  My feet crunch through scattered leaves as I walk down the sidewalk. I breathe in deeply and exhale pale clouds of vapor. Someone nearby is burning leaves and I close my eyes as I take in the scent.

  The autumn day is thrumming with energy and I at once feel connected to and separate from it. Jodi said witches can manipulate the energy around them, and for the first time I wonder if it’s possible. Perhaps it’s the conversation with Crystal buzzing around in my mind, but it occurs to me I might be able to tap into the pulsing world of power around me.

  Two blocks down, there is a tiny bridge over a small stream. I leave the sidewalk to follow the water. The sound is soothing and the sunlight glistening off the rippling surface is beautiful. I haven’t gone too far when I see a fallen log running parallel to the bank, its bark worked off and the wood smooth; clearly this is a place people frequent.

  But no one is here today. The only sounds as I settle on the log are the twittering of birds, the rush of the water, and the skittering of leaves against the ground.

  Maybe I don’t need Jodi or Crystal to teach me to use my magic. Now that I know what it is, maybe I can learn to control it myself.

  Except I’ve never tried to do magic on purpose. I don’t even know how to begin. Anytime something has happened before, it’s been because I’ve been upset or scared, and I don’t know how to conjure those emotions from nowhere. I could think about my mom again and try to overwhelm my system with sadness, but I quickly disregard the idea: If grief were a trigger for me, then something would have happened earlier with Crystal or yesterday with Owen.

  But if I’m trying to control the magic, I also shouldn’t have to rely on being overly emotional. Instead, I close my eyes, focusing on the sound of the stream. Jodi mentioned that witches manipulate elements, like water. Perhaps I can somehow channel the energy from the natural world around me.

  I clear my mind, filling my head with the gurgling and flowing of the stream. Water is a powerful force. Given enough time, it can cut through rocks. Given enough force, it can take down buildings. Something that strong should be respected.

  A breeze blows by, ruffling through my hair. The scent of burning leaves reaches me even here. I press my palms against the fallen tree below me, against the cool and unresisting wood.

  There is magic here. I am magic here.

  I meditate on those two sentences, repeating them over and over in my head until they mean everything and nothing at once.

  A strong shiver courses through my body, pulling me from my thoughts. My eyes snap open and I’m aware suddenly of how cold I’ve become. I flex my fingers, but they feel wooden, unyielding. My ears burn.

  How long have I been sitting here? I inhale deeply but there is no trace of burning leaves in the air. I stand up and look around. Everything is the same as it was when I sat down. I bite the insides of my cheeks, attempting to quell the wave of disappointment rising in me. I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how to control whatever magic I might possess. I can’t stop it and I can’t make it happen. Frustration builds and my stomach muscles clench. Maybe Jodi and Crystal are wrong—maybe I don’t have any kind of special abilities. Maybe I’m just a freak like I’ve always thought. Or maybe Jodi is right and I should just try to forget about it all—crush it when it appears.

  But in my gut, I rail against the idea. No, there’s something inside me, something deep and desperate. And I need to know how to use it. How can I go through life without understanding it? There’s a piece of me that needs to be acknowledged and accepted, the same way I’ve been since I’ve moved here to Clearwater.

  I can’t ignore it. I need to know more.

  And there’s one person who can help me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The piece of paper Crystal gave me at the funeral is still at the house, but I don’t need it. The phone number and address are seared into my mind. Even though I don’t know the town well, I have no doubt I’ll be able to find Crystal’s house. It’s like I’m being pulled there by my own desire to understand myself.

  It takes half an hour for me to find Crystal’s street. The houses here are nothing like in my neighborhood: Instead of Victorian behemoths, these houses are all newer one-story homes with identical lawns and decorative trees on every curb.

  I hesitate as I step onto the porch. She made her offer sound open, but it’s still presumptuous of me to show up here without warning. What if she’s not even home? I don’t think I want to deal with her parents. What do I tell them if they ask why I’m here?

  I lift my hand to knock on the door, but pause before making contact with the wood. This was silly. I shouldn’t have come. I turn on my heel and am almost to the stairs when I hear the door open.

  “Kristyl?”

  I turn to see Crystal Jamison standing in the doorway, a look of confusion on her face. I take in a breath and move a step closer to her. “Krissa.”

  She nods. “Of course.” She pushes t
he door open. “Would you like to come in?”

  I press my lips together. The answer is no. The idea of actually being in Crystal’s house doesn’t sound appealing at all. But she might be the only one who can answer my questions. “Thanks.” I step past her and stand in the hallway. I glance into the living room adjacent to where I stand and see no one.

  “My parents are out,” Crystal says, correctly interpreting my unspoken question. “We can talk about anything.”

  She walks into the living room and I follow her, sitting after she’s taken a seat. “I need to know how to use it. You said you’d help me learn.”

  Crystal’s face lights up and she covers my hand with hers. “I’m so glad. At the funeral, I was sure you weren’t going to be able to get past how I treated you.”

  “I’m not sure I have. But… Jodi doesn’t want me to learn to use magic.” My stomach twists; I feel like I’m betraying my aunt by admitting it. “She wants me to control it, that’s it. But I don’t think that’s enough.”

  She nods. “You’re right. It’s not enough. Not when there’s so much we can do. When you learn how to use it, the crazy, unexpected things stop happening, and the things you can do are… well… limitless.”

  A thrill courses through me at her words. Limitless. The idea is intoxicating. “Did you ever still have the unexpected things happen? Like me?”

  “What, like making an entire school building shake?” She smiles. “No, never like that. But I think I understood it earlier than you. See, I’ve been doing magic since—”

  “Before ninth grade.” I remember what Lexie told me about Crystal becoming obsessed with her aunt the summer before high school began.

  She doesn’t seem surprised that I know this. “That’s right. I mean, when I look back, yeah, there were a couple little things that happened before I started learning to control the magic—you know, like a light flickering or something falling off a table. Things that never really registered as weird, but that probably were magic, now that I think about them. But those things always happened when I was frustrated.” She bites her lower lip. “That’s why Bridget and I were messing with you that day in history. You know, the wind in your hair, the pencil falling off the desk. I figured if we could get you frustrated enough, something might happen.” She rubs at the back of her neck. “I didn’t expect the whole shaking building thing.”