by John Conroe
“No!” she said, making me jump back. “Not that way, lad. Never that way. Never take living energy, Declan. That’s death magic. And our people don’t do that.”
“Okay,” I said. She was still watching me though, the wheels of thought clearly turning. I could see the moment she came to a decision. “The man who is your biological father was from a line that had a number of bad seeds. Witches that used death magic. Ye may have a knack for it. I’d not like to see you put a single toe to that path.”
I nodded, unable to form words. The man who raped my mother came from a line of death witches. Great. I was half evil.
“Now don’t be getting all morose on me, lad. You are who you choose to be. We all have traits that we don’t favor. It’s how we handle them that counts. Now pick another way, and no draining the weed.”
I pulled it with power, a form of what parapsychologists term telekinesis.
“Next,” she said, over and over. Finally, after about five more, I started to run out of ideas. I shifted the air molecules into a kind of lens and focused the sunlight into a burning beam. That one startled her into giving me a surprised look.
“Good for today, lad. We’ll work on these and we’ll come up with a whole slew of things ye can do, ranging from just a twitch to a full lightning strike. I’d like it even better if you learned some non-magical ways to protect yourself.”
“Maybe your deputy friend Darci would teach me? Cops learn all kinds of things and sometimes the sheriff’s department does girls self-defense classes at the school,” I said with as much innocence as I could muster.
She eyed me for a second, then nodded. “Not a bad idea, that,” she said.
***
“Declan, lad, come meet my new friend here,” my aunt called as I carried a recently emptied dish tray back out to the restaurant dining room.
I set the tray on a folding stand in the corner and walked over to my aunt. A man in his thirties, lean and fit with curly brown hair and dark brown eyes, watched me approach.
“Declan meet Levi Guildersleeve, bookseller and man of the world,” Ashling said, a glitter of humor in her eyes. “Levi, this is me nephew I’ve been telling ye about.”
He stood and held out a hand, gripping my own with a grip that told me he was stronger than he looked. He looked at me closely, like he was measuring me as we did the manly meet-and-greet thing. I knew I was tall for my age but thin. Some of our regular customers liked to quip with Ashling that she didn’t feed me enough. That wasn’t true of course, as I ate all the time and I had a full restaurant kitchen to haunt. And I wasn’t weak; too many chores that involved lifting and chopping, hauling and carrying to allow me to be a weakling. But I just never seemed to gain weight, much to my chagrin. Still, I wasn’t small in the way that Rory Tessing was, just not muscular as my former friend Trey Johnson was turning out to be. Still, at only ten, I wasn’t too worked up about it. At least until I was measuring my grip against a guy that looked like a fitness fanatic.
“How do you do, Declan?” Levi asked, still watching me but dropping the handshake.
“Pretty good, Mr. Guildersleeve. You’re new around here aren’t you? You’ve been in, what, three or four times? You like the Irish classics, fish and chips or the bangers and mash,” I said.
“Observant,” he noted, but turned to my aunt as he said it.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Declan, Mr. Guildersleeve has an interest in Rowan West’s occult supplies. Found us through that website you made.”
“Declan is your web creator?” the man asked, eyebrows going up.
“Aye, that he is. Has an affinity for electronics and such,” she said. “Some of what Mr. Guildersleeve sells are books of a rather special variety, lad.” Her look was questioning, checking to see if I got her meaning.
“Family recipe books?” I asked, using our code phrase for grimoires.
“Exactly, lad. He’s kenned us out,” she said, watching me closely.
I was already carrying a pretty decent amount of power as it was—just kind of habit—but now I started to draw in more. No such thing as enough.
“None of that now, lad. I’m pretty sure of this one,” she said to me. Levi looked back and forth between us, clearly curious and slightly surprised. “Could you feel any of that, Mr. Guildersleeve?”
“I could,” he said, eyes wide, “and I think you should call me Levi.”
“Levi here used to be a soldier in a distant land,” Ash said.
“Israel,” he interjected.
“He was, he tells me, an instructor in unarmed combat. I asked him to teach you,” she said to me.
This was awfully fast. Aunt Ash didn’t place trust in people easily if at all. Besides her girlfriend Darci, the list was very, very short. She discussed the occult only to the extent of answering general questions from customers of the New Age shop attached to the restaurant. Very general questions.
We were, as I understood it, hiding our nature as witches, especially mine. But Vermont has plenty of those New Age spiritualist kinds of folks, and like knows like. Almost from the start, my mother and aunt had unwittingly attracted those in the population with a hint of talent. After more than a few questions, they had opened a little herb shop at the entrance to the restaurant, gradually adding other items like crystals, books, and the paraphernalia of the occult. Enough to meet expectations but not enough to scream out HERE BE WITCHES.
The website was my idea and my creation, having found that I had a certain affinity for computers, HTML, and other programming. But now here we were, engaging an absolute stranger in conversation about grimoires and self-defense lessons. Which meant only one thing… Ashling O’Carroll had either extremely strong premonitions about Mr. Levi Guildersleeve or an outright vision. And this idea was important to her somehow.
“Okay,” I said, studying my aunt while this new guy studied us both.
Ashling turned back to him. “We’ll have to discuss the matter of payment.”
Money was always an issue. The restaurant business is tricky in the best of times: balancing perishable inventory against expected numbers of diners, workers’ pay against payroll taxes, and a sea of other pitfalls. My aunt was good at it but that didn’t mean we had lots of spare cash lying around.
“You know, I could use an expert opinion on a number of rare volumes I have currently, as well as any new ones I acquire. I have a… nose, let’s call it… for authentic work, but it’s not refined at all. Pricing these things is super important. Perhaps we could work a trade of skills?”
“Perhaps we could at that,” she said, nodding to him and then giving me the get back to drudgery look.
The previously empty tray I had only just delivered was already over half full, so I headed for it on my way back to dishwashing headquarters.
“Declan,” a voice called, female and slightly raspy.
One of our regulars, who fancied herself a practitioner of the occult arts, was waving to me from a small table along the far wall.
“Hi, Mrs. Leonard. Can I get something for you?”
“Just the name of that handsome gentleman your aunt is flirting with,” she said with a sly smile.
Mrs. Leonard had just a touch of Sight, passed down from her ancestors, diluted by time and genetics. She was a bit of a know-it-all but looked up to Aunt Ash greatly. She was also a huge busybody.
“I don’t think that’s actually flirting, ma’am. Mr. Guildersleeve is a book collector. I think he’s either just opened a bookstore or is about to. He likes rare old books and he’s interested in Aunt Ash’s opinion.”
“Oh, he’s interested all right,” she tittered. It astounded me that some people completely missed the signals that my aunt sent out, or more importantly, failed to send out.
The fact that Darci was about to move in with us wasn’t something we advertised, but it also wasn’t top secret either. Aunt Ash hadn’t shown interest in any of the men who were attracted to her, but Letitia Leonard had somehow miss
ed that.
“I think it’s just books, ma’am.”
“Well, he’d do well to listen to your aunt, boy. She’s a treasure directly from the goddess!”
“Yes ma’am. I’m well aware of that.”
“How about you, boy? Any signs of the goddess’s grace?”
“I’m pretty good with computers, so maybe that’s a gift from the goddess.”
“Maybe, Declan, maybe,” she said dismissively, her eyes back on my aunt and her guest.
I grabbed the tray and headed back into the kitchen. Every hedge witch wannabe or psychic hopeful was usually quick to take my answers to their probing questions as a sad truth. Never mind that I was telling them no lies. My ability with electronics was very definitely an offshoot of my Earth and Fire abilities, but I kept all trace of talent tamped down, not using it outside of a warded circle. Even my brief grab for power by my aunt’s side, if Mrs. Leonard had even sensed it, would no doubt be considered Ashling, not me. It got hard at times, always hiding myself, especially when people who fancied themselves Crafters sent pity at the poor, Talent-bereft nephew.
But all Aunt Ash had to do was remind me that my mother died to protect me and my personal pity party would shut itself down. Actually, since the pedophile incident, I wasn’t all that anxious to show off anymore, anyway. But my training with Ash was now equal parts about control (especially when angry or afraid) and learning to use my powers to defend myself. My once-friend Trey was still quick to cast suspicion in my direction among our classmates, leaving me with just a few friends. Actually, just two, Rory and a boy named Jonah, although a few of the geeks and nerds would associate with me because I was good with tech (and their science-based belief systems didn’t allow for stories of witchcraft).
As I loaded a wash tray and hosed off particles of vegetables, crumbs, and gravy from lined-up plates, it occurred to me how ironic it was that my school peers were quick to believe Trey’s stories of my witchy ways even though I hadn’t done anything (well, almost anything) in school, while my aunt’s occult clientele probably doubted I was even her blood relative.
An hour later, as the lunch crowd was slackening, I was refilling the water pitchers at the waitress station when I heard my name again. Even before I turned, I knew the voice. Jessica Connors, Trey’s longtime girlfriend.
“Hi, Jess,” I said. She and her family were just coming into Rowan West. Despite Trey’s defection, Jessica had only stopped talking to me for a short time, maybe a month or two, before going back to treating me like she always had. Almost like a friend. So, I kind of had three friends. I say kind of because with her, I didn’t want to be just friends.
Her family liked my aunt’s cuisine and dined with us several times a month on average. Her father gave me a nod as he steered her younger brother, Peter, behind the hostess. Jessica was giving me one of her warm, friendly smiles, the kind that never failed to lift my spirits. Behind her, Mrs. Connors was watching me and smiled a little when I met her eyes. “Declan,” her mom greeted me.
“Hi, Mrs. Connors. There’s a really great butternut squash soup today that you might like,” I said. I may have mentioned that the Connors were close friends of the Johnsons. I’m sure they knew a lot about the incident that Trey and I had faced, but I don’t know exactly how they felt about it. Mr. Connors, who is some kind of investment guy, almost always acknowledges me but never engages me in conversation. Mrs. Connors, who is an elementary school teacher, always says hello, but I think she’s afraid of me or at least a bit worried about me. But rather than ignore or shun me, it’s like she’s being careful not to offend me while watching carefully for signs of danger. She was a devout vegetarian, and fully half of Rowan West’s menu catered to plant eaters.
“Thank you; that sounds lovely,” she said with a quick smile, looking away toward her husband and son. Jess gave me a big smile and a little wave as she followed her family to their table. With a sigh, I headed back into my domain.
No more than ten minutes later, one of the waitresses, Becca, stepped into the dishwashing area. “Your pretty school friend asked me to come get you. Her brother is acting up. Something about his electronic toy not working.”
Becca had been with us quite a while and didn’t question for a second why I might be asked to assist with electronics, as I had helped her with her phone on many occasions.
I dried my hands, slung the towel over my shoulder, pulled a dry erase marker from the kitchen memo board, and wrote a symbol on my left palm. Then I headed out. In the dining room, I found a bit of a commotion. Peter, who has some type of autism, was complaining loudly and trying to reclaim a white plastic-cased computer game from his father, who looked frustrated as he tried to fix whatever the problem was. Mrs. Connors was attempting to soothe the distraught Peter, and Jessica was alternating glances from her brother and father to the kitchen entrance. She spotted me immediately and waved me over, her anxious face relaxing at the sight of me.
That image, of her absolutely lovely face changing to relief at just my appearance, is the reason I will never deny her any help she needs. Nevermind that we would only ever be friends, every appreciative glance she threw my way was currency of enormous value.
“Declan, can you help? Peter’s Game Boy froze up,” Jessica asked me as I approached the mayhem. “Peter, look… Declan’s here. He’ll fix it.”
Peter didn’t let go of his death grip on the bottom of the Nintendo, but he did look my way and his vocalizations quieted. He was forever playing the latest game—expertly, I might add—and this would not be the first time I had helped him with a balky device. Actually, I think Rowan West has a tendency to play havoc with electronics in general, something about the wards my aunt and mother created around it. Many a dropped cell phone call or rapidly drained laptop battery in our restaurant.
“I’m sure I can get it,” Mr. Connors said, frustrated.
“Jack,” Mrs. Connors said, somehow making it an entreaty and warning all at once.
He sighed and let go of the device. Peter clutched it for a second, looking down at the small screen.
“Peter, let Declan see your Game Boy,” Jessica suggested. He looked at it, then me, then his sister. She nodded. His arm came out to me, the ultra-important Game Boy offered to me.
“Thanks, Peter. Let’s take a look,” I said, moving closer so that he could watch me as I held his current favorite.
On screen, a tiny figure with a big mustache was frozen in the act of climbing a ladder.
“Wow, nice score,” I said.
It may seem odd that I don’t play a lot of electronic games, but when just your intent can alter the programming, it doesn’t take long before your friends stop letting you join. But I knew Peter’s score was ridiculous, based on what Rory and Jonah regularly achieved. The rune on my palm, Cen, fed me the answer as soon as the game hit my skin. A tiny glitch, maybe brought on by a spike in electromagnetic energy when the Connors hit our wards, had interrupted the program and it couldn’t find a way to break itself free. Turning it off, as I suspect Mr. Connors had been attempting, would likely have done it, but it would have lost the game in play, which was undoubtedly why Peter had objected.
I made a show of jiggling the game play buttons while I pushed a little bit of energy into the computer chip that ran the device. The screen restarted instantly, and I immediately shoved the Game Boy back into Peter’s hands so he could continue his current game.
“You certainly have the magic touch,” Mr. Connors said. His smile didn’t go all the way to his eyes. One thing I’ve observed from working around families dining in our restaurant is that fathers don’t like to be shown up in front of their children.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t do a thing, Mr. Connors, although I felt a little static shock when I touched it,” I said, shrugging. “Luckily it kicked itself back on or I think you’d have had to turn it off and on.”
“Exactly what I said,” he said, looking at his wife in vindication.
; She raised a brow, then turned and smiled at me. “Thank you, Declan, even if it was just static. I’d think the dishwashing would ground you out, but hey, static is an odd thing, right?” she said, teacher’s eyebrow raising again.
So not fooled. Jessica wasn’t either but unlike her mother, she wasn’t even slightly afraid.
“Thank you, Declan,” Jessica said. “Peter, did you thank Declan?”
“Thanks Declan,” Peter said, not looking up from his game.
“Just break the record, buddy,” I said, turning back toward the kitchen.
“Declan, can I call you later about our English assignment?” Jessica asked.
“Of course, although I’m only half done,” I said, then waved goodbye to the Connors.
Jessica didn’t need my help with English or really any class, even tech. It was just an excuse to call and chat, probably thank me for helping with her brother, who she was fiercely protective of. She called me at nine-thirty, and we talked for almost a half hour. Believe me when I tell you that I would fix all of Peter’s games if I could talk with her for even ten minutes.
***
“Declan, lad, how’s the firewood supply looking?”
“Um, same as yesterday, Aunt Ash. I haven’t had time to get to it. That dinner crowd last night was crazy.”
“Yet you’re playing your game, now aren’t ye?” This she asked as she watched me running my dirt dude across the game space in the back barn. Overhead, Draco lurked in the rafters, unseen but making enough noise to let me know he was there.
“We agreed that Wytchwar counted as practice,” I said, pretty sure I had a winning argument.
She snorted, which dashed my hopes. “It’s like your crack drug now, isn’t it?”
“Well, I do like it, but it’s still practice,” I allowed.
“Do ye like a heated home when it’s freezing cold outside?”
“Well yeah, but we do have oil in the tank,” I said, almost wincing as the words tumbled themselves out of my mouth.
“Oh? And does this magical oil pay for itself? Lad, ye know that we use as much wood as possible on account of it practically falling down in our forest and not having to pay a dime for it, right?”
