by Lily Luchesi
The times we’re together, I usually do the talking and he listens. Hearing his voice is nice, especially since I missed him. “Nope.”
When Remy grins, his light brown eyes gleam. I almost forget what we’re discussing. “She was in the bathroom and realized there was no toilet paper. She wished for a roll and one floated over from the hallway closet. The gifting is different for everyone.”
We giggle. “Not exactly the way I imagined my powers coming into existence.”
Remy tugs on my tail. “What I’m saying is, just go with things, Em. I wouldn’t expect your gifts to be average.”
Average. That’s one word never associated with my family. I gaze up at his face, at the strong cheeks and pleasing smile. Remy is incredibly sweet. “Thanks.” I hug him, breathing in a new cologne. These last couple of semesters he only visits during the breaks, like now. “It’s great that you stopped by to see me as soon as you got back. Seems like old times.”
There’s never been anything romantic between us since we admitted years back that we don’t think about each other that way. Sometimes I wonder if we could have something develop. When he moves away, it stings. Has he found someone at his school?
Dad returns. “All right. Let’s try a few more times. I have to leave soon.”
We retake our places in this mundane play I call my life.
For ten seconds I fixate on the flower. I picture the petals as red as Mom’s new lipstick, Death’s Kiss. And then what?
Not a thing.
That’s the problem. I’m not making anything happen, besides wasting time. Repeat. Again, and again. When Remy hands me a towel to clear up my sweat fest, I exhale loudly. “Face it, Dad, I suck. I can’t awaken my gifts because there’s a void inside me.”
“Please leave the dramatics to your mother and she’s away. You don’t suck. You’re just what we would call a late bloomer, honey.”
His remark makes me grin. Mom is the drama queen around here. Remy rubs the back of my t-shirt until my father throws him a look. He sits down on the stool beside me, and mindlessly traces the blue stone of his ring.
Every coven member who becomes a true magic user is ‘gifted’ their power between the age of thirteen to seventeen (the years of our ‘awakening’). To mark this passage, they receive a ring in a special coven ceremony which is worn on the index finger of their right hand. Afterwards, they’re paired with a high-ranking mentor. When the teen is fully prepared, they then are admitted to Waylandale Academy and attend the next session. The Academy is the special school for supernaturals and is located about two hours away in upstate New York. Students can commute or board, depending upon their program’s study track.
In my case, because I’m at the top tier due to my age, I’d be placed on an intense study track to complete years of work in just one.
Our development has three portals for easy travel.
Something resembling jealousy tugs inside my gut. Instead of returning to practice, I distract myself by studying his ring. The thick sterling silver has intertwining trees all around the band which is imbued with magical properties. Nestled in the middle is an oval stone. The color identifies your talent. Remy has already reached his eighteenth birthday. He’s in his fifth and final year at Waylandale and boards there due to his many obligations like tutoring, a mentorship, and his advisor position for new students.
Meanwhile, I’m a junior attending the local public high school where I have to remain until I’m gifted.
Humans don’t know about us. Our coven straddles two worlds—the human and the supernatural. The supernatural world, located in its own realm, has been waged in a war. Until there’s a resolution, we’re safer here.
A scowl takes up residence above Dad’s eyebrows. “Mini-tantrum over?”
Glumly, I swallow and rock on the heels of my Doc Martens before refocusing on the mum. “Despite everything in my very own Hogwarts here, I’m still hopeless.”
Remy nods. “This room does remind me of Waylandale.”
There’s complete silence. Then the heating system kicks on.
Dad shakes his head. “Nonsense! Stop with the defeatist attitude. They say Rome wasn’t built in a day. Witches and warlocks practice their craft every day, despite any bumps and misses. I’m trying, honey. Don’t let your anger and frustration get the best of you.”
“I think I have the right to be mad, Dad.” My voice rises. “I’m turning seventeen soon. I’ve got days…. Days to display any power or talent. If I do, and I really hope I do, I will be the only junior from here to join the Academy. They’ll place me with younger kids, force me to play catch up. Years of work expected to be completed in one. I’ll have to live there. Devote every second to the craft. And if I don’t show any powers—”
“Don’t go there, Salem.” His curt tone cuts me off. A vein bulges above Dad’s left eye. “Your mother and I have worked and pushed you so you’re on track with students your age.”
That’s what they’ve been doing? Instead of shutting up, the word vomit continues to spew from my lips. “I’m not the only one humiliated. As a powerful warlock and respected coven member, my lack of talent has to embarrass you and Mom. Even Remy. But as my father, you’ll never admit it. Nor will Mom. I really hate this!” There’s heat on my cheeks.
I’m tired of feeling invisible, as though I’m an outsider in this coven and not a member. With a huff, I send the stupid flower flying onto the floor.
Incredibly calm, Dad reaches over to touch the side of my cheek, but his fingertips don’t transfer anything. “Whatever is going on, it must be for a reason. Trust the Goddess.”
Humbled by his grace, I swallow. Crow’s feet spread in the corner of his blue eyes. The same shade as mine. His shoulder-length black hair has a wide white streak just past his side part. We age slower than humans. Time will begin to show the affects of living. Seems it’s catching up to Dad and a large part is probably due to my situation.
With a wink, he drops his hand. “Why not channel your anger into your casting?”
Weird, but at this point, I’m game. “Okay.”
Remy’s leg shakes as it does whenever I attempt to nudge my magic. “I learned we’re not supposed to rely on anger for anything. My teacher said using that emotion can be volatile. It could lead to relying on the dark arts or even black magic.”
Dad yanks another white mum out of a nearby vase and places it down. “Employing emotion while casting is inevitable. Like anything, if one relies on one thing for too long, using it like a crutch, it could cause an adverse effect. This is merely a suggestion. Another way to see if we can allow Salem’s gifts to awaken. Think of it as a push.”
Remy mulls over my dad’s response before he nods.
“Besides,” Dad sits, “when I went to Waylandale, I learned the most from the professors who thought outside the confines of our textbooks. There are different ways to teach. Now Salem, breathe deeply. Clear your mind except for that anger. Grab hold of it.”
“No outer restraints either. Let the power flow unhindered.” Remy removes my hair tie. The freed strands glide across my back. “Maybe you need a black cat for luck.”
Dad snaps, “Young man, if you’re going to be a hindrance, go home.”
“Sorry, Mr. Corbett.” Remy drops the tie onto the counter.
A familiar. Even that I don’t have.
After we’re gifted, if we are to receive one, our familiar will show itself. We believe the Goddess chooses. When they’re at rest, they may appear as a tattoo somewhere on our skin depending upon their type. Remy’s is a python which sleeps across his shoulders. My parents don’t have any.
Would I?
I rest my palms on the the white carnation and close my eyes. Call on my anger. Allow it to increase. Build. Memories flash of coven meetings. Names of the gifted announced. Smiling faces. Proud parents. Lines of kids in uniform running to portals. Me walking to school, alone. The only supposed witch in the junior section by her locker. Useless.<
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My anger sparks in response. I shape it into a whip. Watch it lengthen. Undulate. Grow.
Its power excites me.
Then I imagine red things—blood, lipstick, Converse, dyed hair—and combine them with the thickening line. Keeping control, I cull everything into energy. Shape it into a ball, the whip its outline. Wishes. Hopes. Dreams. All mix with years of annoyance, impatience, how quickly they manifest. My skin vibrates from the building force.
Imagine the white petals crimson.
My neck itches terribly. Now I empty my gut of the tightening which happens every time someone shows off their magic. Watching neighbors in their uniforms leave every day. And I grab hold of the ginormous glob wedged in my ribs knowing I don’t wear a ring, special clothes, or have a familiar.
I am less than average. I am nobody. Damn, how that burns.
Soon my limbs complain from the exertion. Compressing every molecule, every fiber, every ounce of sweat which makes up my being into one command. I meld the words and feelings together. Contain it. Own it. And release.
My mind shrieks, “TURN!”
There’s an inner tug, like a match being cast across a hard surface, followed by a pop! sound. I allow myself to look.
The flower tips begin to curl.
Dad chuckles. Remy gasps.
A pink tinge spreads down their surface like runaway flames. My heart jumps. Three sets of expectant eyes watch and witness….
The petals transform from pink to deep red. That’s it!
Maybe I’m not a failure after all.
Chapter Two
Ha, so much for wishful thinking. Within seconds that shade turns dull brown. Then the mum morphs into a despicable gray. The petals coil upon themselves. All I can think about is the wicked witch’s legs rolling up under the weight of a house that killed her.
All that remains of the flowers is ash.
Any cause for celebration sinks along with my heart.
“That was lame.” I sigh and plop onto my stool, pinching myself to keep the threatening tears at bay.
My beaming father rushes over and pulls me up. “After three years of our impromptu classes, the book reading, everything done to help nurture your gift along, honey,” his tone upbeat, “That, Salem, was magic! A little off, and not what we expected, but it was magic!”
I stand, sink my fists into my jean pockets and allow myself a tiny smile. “Seriously?”
“Seriously, yes. That’s my girl. Now go grab dinner at that bakery café you like. Sorry I can’t join you. I wonder what you’ll do tomorrow.” Dad kisses my forehead and leaves.
“Mr. Corbett’s right. That was magic. Congrats.” Remy rubs my back. “Unfortunately, I’m working at my mom’s shop over the break. Can’t make it here anymore.”
“Silly, I don’t expect to see you all the time.” I begin to clean up. “You have a life.” I wipe the table and rinse the cloth at the sink. Remy pulls on his wool jacket; his attention turns to something on the side of my head.
“Don’t tell me there’s a stink bug in my hair.” I panic, about to go into a swatting frenzy.
“Ah, no. No…there’s no bug,” Remy stammers, coming over to gawk.
“What?” I demand, hands immediately on hips.
“Looks like you were successful with the variance spell, Salem,” Remy says, proud. “Except you changed the tips of your hair, not the flowers. I don’t understand.”
I yank some strands outwards to inspect. A bold red has replaced the golden brown. “Whoa. Think it’s permanent?”
Remy shrugs. “That’s magic. This is a first for me, though.”
“Did it backfire?” I pull on my sweater and jacket before we head towards the stairs.
“I’m not sure.”
I hurry over to use the bathroom. Remy waits outside. When I’m done and locking up, I spot him talking to my dad who’s in his car, about to pull out of the driveway. Both heads twist in my direction. Dad waves me over, staring at my head as I approach.
“Well, well, look at that,” his breath comes out in clouds. For mid-December it is frigid. The temperature must only be in the high twenties.
“What does it mean?” I rub my hands together. In the excitement, I left my gloves inside.
“I don’t know, honey. I’ll have to research it later. Anyway, go eat.”
“Do you think Em might be a maverick then?” Remy wonders.
I’m about to ask what that means when the temperature drops to freezing.
Dad glares at him. “Remy, don’t use that word again. Salem hails from powerful lineage. When she is ready her skills will be incredible. She’s not one of those.” The way he emphasizes the last word causes a shiver down my spine. Whatever it means, it must be vile.
Remy rubs his sleeve with trembling fingers. “My apologies, sir.”
“Don’t be late for your meeting,” I say. Dad prides himself on being punctual.
Seconds after he drives off, we begin our walk. Remy’s house is along my way.
“I need to apologize to you, too, Em. My mom’s preparing dinner. Otherwise, I’d hang out with you.”
My laugh creates mini clouds in the cold air. “I know. She does that every break.”
“It’s ridiculous. I should tell her—”
I swat his arm. “Don’t you dare! She loves you. Do not spoil it. That’s her thing.”
He tugs on my arm, tucking it in with his. “All right. Where’s your mother this week?”
“She’s speaking at a conference in Florida. My dad said she’ll be back to celebrate Midwinter festivities and my birthday.” As Grand Witch, my mom travels two weeks every month for Grand Council business.
We pass by three blocks of single-family homes, many with seasonal displays of wreaths and boughs on front doors. Some have strewn lines of blinking white lights from the skeletal forms of the trees on their properties.
Rush-hour traffic goes by as we turn onto the main road that leads out of Blackwater Coven’s development. I finally ask the question that’s been burning a hole in my brain. “Remy, wanna tell me what a maverick is?”
My best friend wraps his arm around my shoulder, drawing me in. His closeness is welcome against the chill. His voice takes on a brotherly air. “You really should ask your dad.”
A couple of middle school kids wave as they carefully pass us on their skateboards. The boys regard Remy as someone they can look up to. With his specialized training as a guardian for an important individual, someone like my mother, he is an ideal role model. As for me, the social status of my families carries even more weight. They dip their heads in a respectful bow.
We offer polite grins and continue in silence down the rest of the street. Remy doesn’t share much about his school anymore. He probably understands my jealousy. Other friends do nothing else but talk about their semesters there.
One fact that is true about witches is how tight-lipped we are. Heck, we don’t even like to gossip. Mom blames it on what our ancestors went through during the Salem Witch Trials and even before then during Medieval times and the Renaissance. Many of us only wanted to help others and instead faced persecution for doing things differently.
I understand it all, but this is one topic I need answered.
So, I change my approach. “Even though I’m in a human school, I’ve done a ton of reading on witch matters in my free time.” I begin to count them off on my fingers. “Rules and laws. Plants and herbs. Sigils. Moon tides and harvest seasons. Historical facts. Chanting and spellcasting…”
Remy groans. “And this means what exactly?”
Our steps slow. “It means maverick is one word I haven’t seen in any of those books! You brought it up. Why can’t you answer a simple question?”
He stops and places his hands on my shoulders. “Em, I’ve seen your father’s library. I know he’s been guiding you. I just don’t feel comfortable talking to you about that subject. We both saw how he got when I mentioned it. Did you know there are rumors h
e is going to be asked to become the next Academy president? Do you think I want to get on his bad side?”
Dad hasn’t said anything about a new job. Guess he didn’t want me to feel any more pressured than I already am. Wonderful. This news only proves I need my gift. Now. “All right, you made your point. I understand. I won’t put you in jeopardy. Can you give me a hint?”
Remy snickers. “You know how in Harry Potter no one wanted to mention Voldemort? It’s an unspoken term in our coven. Any coven. A maverick’s an oddball in the magical world.”
I shiver against the raw wind. Remy pulls up the collar of my jacket. “Even with these layers, using magic drains you. Your energy’s depleted. Grab a bite and rest.”
“You think I’m weird, huh? That’s fitting.”
He tries to hide his smile by looking away. I playfully punch his arm like old times.
“No, your dad’s right, Em. You’ll be incredible. It’s your birthright.”
I like that he’s the only one to use my nickname. Makes him seem special. “After my display, I’m not sure about that.” I flip my ponytail for emphasis, and we laugh.
He takes my hand as we quicken our pace. Our walk turns silent again, each in our own thoughts. After we cross a few more streets, we come upon the condo section where Remy lives.
Before pulling away, Remy plants a small kiss on my cheek. “Em, in case you get any ideas, don’t do anything online around here. I’ve heard our local Council Leader Raphael’s brother, Juan, keeps track of our online activity. They have access and keep records of what we do from our emails to our web searches.”
I blink a bunch of times, confused. “Why?”
He shrugs, keeping an eye on passing cars or anyone approaching us on the sidewalks. “It’s stuff I heard at the Academy, okay? Just, be careful. Sometimes we don’t talk because it’s safer that way. Bye.”
I wait and watch as Remy hurries over to his home and unlocks the front door. Before he heads in, he waves. I burrow my hands inside my jacket pockets and continue.
Witches in general don’t care much for technology. The main problem is the stronger we become, the more we’re apt to short circuit the devices. Unlike the kids at my school who are glued to their cell phones, I only carry mine for emergency communication since my parents travel a lot.
