Beautifully Broken

by Sherry Soule

  Some of my mother’s family, the Broussards, had kept grimoires. I hunched down and dragged the small trunk my aunt Lauren had given me on my tenth birthday. At the time, I had wanted dolls, not an old trunk full of diaries, a witch ball, and a dagger.

  At the time, she’d mentioned some stupid prophecy about the Thirteenth Daughter and my destiny. An old legend that foretold the coming of a girl who would break the town curse and conquer some big bad evil. It had been a lot to digest at that age.

  Hell, it’s still hard for me to believe. Prophecies aren’t real…are they?

  I unlocked the trunk with the key I’d stashed in my nightstand drawer and removed the tomes, stroking the leather covers. The small journals resembled black prayer books with fine silk markers. I placed them on the bed. Then I sat and lifted one carefully, almost reverently, flipping through the pages, reading the tiny, handwritten scrawl. The black ink had been dry for decades on the heavy parchment; the pages that smelled like incense, sweet honey, and roses. It was in these books that I’d learned how to create a wall of light to use as a protection spell.

  We had a fascinating family history, full of sorrow, romance, black magick—and murder. Some of the books said the magick had been in my family for hundreds of years—since the late 1600s. My ancestors escaped the violent witch-hunts in England and France by coming to America in the middle of the 17th century. Rumor had it that they had brought the magick with them to Whispering Pines. Started over here. Away from persecution and prying eyes. They had tapped into the arcane power confined within Mother Nature and prospered. Their religion had become a mix of Christianity and Wicca.

  With a shiver of vivid recollection, I thought of the children in grammar school who had taunted me. Magick. Witchcraft. Curses. Some of their ancestors had been among the founding fathers, too, those families who’d run away from the taunts had heaped upon them. But I’d been treated differently. Singled out. As if somehow those kids knew I saw paranormals.

  Now that Trent Donovan and his dad had returned, they’d be under the same speculation as my ancestor Anabelle Broussard had been under the day she’d returned from her honeymoon without the groom. Like my other ancestors, Anabelle had kept a grimoire too. Her book contained spells and instructions for magickal rituals. Like how to project a protective wall of light. Written words that were her voice in death.

  I’d read the grimoires many times. They spoke to me. As though the essence of my ancestors resided in the paper. The imprint of their souls seeped through the indentations of ink on the pages. Books filled with strange symbols, drawings, and incantations. Some dating back to 1690. I’d read them all, although they didn’t make much sense. I searched for a solution, answers, but found none. I felt better just holding them in a world where no one believed in magick.

  I never had a chance to question my aunt Lauren after she gave me the trunk. To ask her about either the books or the prophecy. After that, she wasn’t allowed in our house. No one would tell me why. But I’d heard. Statements hurled out like spears. Hurtful words that could never be taken back once spoken. A family divided by silence.

  It sucked, because my family used to be close. Since my tenth birthday, my aunt Lauren and my grandparents, Grandma Naomi and Grandpa Samuel, didn’t come around as much. I missed them. Their absence caused me to feel even more alone in the world.

  On impulse, I decided I needed someone to talk to. Someone who knew something about magick. I walked down the hall to my parents’ room and nudged the door open with my foot. I peeked inside. Jillian sat hunched over, reading a worn, leather-bound book. A lit black candle and rose petals lay on the vanity table.

  She glanced up, saw my reflection in the mirror, and pressed a hand against her heart. “What?” she snapped, shoving everything into a wooden chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jillian ignored me. She inserted a small key into the metal lock on the chest and twisted it. She opened a drawer and dropped the key inside, then closed it with a bang. She looked up and arched a raised brow. “Well?”

  We stared at each other. I swallowed. “Never mind.”

  “Good. Run along—I’m busy.” She turned away. “And shut my door, please.”

  I sighed and returned to my room. Sometimes I thought it would be nice to move to a place where the whole freaking town didn’t know about my family history. I wanted to live among people who didn’t look at me sideways with speculation or unease or anxiety. Small towns—ugh. I put the books back in the trunk and slid them under the bed. I decided I’d spend all day tomorrow working on constructing a stronger psychic barricade.

  I had a feeling I was gonna need it.

  ~~~

  On Tuesday morning, after smashing the shrieking alarm clock with my fist, my first thought was if I would see Trent at school. Yawning, I shuffled into the bathroom where I took a quick shower and brushed my teeth. My mind kept returning to Trent. Would he be there? Would we get a chance to talk? Thick fog was all I could see out the bathroom window. The choke of claustrophobia edged over me.

  Normally, I had toast and coffee before heading off to school, but this morning I couldn’t eat. The toast was dry and stuck in my throat. Thinking about Trent and his sexy green eyes made my stomach rebel with nervous anticipation. I was fluttery at the thought of seeing him again. The feeling tightened my chest.

  Whispering Pines High was a one-level structure with a brown slate roof and a cream painted exterior that hovered within a blanket of fog. When I arrived after walking two miles, the parking lot was already full of cars and people. Ashley Witheridge and the Trendies ascended the steps ahead of me, walking into the school. Ashley had hair the same color as mine that flowed around her like spun silk brushing her shoulders. In her slim jeans, she was svelte, with super long legs and minimal curves. Her best friend, Kayla Bishop, threw back her head, copper-colored hair flying, and laughed loudly at something Ashley said. Kayla hurried on short, fake-tanned legs to catch up with Ashley’s longer strides as they entered the building, joining the throng of urban yuppie students that predominated the school.

  Yanking my hood over my head, I wished I’d chosen something else to wear other than my frayed jeans, a cerise cropped hoodie that exposed my bellybutton ring, and my pink Doc Martens boots.

  Not like I’m rebelling. Okay maybe I am, but I like to think I have my own quirky sense of style.

  I didn’t stress my incongruent style for long, because my inner babbling was stifled by the racket that greeted me inside. Girls, who hadn’t seen their friends since school ended three days ago for Memorial Day weekend, squealed and hugged. Guys fist bumped their buddies and gave each other head nods. My eyes searched each face for Trent’s tan, blond features. Disappointment edged into my heart when I realized Trent was nowhere to be seen. The bell rang as I walked toward English class, and two kids said hello. I shuffled past the desks and sat in the back, opening my textbook. My pencil fell on the floor and rolled behind me.

  The energy surrounding me changed. A glacial current ruffled my hair. I bent to grab the pencil and noticed…a ghost floating in the rear of the classroom.

  The wraith stared with a rather remote calm. A greyish glow draped curiously around her. And like in a horror movie, her body flickered. Hanging from her bruised throat was a rope tied in a noose, the frayed end dangling behind her. Her ragged lace gown hung loose.

  The wraith’s iridescent blue eyes narrowed on my face. With her voice soft and melodic, she said, “Shiloh, recognize the deceit. Only then can you perceive the truth.”

  Ah, hell. Now ghosts are turning up at school. Not good.

  A chill scaled the ladder of my spine. I wasn’t given to premonitions, but as the cold tremor shot back down my back, I was overcome by a sense of real danger.

  Sunlight sliced through the blinds over the windows, casting shadows into the room. Shadows that moved. Swirling blobs of darkness. Hollow moans erupted from the paranormals. They melded with the shadows, except the
greenish gleam of skin and fiery eyes.

  Remain calm, Shiloh. Pure white light, pure white light, pure white—

  Damn! My defensive wall wasn’t working. Ordinarily, I could block ghosts. Not this time.

  “Miss Ravenwolf? Are you with us?” Mr. Hall, the English teacher, caught my attention.

  I flinched, my hand flying up to my heart. “Uh, yeah…I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Terrific. I’d like you to read aloud for us the first two stanzas of Poe’s poem, Spirits of the Dead,” he instructed.

  Now? Really? If I freak out, the trash talking will be everywhere by lunchtime.

  With my head low, I raised my textbook and recited, “Thy soul shall find itself alone. Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone. Not one, of all the crowd, to pry into thine hour of secrecy.” My voice rose and broke in awkward tones. “Be silent in that solitude. Which is not loneliness—for then. The spirits of the dead, who stood. In in life before thee, are again. In death around thee—and their will. Shall overshadow thee; be still.”

  “Thank you. In this poem,” Mr. Hall began, “Poe alerts us to the unseen strangers among us. This room is overflowing with people. While frightening, it is also reassuring, because souls of the dead surround us. We are not alone.”

  Glancing at the wraith, I shuddered in my seat. Shadows circled her ankles, stroking her legs like snakes. “The mystical energy is not meant to be used,” she said. “More powerful than you know. It is old and always restless.”

  My breath escaped me. My pulse spiked as the shades’s raucous whispering grew in volume. Again I imagined being surrounded by protective white light. But I couldn’t concentrate, my body shook with the chill of winter. My eyes opened and scanned the room. No one saw them but me.

  Outside, the sun pushed between the malignant mass of gloomy clouds, straining to shine upon the earth. The rays found their way through the blinds.

  What would the Charmed Ones do?

  On impulse, I sprung from my seat and ran across the room, shooting like a comet toward the windows. Electricity crackled around me. Heat warmed my scarred forearm. A strange force sparked within me—magick, fire, power—flowing in my veins and drumming in my head. The magick begged for release, tingling in my fingers and blazing in my eyes. Electric sparks flew from my fingertips and raised the blinds before I grasped the pulley.

  Sunlight burst into the room, dancing across my olive skin. I glanced toward the rear of the classroom, keeping my mental fingers crossed that the wraith and the shadows had been vaporized.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The classroom fell silent. Each pair of curious eyes was a tear to my soul.

  Crap, another social blunder to talk about. Shiloh, the epic weirdo.

  The sun shone through the window, but in my soul it was still night.

  Mr. Hall exhaled through disapproving lips. “Miss Ravenwolf, why are you disrupting my classroom?”

  My cheeks caught fire. “Uh, well…children need sunshine to grow. I’m on the, um, committee to improve, the…” Think. Think! “The social economics of sunlight in, uh, classrooms, Mr. Hall. So if, you don’t mind, please keep the blinds open in the future.”

  I took my seat. All traces of my shadowed horror were gone.

  Giggles erupted. My classmates snickered, then turned away. Apparently, weird, stuttering girls weren’t worth more than a moment of curiosity. Ashley and the Trendies snickered.

  Mr. Hall’s mouth fell open. He blinked and faced the chalkboard. “As I was saying class…”

  “You are so bizarre,” Ashley whispered. “Such a mental case.”

  My bottom lip trembled. I pulled my hoodie over my head, taking detailed notes and snubbing her. Tears cascaded on my cheeks, but I didn’t dare sniffle or swipe them.

  All the girls sitting near me whispered the word, “Weirdo. Weirdo. Weirdo.”

  “Oh…shut up.” I grabbed my iPod and stuffed my earbuds in, listening to an alternative band.

  I hate them. Hate their perfectly coiffed hair. Their matching outfits. And I especially hate that they’re right…I am weird.

  The first time I saw the shadows I told my dad. Big mistake. We’d been driving home from a camping trip and evening had crept to the edge of the forest on either side of the highway. The sun dipped her crimson face below the horizon. Shadows wobbled, lengthened, covering the pavement.

  “The shadows have spooky shapes. Bloody eyes. What do they want, Dad?”

  His face blanched and he almost veered off the road. “What?”

  Somehow I knew what I’d said had been wrong. Not what he’d wanted to hear.

  “Nothing. We have more chips?”

  He relaxed, and I knew then certain secrets were better kept to myself.

  That’s right folks, Shiloh Ravenwolf can see the recently departed and paranormals. Yeah, I know—throw me in a padded cell.

  From the grimoires, I’d learned to create psychic defenses, like visualizing a golden barrier that kept paranormals from harming me. Once erected, the barrier wrapped itself over my body like a warm cashmere blanket on a cold winter’s night, protecting me from invisible but tangible forces. The best part was if used correctly, the extrasensory block also concealed fear, which fed dark energy. Shadows loved to nosh on terror. They survived off powerful emotions. Not flesh, but rage. Sorrow and pain were their favorite snack. Little leeches.

  From what I found on the Internet and at the library (with help from the cool librarian), the shadows were actually nocturnal creatures named Shades. Small, discernible beings that shapeshifted into amorphous masses. Shades feared sunlight, the same way vampires did. By day, the living shadows were supposedly timorous. I often wondered if the light actually hurt them or just scared them off. By night, they unfurled from the darkness, coalescing into small dark figures. And in a foggy coastal town, like Whispering Pines, days shrouded in fog meant the shades came out to play—or torment—any freaking time they wanted. One common denominator unified the various shadows entering our world—malevolence.

  And they had another thing in common…an attraction to me.

  “Shiloh, I need to speak to you,” Mr. Hall bellowed over the ringing bell. Chattering students grabbed their backpacks and textbooks and pushed their way past one another into the corridor.

  I lingered until the room cleared, then walked to his desk. “Mr. Hall?”

  “Yes, concerning your essay.” He shuffled papers and organized his books, searching the pile on his desk. “Ah ha! Found it.” He lifted a piece of binder paper from a plastic tray labeled Homework. “Now, regarding your composition on a teenager’s biggest fears, I assumed you understood that this assignment was nonfictional prose.”

  Grimacing, I said, “Was it? My bad.”

  “Yes.” His eyes scanned the page. “You wrote your essay on Achluophobia. Although, I’ll admit a paper on phobias, especially on a fear of the dark, was interesting, I wanted real, honest pieces regarding fears that pertained to your future.”

  “Sorry.” I licked my glossed lips, dry tongue catching on the thick gloss I’d applied earlier, when I’d hoped to see Trent. “Do you want me to do the assignment over?”

  He rubbed his chin. “No, it was well written and convincing for a fiction piece. Next time try taking notes and stop fidgeting so much in class.”

  I backed away, shoving my books into my backpack. “Yes, sir. Thanks!”

  I trudged through the rest of my classes, ignoring the giggling Trendies, finally making it to lunch. I opened the heavy steel doors to the cafeteria and walked in, holding my head high. There, the waft of greasy fried foods and overcooked burgers assaulted my nostrils. Someone bounced a basketball against the wall. Over the rumble of laughter and conversation, I heard people talking about Trent Donovan as I walked through the room. Trendies, a mesh of preps and jocks, were flocked in one corner with trays of food they bought but never ate and were gushing over the summer style edition of Seventeen magazine. The chess club huddled in another corn
er, dressed in slacks and button-down shirts. Skinny emo kids with their colorfully dyed hair and black apparel appeared bored. And the slackers in their wrinkled clothes, scattered throughout in small groups, held that defiant and jaded look. Cafeterias were the nexus that brought cliques together—the epitome of high school life.

  I sat at the lunch table with my friends, the social indefinite kids, opened my paper sack, and removed my sandwich. My friend Paige Jones came over with her tray and squeezed in next to me, then squealed when Jada Martin plopped her tray on the table and shoved us all down further on the bench. Jada’s long cotton skirt rustled when she sat and crossed her high-top sneakers. Paige glared, but Jada just grinned. Ariana already seated across from us, laughed and took a bite from her veggie burger.

  “Have you seen the new guy in town?” Jada pushed her cherry-dyed ringlets off her shoulders and propped her elbows on the table. Her smooth caramel skin, a mix of Spanish and African American ancestry, made Ariana, sitting across from her, look white as snow in comparison. Jada’s complexion always seemed to glow, even after the long, sunless seasons that turned others into grey ghosts. Unlike me with my perpetual tan skin.

  I turned toward Paige on my left. “What’s she babbling about? Wait. Did she forget she already has a boyfriend?” My eyes met Jada’s amaretto stare, and I winked.

  “Trent Donovan—duh. He could make anyone forget,” Ariana said with a laugh.

  “Now, if you’d been lucky enough to get a glimpse of his hot-self,” Paige said, taking a bite of her burger and dripping ketchup on her pleated blue chiffon blouse. “Then you’d be salivating like most of the girls in the school. Hey! I wonder if he’s on Facebook.” She pulled a BlackBerry from the pocket of her tailored slacks.

  Jada leaned forward. “Yes, I have a boyfriend, Shiloh. But, a girl can still admire the male species,” she said, wiping crumbs off her black T-shirt.