by Dalya Moon
Spiritdell Book 2
© 2012 Dalya Moon
Genre: YA urban fantasy
Synopsis: It’s Halloween, and Zan is pressed to solve a murder. Zan is no ordinary high school boy, though, and he believes he can use his magical power to find the killer. Even with his visions, Zan won’t find this murder easy to solve, especially when he can’t tell who, or what, is plotting against him. As he unravels ancient secrets, Zan gets closer to the killer, and will be forced to choose sides. If he makes the wrong choice, someone dear to him will pay the price.
This is the second book in a series, but may be read as a stand-alone novel.
Book Length: approximately 72,000 words or 300 print pages
Chapter One
Today is Halloween and all I want to do is see my girlfriend and make her smile. Last year, when I was a kid of only sixteen, I spent days creating a robot costume out of cardboard boxes, and I couldn't wait to hit the streets. My masterpiece was big enough to disguise the fact that I was too big for trick-or-treating. This year, however, I haven't touched the tin-foil covered boxes, and I couldn't give a crap about candy. If I want tiny chocolate bars, I'll buy a bag tomorrow for half-price.
My stomach growls at the thought of chocolate bars.
I'm sitting in the last class of the day, trying to keep my eyes off the clock by finishing my essay. Ms. Mikado asked us to write about our summer adventures, even though it's almost November. We'll write these same essays a few times this school year and put them in a time capsule—a folder in Ms. Mikado's desk—then at the end of the year, we'll compare them and observe how time changes memory.
It's actually a pretty cool assignment, though I wish I could write about what really happened to me and not a censored version.
The highlight of my summer vacation was falling in love with my girlfriend, Austin, and the low point was nearly being murdered for my magical gift by a pair of witches. The first few months of grade twelve have thus far been less volatile, though with today being Halloween, I admit I do feel a little jumpy. Maybe it's all the girls in school wearing high heels.
What is it about funny shoes with a stick at the back of them that turns every regular girl into a strutting sex-beacon? The shoes go SNAP SNAP as they're walking down the hall and I'm hypnotized, as weak and defenseless as those fishermen in the old stories when the mermaids came singing.
My best friend Julie is wearing fishnet stockings. I don't know what the rest of her costume is because I haven't been able to take my eyes off her legs. She's crossing and uncrossing them now, next to me in class, as though aware of her power. Julie's a dancer, and her legs are long and muscular and ...
Pull yourself together, Zan! I scribble away at my open page of writing to get my eyes off Julie's legs. I'm loyal to my girlfriend, but my eyes aren't. I draw some more crows on the page, including a big one who looks like he has something to tell me. You should buy a gift for Austin, he says, his black eye twinkling.
Good idea, crow-drawing. I should buy something pretty for Austin, to remind her of me on the days we don't see each other, which are becoming too frequent lately. I'd love to surprise her with something incredible, so I'll need some female assistance with that task.
At the front of the classroom, our teacher is reading at her desk while we work on our assignment, and she doesn't mind a little talking, so long as we keep it quiet and brief. I catch Julie's attention and keep my gaze off her legs long enough to ask if she'll go with me on an errand after school.
“Errand?” She wrinkles her nose, covered in pinkish makeup the color of her skin. Her icy blue eyes are rimmed in thick, black smudges, making them enormous and doll-like. Julie's usually-messy, spiky black hair is in curls today, some of them slicked down against her forehead and cheeks. “I have to get ready for our party tonight,” she says.
“It's a shopping errand. For jewelry.”
Her big eyes open wide, like a cartoon kitten's. “Why didn't you say?”
Her twin brother, James, pokes me in the back. “Hey nozzle, why didn't you ask me?”
The truth is I asked Julie because I wanted a girl's opinion, but I can't resist the opportunity to bug James, so I tell him, “Because your face makes me barf.”
“Excellent.” He thrusts his eyeball over my shoulder and at my cheek—his prop eye that he's been carrying around in his hand—then points it at the half-written page on my desk. “I see you have a comma splice.”
I swat the eyeball away, accidentally sending it rolling up to the front of the classroom.
Ms. Mikado looks up from her book, spots the rolling eyeball, and screams adorably, with her hands on the sides of her mouth and everything. She's the most stylish teacher at our school by a mile, and today she's wearing a vintage Chanel suit—I know this because she told us at the beginning of class. Ms. Mikado's hair is perfectly straight and is comprised of at least five colors, from black to pale copper. She's half Japanese and half Irish, with a little bump on the bridge of her small nose that she often rubs while she's talking.
She's rubbing the top of her nose now, and laughing at herself for screaming. After she composes herself, she asks us, “What is up with this town?”
Ms. Mikado just moved here at the start of the school year, and she's asked us this question about a dozen times. I don't put up my hand, because I've learned the embarrassing way that she means it rhetorically. “Are we over a Hellmouth or something?” she continues. “Should I barricade myself inside a church until November first? Zan, what do you think?”
She's asking me because I have a reputation at the school for being hooked up with the paranormalia. Officially, I've done a few palm readings and proven myself to be a good guesser. Unofficially—and the whole truth—is I have a magic power that's accessed through my belly button. My power only works with girls, and is not as much fun as it sounds. When a girl puts her finger in my belly button, I get a psychic trip to Secret Town, where I find out secrets from her past, present, and often, her future.
Up until this summer, my gift prevented me from having a girlfriend, because I would always see something that turned me off. Things were different with Austin.
“No, Ma'am,” I answer Ms. Mikado. “Hellmouths aren't real. You're thinking of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and her fictional town of Sunnydale, California, which is not at all based on Spiritdell. The show's creators have denied any connection, in several interviews.”
“I was reading some of the town's colorful history,” she says. “The Legend of the Hound Girl, is that fiction? I've driven by the Odell Mansion, but I had no idea. The book was in the history section of the library.”
Behind me, James asks, “What's a library?” which cracks everyone up.
In her no-nonsense manner, Ms. Mikado says, “Nothing but books and girls who aren't your type—smart ones.”
Everyone laughs, none louder than Julie.
Ms. Mikado asks for a volunteer to pick up the eyeball, citing her easily-triggered faint reflex.
I run up and gingerly retrieve the eyeball to give to James. I cast my gaze down to avoid his decaying face.
“Why is it wet?” I ask him, holding the orb out.
“Taste it,” he says.
“No.”
“Smell it,” he says.
Some people in the class echo his dare for me to smell the fake eyeball. “Smell it, smell it,” they chant.
I lift the eyeball to my nose, just over my Charlie Chaplin mustache, and take a sniff, expecting something like glue or latex, but it's closer to vinegar. “Your eyeball smells like a pickle.”
I manage to look at the bottom of his face in time to see James grin, showing green and black teeth and gooey gore hanging from his lower lip.
“It's a
pickled duck's egg,” he says proudly, taking the fake eyeball back. He wipes the floor dirt off the surface with his sleeve and pops the whole orb in his mouth.
Behind me, something happens that sounds like bags of sand being dropped.
Ms. Mikado has fainted, folded over on the floor in her pink Chanel suit like a discarded doll.
Within seconds, she's being revived by Julie and some of the other students. By the sounds people are making, she's going to be fine, but all I see is a forest of lovely legs in fishnets and legs in white lace stockings and legs in purple leotards.
I love Halloween.
* * *
Julie insists on looping her arm through mine as we walk through the downtown core of Spiritdell. She says dressed how she is, she feels more comfortable as part of a couple, so guys still leer at her, but in a more respectful way.
“Like this?” I ask, scanning up and down. On top of the fishnet stockings, which I like, she has row upon row of black fringe, constantly moving, shimmying. I'd like to reach out and touch the soft-looking strands, but there's no part of my best friend's dress that's safe for me to touch.
We stop in front of a store window to admire our fine selves. With me in my Charlie Chaplin suit and her in the beaded headband and fringed dress, we could have stepped out of a black and white musical film.
Across the street are some kids from our school: Shad and Rosemary. Shad's wearing hip waders and carrying a fishing rod, and Rosemary's costume takes about a minute for me to figure out, because I'm staring at her bikini top and the bikini fruit inside.
DERR.
Mermaid. She's a mermaid. I yank my eyes away.
Julie points to a woman walking our way. “Isn't that your hot neighbor?” she asks.
The woman is dressed in a shiny blue princess dress, with white gloves up to her elbows, and a glittering tiara on her head. She must be wearing a wig, because Crystal's parents are from India, and she's definitely not a blonde, though the color does suit her.
“Must be some fancy party you're heading to,” I say as she gets closer. Crystal doesn't even blink one of her elegant green eyes, nor does she acknowledge my existence. She sails past us on a breeze of jasmine and older-woman-hotness.
“I guess she didn't recognize you in your disguise,” Julie says, as though a tiny black mustache is all it takes to make me unrecognizable.
When we get to our destination, we press the buzzer for the jewelry store door—a bit of security Julie has to point out to me as I flail away at the locked door—and are let in. The air inside is about a hundred years old and the man at the counter a hundred and ten.
“Engagement rings are over here,” he says.
Julie squeezes my arm and lets out a torrent of giggles. “Not for another nine years,” she says, referring to the pact I made during the summer, that I would marry her if we were both single at twenty-eight. Julie used to have a crush on me, but I had to break the news to her I wasn't interested in her like that, and yet she still talked me into the future engagement. Julie can be convincing, especially if you care about her as much as I do. She and her twin brother James have been like siblings to me. We're triplets, albeit with different DNA.
I explain to the elderly man that I need something for my girlfriend, who is not Julie. He holds one hand to his ear to hear me better, because I suppose the furry white hair sprouting from inside his ears are dampening the sounds.
“What did you do?” he asks, the movement of his lips nearly invisible under his thick, white mustache.
“I've been looking at other girls' legs, but she doesn't have to know. The gift is for our four-month anniversary.”
“Four months,” the man says, stroking the snow-white hairs of his mustache. “Necklace.”
I look at the section he directs me to, which contains one really pretty, expensive necklace, and a bunch of junk. The choice is obvious.
Julie tries the necklace on and seems disappointed I've chosen so quickly.
“I don't usually wear fancy stuff,” she says, “but being in this place has awoken something primal.”
“Rowr!” I say.
“Does the recipient live in town?” the man asks me, ignoring Julie.
“Yes, why?”
“We wouldn't want to see this beautiful piece stray too far away.”
Julie asks him, “Did you make this necklace?”
He shakes his head. “Not my hands. Maybe not even living hands. It's vintage.”
“I'll take it. My girlfriend loves things with history.”
Julie coughs into her hand, saying, “Except boyfriends.” Cough.
I give her a disapproving look, which I shouldn't. She and her brother would both stop teasing me about the age difference if I'd stop reacting.
“Some people think opals are bad luck,” the man says as he nestles the necklace in a navy blue box. “You're not superstitious, are you?”
I assure him that I believe we make our own destinies, and a pretty little rock is just a pretty rock.
Julie sticks her lower lip out. “I wish someone would buy me a pretty necklace.”
“I'd suggest dressing a little more demurely,” the old man says. “If you keep your tatas and bobos behind the curtains, the rubes will pay anything to get admission.”
Julie's jaw drops.
I bite my tongue as Julie sputters for a moment. Tatas and bobos. James is going to scream when he hears about that.
* * *
After we leave the jewelry store, I say to Julie, “Senior citizens are so adorable, don't you think? They say the darndest things!”
She punches me on the arm, hard, as usual.
I laugh and say, “Watch out, you're jiggling your tatas and bobos.”
Something catches Julie's attention and she shuts her mouth into a tight line. Her lips barely moving, she says quietly to me, “Make the bee go away.”
A big black and yellow bee bobs and hums around her. Julie's been stung by a bee four times in as many months since the first manifestation of my so-called defensive power. Unlike my visions, I don't know much about this secondary power, except bees appear sometimes when I'm in trouble, and they sting Julie. She and James weren't with me for my epic battle with the two witches a few months ago, but I told them—and only them—everything that happened. I told them all I know about my bee power, which is almost nothing.
“I'm not doing anything,” I say, watching the bee. “But maybe this is a sign you should stop punching my arm. My loyal bees will get you!”
Her lip quivers, as though she might start to cry. “I don't want to get stung again. It hurts.”
The bee is still bobbing up and down, as though waiting for orders.
Now's as good a time as any to give my powers a test, so I put my fingers on my temples, because whenever I've seen people with magic powers in movies, they always put their fingers on their temples. It could help. Sometimes the truth is there right in front of us, disguising itself by being too obvious for people to suspect.
With my fingers on my temples, I also squint my eyes and wiggle my Charlie Chaplin mustache.
Instead of embarrassing myself by saying my commands out loud, I focus my thoughts. BEE! I COMMAND YOU! GO DO SOMETHING USEFUL. DO SOMETHING GOOD.
The bee bobs up and down, the volume of its buzz doubling then tripling, growing to a tiny roar. The bee zips away from us, down the sidewalk, and straight into the plate glass window of a store. Smack. Game over, bee.
Julie looks at me, her pale blue eyes wide with awe. “You did that,” she says.
“Did I? Maybe the bee thought you were a flower, found out you weren't, then committed suicide.”
“I'm just glad I didn't get stung, which is no fun, whatsoever.” She ducks her head and looks around for signs of other bees, but there aren't any. We're enjoying a lovely fall day, with a light breeze and birds chirping in the nearby park.
Julie grabs my arm and pulls me to the side to let a woman pass by.
Th
e woman, Crystal in her princess costume, gives me a weak smile when I wave at her this time. “Must be some party you're going to,” I say, again.
She hurries off, still not responding. Maybe she had a bad day at work, I decide. She works at a veterinary clinic, and they may have delivered some bad news today.
And on that note, I stop at the plate glass window to pay my respects to the dead honey bee or bumble bee, whatever species he or she was. I look around on the sidewalk, but there's no little bee body.
“Could the breeze have blown the body away?” I ask Julie.
“I don't know. What does a bee weigh?”
I take off my Charlie Chaplin hat to let my head breathe. My black suit is soaking up the sun and cooking me.
“I could have sworn ...” Julie frowns at the window and leans back to take in the store. “I think the bee flew straight through the window, into this pawn shop.”
“Through the window?”
“You were doing magic stuff.”
“You're nuts. Let's go inside and ask if they've seen a bee,” I say. “What's the harm?” I tuck the blue box containing Austin's necklace into my suit pocket and hold open the door for Julie.
There's a scent to the air that wafts out of this storefront, and it's nothing like the old dust of the jewelry shop. Sorrow. This place smells like sorrow.
Suddenly I'm as cold as someone who's never seen the sun.
The inside of the pawn shop is dim, every shape alive and moving as my eyes adjust. Dim light is always more frightening than absolute pitch blackness because the mind plays tricks. I won't even look at mirrors in dim light.
There's a sound in here, a symphony of ticking clocks, playing their time-passing song, but I can't pick out the buzzing of a bee. We look, for a few minutes, at the musical instruments on the wall before I realize what feels strange. There's nobody here but us.
“Hello?” I call out. That sick, sweet smell. I still can't place it.
Julie yells, “You have customers!”
“Don't say that,” I hiss at her. “I'm broke as of now. I'm not buying anything.”
She whisper-yells back at me, “Maybe I want to buy something.”
