He felt his mind clear.
And he knew what he had to do.
Charlie walked over to his closet and pushed aside his hanging clothes. He saw the long length of wood leaning against the wall, the bristles at the bottom glowing a golden brown from the bedroom light.
He reached in and pulled his broomstick out of the closet.
Even though he had promised, he knew now that all bets were off. His aunt and uncle had finally figured out who he was, just what kind of monster, what kind of sick freak they had living under their roof. Promises didn’t matter anymore.
“Fine,” said Charlie as he dressed in warm clothing. He grabbed an extra sweater and some books and threw them in his backpack.
“If you guys don’t want me … ” he said quietly, as he slipped his wallet into his pants pocket.
“Then I’m outta here!” he finished, hoping his voice sounded tough. It didn’t. It shook and warbled.
He slid the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, then opened up his bedroom window.
Charlie, this is not a good idea. You’re gonna get into trouble. You don’t even know where you’re going. What if you get caught? What if you fall somewhere and nobody finds you?
“Then everybody’ll be happy,” he said.
At the last minute he took off the bracelet from his wrist, the one that Beverly had told him to wear at all times, and threw it on his bed. He didn’t know why he did it. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
He climbed out onto the sill with his broom in hand. As he turned to shut the window behind him, his foot slipped on one of the wet shingles. He grabbed the sill with one hand and slid into a crouching position an inch short of the rain gutter, stopping himself just before losing his balance and falling off the roof.
Trying to catch his breath, he felt his limbs begin to shake. He looked down at the cement sidewalk nearly two stories below his feet.
“Come on, Charlie, don’t be a stupid baby. Get up!”
Carefully, still holding onto the rain gutter with one hand, he slipped the broom handle between his legs and let the quiet Words find his mouth. The stick shuddered to life.
“You’re such a stupid baby,” he said again, more quietly. He scooted the toes of his shoes out over the edge of the roof, looked to his right then his left as if checking for traffic, took a breath, then pushed off the rain gutter and floated out over the front yard, wiping the tears from his eyes so that he wouldn’t hit the thick tree branches as he left the house behind him.
CHAPTER 11
Which World?
ALTHOUGH CHARLIE HAD MOSTLY stopped crying by the time he flew out over the street, his tears blurred his vision, making it hard to navigate. After nearly flying headlong into a telephone pole, he leaned back and rose above tree level. He wasn’t thinking about where he was going or if anyone could spot him. He had the vague idea of heading west, out over the Sound, with its lack of telephone poles and tree branches.
But he looked down and found himself flying south over the top of Puget Academy with its solid brick structure and blocky HVAC unit mounted on the roof.
Charlie could feel defiance building in him. He had done his best to ignore the gay part of himself for so long, until he had been told that if he lied to himself about it he couldn’t be a witch. He had decided to open up as best he could. But he couldn’t even do that right. Diego wanted more, even though he said he would be patient. Beverly didn’t want him to be the way he was. His mother dumped him off at her sister’s house and drove away like he was radioactive material. It was time he decided for himself how he should do things. Too many other people had been making his choices for him for far too long. And none of it ever worked. He just kept getting yanked around or thrown away.
A pocket of air caused his broom to drop a foot. He gasped and tightened his hold on the handle.
For some reason an image of Mavis formed in his head. He remembered how she had grabbed his arm and the feeling of nausea and lightheadedness that came from it.
He thought about how she tried to get by, selling lotions at farmers markets, tricking people.
He thought of his mother, tucking herself away in some rural town, letting her gifts atrophy, unable to protect herself.
Their hidden lives. Being sly or scared all the time seemed awful. Could he do that? Could he be a hermit, or a scam artist? He didn’t think so.
But then what world could he inhabit? What was left for him?
There was the normal world, where you clocked in at work, raised a family, worried about mortgages, grew vegetables. But that was the world where men and women liked each other. That wasn’t going very well for him.
There was the witching world, where you learned your craft and had a community surrounding you. But in that world, you had to be raised in a witch family your whole life, where you knew about your legacy and where you fit in, instead of being some freak castaway.
There was the world where boys liked boys. You could walk around, knowing who you were, reading pamphlets, and going to meetings. But you had to be popular, and confident. You had to be the president of things.
He couldn’t find himself in these worlds. All the instructions seemed to be for other people. There wasn’t anybody to tell him how to get it right. He really was on his own.
Why hadn’t he seen this earlier? Why had it taken him so long to understand that all the rules, all the guidelines, weren’t for him? He just didn’t fit. He had tried to hide, but all those parts of him leaked out. The witch part that he didn’t even know about leaked out in the kitchen during the Dog Man attack. The faggot part leaked out enough for Diego to spot it at the farmers market. What good was it to try to hide when everyone just found out anyway?
What good was it to try to live in any of the normal worlds when he was just a screwed-up freak who couldn’t pull any of it off to save his life?
Charlie was surprised to see that the route he was flying had taken him along the coastline and had brought him to the northern tip of Lincoln Park. Maybe he had planned to head here the whole time. He didn’t know. He just knew he wanted to keep flying.
He tried not to think that his mother had done the same thing he was doing, nearly sixteen years ago. He didn’t want to be like her, someone who hid out, someone who was worried and shy all the time, someone who was weak. Someone who cared about dumb stuff like coupons and correct posture, while lying about all the things that really mattered.
No, he wasn’t running away from things the way his mother had. He was running toward something, flying in a direction where he could figure out just what sort of world he could inhabit.
He heard the soft rustling of fabric beside him and turned his head.
“Hello, Charlie.”
CHAPTER 12
The Promise
HE JERKED IN FRIGHT, nearly tumbling off his mount. Looking to his right, he saw a woman on a broomstick, flying parallel to him, her dress flapping in the wind. She had bright red hair pulled back from her face in a bun. She was smiling.
He barely managed to keep his hold on the shaft of the broom. His heart thudded cannon balls against the walls of his chest.
“Wh-wh-who are you?”
The woman laughed. She sat sidesaddle on her broom, perfectly balanced. As she laughed, her head tilted back exposing a creamy white neck.
“You know who I am,” she giggled. “Don’t be silly.”
Charlie did know who she was. He knew it the moment he heard her say his name.
“Wh-wh-wh- …”
His pulse was beating so hard in his throat that he feared his head would explode off his neck like a rocket.
“Are you stuttering? How adorable. Why, there’s no reason to be nervous,” the woman cooed. “It’s just me. An outcast like yourself. Out for a nice evening ride.”
She shot several feet in front of him, then turned her head and looked directly at his face.
“Isn’t it thrilling to be out on your own, with no adul
ts to boss you around, just you, that trusty piece of wood, and freedom?” she asked, her green eyes shining.
Charlie knew he should change course, but he wasn’t sure where to go. He had no doubt she could outride him. He looked around, desperate to come up with a plan of escape.
He heard fabric rustling again and jerked his head to the side. She was on his left now, so close that he felt her breath in his ear as she talked.
“Charlie. Charlie. You don’t have to be scared. I just wanted to meet you. Your reputation precedes you, you know.”
The sound of flapping came from somewhere below. He looked to his right and saw two large crows flying next to him, side by side, their wings beating the air in steady movements, the glass-bead eyes on the sides of their heads trained on him. In them, he could see a reflection of his small shape and the gauzy, orange figure of Grace, the witch.
Two more crows joined them, flying just beneath his feet, and another pair soared into position above his head. They kept their spindly legs tucked straight behind them as they flew. Charlie could see the thickness of their black oily feathers, could see their beaks, curved like ebony knives.
His whole body began to shake. The sheer blackness of the birds, and Grace’s warm soft scent overwhelmed him. He tried to make his broomstick descend, but it wouldn’t budge.
More birds flew in front of him, behind him, all around him. The sky was filled with black feathers, the swoosh swooshing of flapping wings, a profusion of harsh bird calls.
They rose above the treetops and turned left, away from the water. He wondered what they must look like: an odd cloud of birds, a cluster of wood and feathers and hair.
He tried to turn his broom to the right, but again it wouldn’t budge. It was as if a tractor beam had locked onto the tip of his handle and was pulling him. They were turning together in a long, wide arc.
“So many people seem to be talking about you these days, Charlie. Out of nowhere you show up, and then you’re the talk of the town. Elizabeth …”
The sound of his mother’s name on Grace’s lips sobered him and stopped his shaking. He felt his veins heat up with courage.
“You leave her out of this, you witch!”
“Oh ho, a feisty little one. How very cute,” she said, her voice as calm as if speaking to him from a park bench on a pleasant spring outing, not thirty stories in the air, flocked by black wings and razor-sharp beaks. “No, let me finish, Charlie. You deserve to know some things, things that nobody has told you.
“Your mother, Elizabeth, kept you hidden all those years, hidden away so you wouldn’t know the truth of who you were and what you could do. But then we found out that you existed, even though no one else had been able to. You were hunted down. Do you know why, Charlie?”
“What are you talking about?” He had to yell now, for they were flying faster, and the wind was sucking the words out of his mouth. Somehow Grace managed to speak as if there was no wind to impede her.
“Didn’t you wonder why that Dog Man, as you call him, came and tracked you down? Didn’t you wonder why he went to all that fuss? I mean, really, who cares? You were just a young unpopped witch kid hiding out with his pathetic little mommy on a crap farm in the foothills? Didn’t you ever stop and think, ‘I wonder why these people are making such a big deal of me’?”
Charlie couldn’t figure out what to do. He knew he was in danger. Grace had already taken control of his broom. He didn’t know where they were going. But her words pulled at him. He hadn’t thought much about what Grace was saying, at least not about why they had come for him. It had all gone so fast.
He felt stupid. Why hadn’t he considered any of this? Could he really get away with the excuse that everything had gone too fast? Or was he just keeping his head in the sand?
The truth was, he didn’t know why the man had come for him. Or why the two witches had broken in and tried to kidnap him. And now, in spite of the danger he knew he was in, a tiny spark of interest burned in him. Did Grace know? Could she tell him?
“Do you want to know, Charlie? Do you want to know the things that Beverly’s precious ridiculous little coven is trying to keep from you? Because if you do, I’ll tell you. I’ll explain it, and a whole lot more, if you want to hear it. If not, fair is fair. You can fly on home to your cute little house and keep living your cute little life with your aunty and uncle. And that hunky Diego too. I must say, you do have good taste in boys.”
His face flushed. How could she know about Diego? Had she seen them? Seen them kissing? How did she …?
Who was he trying to kid? She was the most dangerous witch around. Even normal people always found out. For her it was probably as easy as blinking.
Grace’s voice dropped low. “Would you like to know, Charlie? Answer me now and we’ll keep going. If not,” she said, letting her voice grow louder, “I’ll set you free.” She waved her arm above her head. A rainbow of colored lights sparkled from her fingertips and floated around his face, mocking him.
No, Charlie, a voice said inside of him. She’s dangerous. You can’t trust her. Say “no” and fly away. Go back to Beverly, where it’s safe …
Beverly doesn’t want me, another, angrier voice said. My mother doesn’t want me. At least maybe I could find out the truth for once.
Before he could ponder any further, he nodded. Grace laughed again, a tinkling sound that was clear even through the rushing wind and the myriad crow wings beating at the air.
“Wonderful!” she shouted, clapping her hands together in delight. “Then hang on to your broomstick, young man. I think you’re going to enjoy yourself.”
CHAPTER 13
A Murder of Crows
GRACE SPED AHEAD, AND CHARLIE’S neck snapped back as his broomstick shot forward to keep up with her. He clung tightly to the wood in his hands, not sure if the sound he was making was a prayer or a scream. The flock of crows surrounded them like a cloud of coal dust, their smell gamey and raw, their chorus of cawing awful in his ears.
“Do you know what a group of crows is called?” Grace yelled over her shoulder, her placid expression replaced by what looked like madness. She had tucked her feet underneath her legs and now sat with her shoulders hunched over the front of her broom, her neck twisted to look back at him, several strands of ginger hair whipping about her forehead and cheeks.
Charlie was too terrified by their breakneck speed to do anything other than shake his head.
“It’s not a flock. It’s a murder. We’re surrounded by a murder of crows!” Even from the distance of two broomstick lengths in front of him, with the wind that passed through the crows’ wings pounding at his face, he could see the crazed light flashing in the witch’s eyes.
They flew north. Through the erratic gaps between black feathers, the lights of downtown Seattle twinkled several miles away.
A bright glow caught his attention far off below him, to his left. It appeared to be growing larger. Grace didn’t seem to notice, and neither did the crows.
He blinked eyes to be sure that he wasn’t imagining things. Sure enough, the bright light wasn’t just growing. It was moving toward them, a blazing ball of yellow, rushing so fast that he had trouble tracking it.
A moment later Grace looked over her left shoulder. The air was filled with a terrible screeching sound, though Charlie didn’t know if it came from the witch, the crows, or something else. Half of the birds broke formation and winged off toward the oncoming ball of light. Grace dropped back, closer to Charlie. The tendons in her neck strained as she reached beneath the bodice of her dress and pulled something out, something silver, hanging from a cord. It had a white handle, and moonlight reflected off its long curving blade.
With horror, Charlie watched as Grace gripped the strange-looking knife in one hand, and letting go of her broom handle with her other, leaned toward him. The distance between their two brooms disappeared. Before he could react, she grabbed Charlie around the neck and lifted him almost completely from his broom, ch
oking him. Charlie batted at her iron-like grip, unable to breathe, as white dots began to swim in front of his eyes. Any trace of the previous softness in her face, which was now inches from his, had disappeared. Her teeth were gritted, her lips bared, her eyes narrowed to horrible slits. The hand holding the wicked-looking knife rose above his head.
And then the ball of light was upon them.
Shouting erupted in Charlie’s ears. Broomsticks tangled with legs, hair whipped at his cheeks, arms and faces flashed in front of him. Grace’s nails scratched hard at the skin of his neck before they were ripped away. He gulped for air. There were feathers, the cawing of crows, screams and grunts, swearing. Before he knew what was happening, his broom had spun out from under him.
He felt weightless for a split second as he was thrown in an upward arc. New shouts joined the cacophony. Hands grabbed for his back and legs. His body began to flip, head over heels, as he plummeted toward the earth, no more feathers to block his view as he fell away from the mess of birds and broomsticks colliding above him.
A sharp jab caught him on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, his waist. He had stopped falling. He saw the strange yellow glow about twenty feet above him in the air. Two figures were mounted on Grace’s broom. Arms rose and fell repeatedly, but he couldn’t tell why, or what they were doing, or even who they belonged to. More screaming, more cawing. Charlie turned his head and saw the faces of a man and woman on either side of him, faces that should have been familiar, though he couldn’t place them. It took him a moment to figure out that he was splayed across two broomsticks. Hands held onto him to keep him in place.
Crows dove and spun at them. The man … it was Daniel! Daniel Burman! The stern-looking detective. And the woman was Rita Lostich, her hair a mass of curls about her face. Daniel smacked at the crows with his hands. His face bled from several scratches. Charlie watched as a crow bit Daniel’s ear, listened in terror as the man screamed.
The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (The Broom Closet Stories Book 2) Page 10
