The Zodiac Collector

by Laura Diamond

  “Ah, found it.”

  “Great. Now what?”

  “Now I chant it.” I set the book on the floor and gather my collection of pillar candles. So much better than tea lights. Within seconds, I have them arranged on the rug, one for each direction on the compass, like before.

  “Do we really have to do this?” Mary joins me on the floor, folding her legs under her.

  “Yes.” Any scientist will tell you there’s no better way to prove something is real than to demonstrate it. Therefore, if Mary sees magick, then she’ll have to believe it. I strike a long stick match. The tang of sulfur tickles my throat. I light each wick, calling out each name as I go:

  “North, south, east, west. Earth, fire, wind, water.”

  Pollux and Castor stare at us from Mary’s bed. They don’t like fire, even if it’s from a small candle flame.

  Mary fumbles with the figurine. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s an offering to the Gemini twins. We have to invoke them first, then we can do the spell.” I blow out the match. Smoke streams from the tip in a serpentine dance.

  She places the horse and knight statue between us. “Invoke? Oh, gawd.”

  “It’ll be okay. Take my hands and read it with me. Gamma said it’ll work better that way, if we do it together.” I rest the book on my legs and extend my arms.

  “Oh, all right. We’ll chant, it won’t work, then you can drop it so we can focus on the exam.” She leans toward the book.

  We chant:

  “Four elements of life

  Earth, fire, water, air

  We invoke thee.

  Four corners of the earth

  North, South, East, West

  We invoke thee.

  Four elements of the Zodiac,

  Earth, fire, water, air

  We invoke thee.

  Four bodies of the cosmos,

  Planets, stars, moons, comets,

  We invoke thee.

  Gemini twins,

  Castor and Pollux,

  We invoke thee!”

  Mary squeezes my hands. Sweat slicks my palms. I swallow the growing lump in my throat. I didn’t bother to ask Gamma how I’d know if the invocation worked or not.

  “Is that it?” Mary asks. She’s breathing fast and her forehead is wrinkled from worry.

  “We have to actually chant a spell to keep our birthday plans a secret.”

  She nods. “Hurry up.”

  My stomach jitters. I don’t have a specific spell, so I have to modify an old story Gamma told us about once. A witch had made a pact with her diary to keep her secrets. She’d messed up the wording and ended up losing her ability to speak. She could only write in the dairy, but whenever anyone tried to read what she wrote, the pages became blank—an unexpected consequence and a mistake I won’t fall into. If I word things correctly, I can weave a chant allowing us to keep our birthday party a secret. It can’t be too hard. Mary and I are working together, the Gemini twins are invoked, and we’re not trying to change anybody. Really, we’re only asking for a blessing. Nothing wrong with that.

  “Anne?”

  “I’m just thinking how to phrase it.”

  Her gaze ricochets from me to the book and back to me again. “You’re not using a spell from the book?”

  “Hold on.” I search the pages and find the Secret Spell. “I’m using this one.”

  She squints at me. “O-kay.”

  I chant:

  “Four elements of the Zodiac,

  Earth, fire, water, air.

  Gemini twins,

  Castor and Pollux.

  Hear our plea.

  Let our sixteenth birthday

  Be a great party.”

  “Is that really in the book?” Mary’s mouth twists to the side.

  “Shh. I’m personalizing it.”

  She sighs.

  “Close your eyes.” I continue:

  “Castor and Pollux,

  It is our wish, it is our plea,

  That our birthday planning

  Stays under lock and key.

  Castor and Pollux,

  It is our wish, it is our plea,

  That our birthday

  Is filled with magick and revelry!”

  “Say it with me,” I say.

  “I don’t remember what you said.”

  I let go of her hands with a sigh, collect a notepad and pen from the desk drawer, and write down the chant. I pass the bubble-gum-scented paper to her.

  She studies my quick scribblings. “Your handwriting is terrible.”

  “Focus, or something will go wrong.”

  She throws up her hands. “Oh, great. Now you’re telling me something bad will happen.”

  “Just say the spell with me.” I hold out my hands. “Three times, then we’re done.”

  Her hands are cold and clammy, though the room is warm.

  We chant the spell:

  “Castor and Pollux,

  It is our wish, it is our plea,

  That our birthday planning

  Stays under lock and key.

  Castor and Pollux,

  It is our wish, it is our plea,

  That our birthday

  Is filled with magick and revelry!”

  At the end of the third round, I open my eyes and let out a long breath. “Wasn’t so bad, right?”

  “Yeah.” Mary nods. She rubs her hands together. “So, is that it?”

  “I—”

  Goosebumps erupt on my arms as the temperature suddenly plummets. Everything in our room shakes—beds, desk, chair, light fixtures. Our cell phones ring and the alarm clock buzzes. A gust of wind whips our hair into knots and sends a stack of loose papers swirling in circles. The candles blow out, throwing our room into twilight. Castor and Pollux both howl from under Mary’s bed.

  “Oh, crap, we did something wrong.” Mary’s voice trembles with fear.

  “Ack!” A paperback novel swoops toward my head. I duck. It ricochets off my mattress and slides toward Castor. He scrambles deeper under the bed. Pollux barks at him, then the book.

  “Stop it, Anne!” Mary swats an airborne sweater before it wraps around her face and smothers her.

  “I don’t know how.” I grab her arm and drag her toward the door. “Let’s get out of here!”

  We huddle by the door and Mary keeps watch for random projectiles while I jiggle the handle. I twist and twist, but the thing won’t turn. “It’s locked!”

  By now, the swirling wind, wonky electronics, and yelping dogs have fried my brain. I can’t think beyond please stop, please stop, please stop.

  “Anne? Mary? Knock off that racket! I need to concentrate.” Mom is louder than the commotion in our room. “I mean it. Don’t make me come up there!”

  I can’t decide what is worse—a poltergeist or Mom.

  I stand and put my hands up. “Castor and Pollux, hear our plea. Stop destroying our room, I beg thee!”

  The chaos intensifies. The dogs go crazy. Mary starts crying.

  “Castor and Pollux, shut up!” I stomp my foot.

  The wind stops. Everything falls to the floor as gravity once again takes over. Our phones stop ringing. The alarm clock dies.

  I smooth my tangled hair—like it’s possible—and try to catch my breath. Mary is still whimpering by the door. I kneel next to her. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

  Whatever “it” was.

  “Anne,” she stares at me with a white face, “what have we done?”

  Chapter Six

  “Girls! The power’s out. Did you do something?” Mom’s voice is muffled, like a hoarse bleat from a tuba. The brash percussion of her heavy stomps follow, vibrating the walls. Knickknacks and lampshades tremble in terror, much like my bones.

  “Oh jeez, she’s coming upstairs!” I dash around the room, gathering the candles and tucking them under my bed, along with the spellbook.

  A rapid series of bangs pummels the door. “Anne! Mary! Answer me!”

  Mary
retreats to her bed and clutches her bio notebook to her chest like a shield.

  I bellyflop onto my bed and pry open my math book a half-second before Mom bursts in.

  She looms over us, eyes wide and teeth bared. The dragon is awake. “Well? What have you done?”

  Mary picks at a fingernail. “N-n-nothing.”

  Mom props her hands on her hips. I picture a thin layer of leathery skin stretching from her shoulders to her wrists—dragon’s wings. “Nothing? Nothing! How am I supposed to use my sewing machine without electricity?”

  “We didn’t knock the power out. We were studying,” I say.

  Mom stomps farther into our room and steps on the figurine. It breaks with a sharp crack. She scoops it up like a bird of prey snatches a field mouse with its claws. “What’s this doing on the floor?”

  Mary tucks her hair behind her ears. “C-c-c…P-p-p,” she pauses, eyes darting. “The dogs were playing with it.”

  Mom chucks it into the wicker trash can under the desk. “This isn’t a dog toy.” She points to my pile of laundry. “Clean this up.”

  I nod and try to hold my breath. Hopefully the shroud of bitter cigarette smoke surrounding Mom will prevent her from smelling the subtle—but potentially traitorous—odor of a freshly blown-out candle.

  Mary glares at me while Mom storms out of the room and marches downstairs.

  “What?”

  “Why’s the power out?”

  “Dunno.”

  She springs to her feet, crosses the room in a millisecond, closes the door, and leans against it. Her eyes pinch shut and her mouth puckers. Makes her look like a constipated supermodel. “It was the spell.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  She shoves off the door and pads to my bed, pinky finger extended. “Pinky swear and cross your heart that you’ll never make me do another spell ever.”

  I sit up and extend my arm in ultra-slow motion, puzzling over what could’ve gone wrong. We’d followed Gamma’s instructions. We’d given an offering to the twins. Hooking fingers with Mary, I promise to myself that I’ll figure out what happened and correct it for next time—with or without Mary’s help.

  “You’re not planning something, are you?” She holds onto my finger as if touching me will let her identify insincerity like a lie-detector machine.

  I waggle free and bend to scoop Castor up into my arms. “No way.”

  “Right. I can hear the wheels turning in your skull.”

  That evening, I head downstairs to fix dinner, even though it’s Mary’s turn. It’s the least I can do, and it should be easy considering the power’s out, so there won’t be any actual cooking involved.

  I creep downstairs, keeping an eye on Mom’s studio door. A burst of curses rattles the paintings hanging in the hallway—sounds like she pricked herself with a needle. An odd assortment of sketches, dress patterns, and Dali landscapes huddle together like islands in a sea of robin’s-egg-blue walls. The collection pretty much covers all of Mom’s tastes. Except for the very first sword Dad forged. It marks the center of the display, as if he is claiming a piece of an otherwise Mom-dominated world. Maybe that’s the type of weapon I need for a spell to work. Maybe I pissed off Castor and Pollux with my five-dollar faire trinket. Maybe they didn’t like the idea I’d “re-gifted” it.

  A drum solo drowns out Mom’s riff of swears. She must be using her battery-powered radio.

  I round the corner and slip into the kitchen. I don’t know why I sneak. She can’t hear me over her own noise. Yet it seems like angry eyes are shooting javelins at me from another dimension or something.

  Like in all the horror books I’ve read, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge and my stomach sours. A shiver rips down my spine and the nagging feeling of being watched heats my skull. A presence is definitely behind me. I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to run. I’m being ridiculous. It’s probably nothing. I shiver again. Pressure builds behind me and a shadow darkens the room.

  It’s the sun going behind a cloud.

  Except it’s not.

  The air thickens and grows heavy. Something suffocating is closing in.

  I spin around, ready to confront whoever or whatever is lurking behind me.

  The hallway is empty.

  “Stupid. Stop freaking yourself out.”

  I shrug off the chill and head to the kitchen. Nothing happens when I turn the switch. I huff. Right, the power is out.

  “I wish I could just chant a spell and voila, dinner’s on the table,” I mutter.

  Even though I’m alone, I can’t shake the worry willies that keep skittering across my shoulders. I wipe the sweat from my palms onto my jeans and head to the pantry. Unlike at Gamma’s, our pantry is a large, built-in cabinet dividing the kitchen and dining spaces. Inside, I find a loaf of oat-nut bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, and baked vegetable chips. I dump the items on the table and check the fridge for fruit. Pre-washed strawberries and blueberries—score! I toss them in a bowl with some sugar. There’s pound cake in the pantry. Drizzle on the fruit and bam!—dessert.

  Outside, an arc of lightning flashes across the dark, heavy clouds. Thunder grumbles like an old man awoken from a nap. Rain spits on the roof.

  Poor Castor and Pollux. They hate thunderstorms.

  The dogs, I mean. The Gemini twins, I can’t say.

  Dad has a sixth sense where food is concerned. As soon as I have the table set, he appears, a smile on his face. “No power, eh?”

  “What happened?”

  “No idea. Flipped the circuit breakers to see if there was a short somewhere in the house, but no go.”

  Old Man Thunder grumbles some more, but a slice of sunlight spears the ground. All talk and no bite.

  “Could it be the storm?” I ask.

  He shrugs, lathering his greasy hands with hand sanitizer. “Yeah, if it hit a transformer.”

  There. A logical explanation. It has nothing to do with the spell.

  “You excited for your birthday?” Dad pours himself a glass of milk and sits at the head of the table.

  I join him. “Yeah.”

  “What are you and Mary going to do?” He drinks half the glass in one gulp.

  I inhale, ready to tell him…and my brain flashes the blue screen of death. There’s no sense in telling him about our bloated wishes of a birthday blowout to end all birthday blowouts, because, well, he’s Dad. “I dunno.”

  “You could see a movie with William, or hang out at the faire.” He finishes his milk and gets up to pour another glass.

  I rest my case. He doesn’t get it. “Yeah.”

  Mary joins Dad and me for dinner. Mom doesn’t. Her empty place setting is a stark reminder of what it’s like when she’s manic. I stuff down tears of anger and sneak a glance at Mary. She cuts the crust off her bread and nibbles on a clean edge like a squirrel.

  I push the chips toward her.

  “No, thanks.” She takes a sip of water.

  Dad shovels three sandwiches down his gullet in a matter of minutes. He’d give the funnel-cake-eating contest competitors a run for their shillings. Bits of crumbs and mini-globules of jelly litter his bushy moustache. He wipes his mouth on a discount paper napkin, finishes off his glass of milk, and belches. It used to make us laugh. “Thanks, girls. Great dinner. I’ll be in my workshop. I’ll also see if I can get the generator going so your mom can work through the night. How ‘bout you? Got your costumes ready for the faire?”

  We nod.

  “It helps your mom’s business when you wear her gowns, you know.” His hooded emerald eyes volley between Mary and me. He always looks so much older when Mom is manic. It’s as if she drains his energy to accelerate hers.

  I bite my tongue. I hate being a walking advertisement, but that’s what Mary and I are. Every year, we parade around in her creations and never get to explore or enjoy the faire on our own.

  Mary smiles. “We know, Dad.”

  He carries his dishes to the sink, then heads
to the fridge and drags out a six-pack. “Tell your mom I’ll have the power on soon. That should cheer her up.”

  “Right.” I grimace behind his back. Why can’t he tell her?

  He cradles the beer and leaves.

  I put the leftover food away while Mary clears and wipes the table.

  As we work, the lights flicker to life and a happy “Whoop!” echoes from Mom’s studio all way to the kitchen.

  “We should see if she’s ready for us to try on dresses now, while she’s in a good mood.” Mary shakes the dishtowel out over the trash can and folds it over the bar mounted onto the cabinet door under the sink.

  “Good idea.” I suck in a puff of my asthma medicine. If I go in without pre-medicating, I’ll end up in a full-blown attack within a minute.

  Mom’s rocking out to her favorite band while she irons. Her hips sway left to right and her hair bounces around her head like a lion shaking out its mane.

  I slip into the living room and Mary stays close beside me. “Hi, Mom. Hungry?”

  She whirls, a lopsided grin on her face and a cigarette tucked into the corner of her mouth. “Girls! You’re just in time. The lights came back on. Now I have proper lighting to finish your dresses.” She sashays to two dress forms by the bay window. Both gowns are green—one is dark emerald, and the other reminds me of light grass.

  “These are really pretty, Mom.” Mary tracks around the edge of the room to Mom.

  “I think you should wear this one, Mary. Anne should wear the jewel-toned one.” She removes the lighter-colored dress from its form and holds it up to Mary, who stands as still as a statue. After a short inspection, she says, “Yes, this one. Go put it on.”

  Mary clutches the gown to her chest and heads out of the room to change.

  Mom gives the other dress to me. “These will be perfect. Well, hurry up. I want to see how this looks on you.”

  I follow Mary to the den, where we change clothes. We have to help each other lace up the gowns. They weigh at least twenty pounds and we don’t even have our corsets on. A layer of sweat slicks my skin. Wearing this thing outside all day is not going to be fun.

  Mom gushes like a fairy high on unicorn glitter when she sees us. “Oh, so beautiful. My best work ever.” Her gaze travels over the gowns, but never to our faces. It’s like we’re mannequins and our only purpose is to make her dresses look good. “Turn around.”