Reborn

by D. Fischer

  Exhaustion is etched around my brown eyes. My black pixie haircut is stiff from products and styled just the way I like it. That’s the thing about short hair—it takes only a handful of minutes to dishevel it the way I want it. A small, almost invisible, nose ring is pinched against my nostril and a few, barely visible freckles dance across the bridge of my nose. My nose is short, narrow, plain. My cheekbones high and protruding.

  My eyes shift from one to the other, seeing the loneliness so evident inside them. I have no coven and that can lead any witch to a small bout of stress and depression.

  I lift my hand and trace the dark circles under my eyes with my fingertips, settling back on my heels. “Sweet, holy mother of . . .,” I mumble my curse. My vulnerability is causing this evidence of lack of sleep.

  A few months ago, I made a deal with Erline, Fee of the Earth Realm. The Fee are powerful beings, each one charged with a different realm. Unlike everyone else on the Earth Realm, witches are descendants of the First Born, Erline’s biological daughter, Myla.

  A long time ago, it is said that Erline grew lonely—she wanted a child of her own. She’d watched her realm, watched all she created reproduce and she longed for the same. Erline and her once lover, Kheelan, the Fee of Death Realm, ‘bounced in the bed’ and a few months later, out popped Myla, the First Born witch. We’re told she had wondrous powers beyond imagination. And each of her daughters were given a sliver of it . . . insert the Witches.

  When I made the deal - when I cured the Red Death - Astrid, the High Priestess of my coven, banned me, sent me packing, and effectively disowned me. Summoning Erline is forbidden and unforgivable. I knew those rules going into that meeting with our maker. But a witch without a coven suffers because she has no one. No one to lean on, no one to discuss their ways, no one to turn to for guidance and protection.

  My brown eyes glow a neon orange around the rims. She, the being I now share my body with, reminds me that I’m not alone, reminds me of the price I paid. I close my eyes and tilt my head away from the mirror. I have yet to accept sharing my body.

  The private office of my little witch shop, Lunaire, serves as my altar room. I’m an obsessive cleaner—when I fret, I dust and organize.

  My mother, Emile, always told me to keep my hands busy when senseless thoughts clogged my mind. There isn’t a speck of dust to be seen but still, I lift each item, each instrument, and wipe them down with my microfiber cloth. The upside to fretting is at least everything is spotless and streak-free. So, I’ve got that going for me.

  A light from my left catches my eye and I tilt my head in its direction. Placed on my wooden altar table, smack dab in the middle of the room, my white crystal glows. The crystal is round, smooth, and partially see through. Inside, swirls of white sparkle and turn—those swirls now glow a brilliant shade of white.

  The light hum coming from its center as it vibrates against the wood focuses as a secondary alert. The spell works to perfection, as by my design, alerting me that someone has entered my shop.

  At least it’s the white crystal. If the red crystal next to it glows, I know it’s something other than human.

  I fold the cloth, lay it on my desk, and exit my office, closing the door gently behind me. My footsteps echo through the small hallway, passing by the small break room that holds my beloved brewing coffee, as I head to the main area of my shop. Smiling a greeting at my potential customer, I give a cheerful welcome. “Welcome to Lunaire. If there’s anything you can’t find, let me know.”

  The two humans nod their thanks and head over to the collection of feathered dreamcatchers against the wall.

  This little town is full of supernatural speculations, suspicions, and history. Many moons ago, witches were hung just a few blocks down the road. Some of them were just accused witches, not really the real deal, but those moments in history still make quite a stir. The supernatural and paranormal lovers flock to this town like flies to cow shit.

  On the outside, tourists come for the history, but on the inside, they believe they’ll get some kind of divine, freaky-deaky, sneak peek at what’s really going on under the curtain. Of course, their assumptions are correct, but I guarantee none of them will see anything that’ll crown their interest. Not unless you count the few shops and museums this town has to offer.

  Humans aren’t bad, but they tend to fear what they can’t explain. The supernatural live under the radar and we’re quite good at it—years of adapting and surviving under the noses of suspicion will do that. Even the shifters keep a low profile, remaining in their territory and only leaving when necessary. Though we are top of the food-chain, there are more humans than supernaturals. Even a single lion can’t fight off a herd of angry gazelle.

  For these sort of tourists, little shops like mine make a killing during the fall season. Everyone seems so fascinated with magic, searching for a little spook to feed their curiosity. It’s not like it’s a new thing. Dreamcatchers, tarot cards, Ouija boards, herbal remedies . . . they’ve been around for years and many humans use them, even though they don’t get very far. Though, I’ve heard a few have summoned demons by accident.

  I mentally shrug. There’s no helping the notoriously curious. What did my mother used to say? Oh yes. Curiosity killed the cat, but captivation brought it back.

  “How much is this?” the petite blond customer asks, shifting her body and holding up an object.

  Standing behind the counter, I squint my eyes to read the title of the large paperback book. The galaxy’s stars sprinkled across the glossy surface. “Theories Below the Surface,” I read aloud. “Excellent choice.”

  I give her the price and she looks at the cover once more. Smiling a giddy grin, she tucks the book into the wedge of her elbow and continues browsing with her friend. The title is self-explanatory and the contents are close to accurate. Whoever wrote that book had great knowledge of what this universe holds.

  The doorbell jingles again and I glance at the door. The rain still downpours, beating everything in its path. The tropical storm wreaks havoc in our area. A puddle forms on the carpet just inside the door. It’s a defiant storm, and somehow, I find myself enjoying it, puddles and all. The smell of wet earth reaches my nose and I inhale the aroma, taking a moment to bask in it—the smell of freedom and regrowth.

  A small figure steps through the door wearing a dark green poncho dribbled in drops of precipitation. Shaking the beads off the hood, feminine hands lift it back before blue eyes glance around the shop. A curtain of brown hair cascades to her shoulders with wide curls. She’s breathtaking, with natural, full red lips and perfect, symmetrical bone structure. I instantly envy her.

  In my peripheral vision, both women turn and stare at the new customer. The brown-haired female shakes the droplets from the rest of her poncho and walks up to me, her steps confident and purposeful.

  “Welcome,” I say, pasting a smile on my face. “What can I help you with?”

  She props an elbow on the glass surface and leans into the counter. Her eyes wander around the place before a small smirk plays against the corners of her mouth. “I’m looking for a job.” She returns her bright blue eyes to mine.

  I double blink, thrown by her forward attitude. “A job?”

  She dips her head, her curls bouncing. Her movements seem forced, like she’s used to standing as still as a statue. She cold natured, the smile on her face false. “Are you hiring?”

  I take a moment to think while blowing out a breath through ‘o’ shaped lips. “I wasn’t originally, but . . .,” I bite my bottom lip. Her large, almond-shaped eyes plead with mine. “Yeah,” I nod coming to a final decision, “yeah, I can use the help.” If anything, I can use the company.

  Her features relax and a ghost of a smile plays at the corners of her mouth. It’s like I’m staring at an angel. I frown. It should be sinful to be that beautiful.

  “It’s settled,” she whispers through pearling white teeth. “When can I start?”

  I clear my th
roat and shift my gaze to my browsing customers. Anything to look away from those alluring eyes that are making me so comfortable. I don’t swing for women, but her presence seems to suck you right in. “Well, we should probably have an interview. If you wait just a moment,” I nod my head toward the customers heading our way, “I’ll have some free time to chat with you.”

  She captures her bottom lip with her top teeth, and the muscle between her eyebrows tense, forming a few lines. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  As the two women approach, she backs away from the counter to a nearby shelf, browsing the books on display. My lips thin into a fine line while ringing up the customers’ items. My attention flits between the register and the possible future employee. As a witch with no protection, I’ve made it a rule to never trust strangers.

  You have a right to be leery, she says. I jump at the voice inside my head, my shoulders bunching and irritating the muscle knots in my neck.

  She doesn’t speak to me often, but when she does, it’s always her version of wisdom. As an act of stubbornness, I have yet to respond to her. I don’t even know if I can. I may be a strong witch, but telepathy has never been a gift I’ve possessed.

  I clear my throat again, ignoring the curious glances from the two customers, and tell them their total. The blond customer digs for change inside her pink, polka-dotted wallet, counting the pennies, nickels, and dimes. She pauses when the stranger barks out a chorus of laughter and our heads swivel back to where she stands.

  Holding a book between boney fingers, she flips through the pages, her eyes scanning the words. I glance at the cover—Spells of Love, is the title. I wonder what she finds so funny. . .

  I hand the two girls their plastic bags of purchased items, my old witch coven’s crescent on the side—a half moon with a strike through it. I adopted the crescent as my shop’s logo, finding the thrill in the situation of possible discovery. They mumble their thank you’s and turn to leave. The door chimes as they head back into the rain before darting to their car.

  The stranger approaches me, book in hand. “Is this accurate?” she asks, still flipping through the pages with a smile on her face.

  My shoulders bob as I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never attempted a love spell.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “You’re a wit- err . . . someone who practices magic?” she asks, but the words seem automatic, like there isn’t a lick of curiosity behind them. Her tone is cold, just as her false smile, void of real emotion.

  I purse my lips, the voice inside my head words come back to me. “Yes,” I answer simply.

  “Does it ever work?” She flips another page over.

  Gulping, I decide to lie. “No.”

  She gives me a considerate look before placing the book on the counter. She holds out her hand to me. “Tember,” she says.

  I frown, taking her hand in mine and firmly shaking while remembering my manners. “Tember?” I question.

  “As in, Sep-tember.” She dips her head but keeps her eyes on mine.

  My eyebrows slope farther toward my eyes. “Were you born in September?”

  Tember takes her hand back and props her elbow back against the glass counter. “No.”

  I twitch my nose, my lips momentarily twisting to the side. All right then. “Katriane,” I introduce myself, “but everyone calls me Kat.”

  She nods her head once, a greeting of sorts.

  Walking out from behind the counter, I come to stand just in front of her, stuffing my fingers into my back pockets and rocking on my heels. “So, I suppose we should start with identification and the last place you worked.”

  Tember pauses from standing upright, her eyes widen the slightest. “I- " She clears her throat. “I don’t have any.”

  I double blink, my lashes brush my cheek against my pinched face. “Oh. You’re looking for something more . . . under the table?”

  Nodding, she holds her confidence. She should be nervous, anyone would be nervous. If you’re asking for employment and don’t have any form of identification, a normal person would be frightened they’d be turned in or at least anxious about being turned down. She seems to display neither.

  I wipe a hand over my face. How am I supposed to check this girl out? What if she’s a criminal and I wake up in the morning with nothing in the cash register and no name to give the police?

  My hand drops to my side and I inhale a sharp breath. “All right. There’s only one way to do this then.”

  Her head tilts to the side, freeing the curls from behind her shoulder. I crook my finger for her to follow me. Against my better judgment, I turn my back to her and begin walking to my back office.

  “Do what, exactly?” she asks, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

  “Have a chat in private, of course,” I say, pushing the door open and entering my office.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AIDEN VANDER

  EARTH REALM

  My biceps contract before my fist swings, connecting with the bag dangling from the low ceiling. It sways and twirls, just like the fog and mist of my dreams. I punch it with more force than necessary, my thoughts plaguing my actions. My taped hands take the true beating of my unrelenting frustration and anxiety. How much I wish this was a person and not just a black bag filled with sand.

  Beading sweat dribbles down my back, picking up speed after it travels over each flexing muscle, and dipping to the curve of my lower back. It soaks into the elastic of my boxing shorts, creating an uncomfortable rubbing sensation.

  One. Two. One. Two. I chant to myself, counting each hit to the bag, desperately trying to concentrate on what’s in front of me . . . of what’s real.

  “Aiden!” a familiar shout comes from behind me. My stomach lurches as I’m torn away from my concentration. I whip my head around, stopping the swing of the bag with one hand.

  My boxing coach, Frank, approaches with a clipboard in hand as he scans the contents across the crisp pages. He was once a boxing champion, and a good choice for a manager. I was lucky he ran across me when he did.

  I was a scraper, continuously getting in trouble everywhere I went. I like to think that trouble always finds me, no matter where I hide, and not the other way around.

  One day, I got into a fight in the street, protecting a homeless man from a pair of bullies who found it fun to pick on the less fortunate. Frank happened to be walking by. As he approached our brawl, the presence of another person scared off the perps. He saw something in me that day and took me under his wing, giving me a purpose I’ve never had.

  For a kid who grew up in the foster system, the hope he had presented me was welcoming. But now, his persistence was irritating, grating on every ounce of patience I possess. He’s a slave driver, even though I know he does everything to better me, to give me a future I couldn’t possibly get on my own.

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the white towel draped over my neck. My eyebrows lift before I begin questioning. “Yeah?” I ask, my throat dry from heavy breathing. Lifting the bottled water that sits on the floor, it leaves behind a pool of condensation and I take a generous gulp. The cold liquid quenches my parched throat and cools my heated nerves.

  “You have a fight Friday.” He flicks his eyes to mine. A sparse layer of red eyelashes blink at me.

  My eyebrows bunch together and a bead of sweat drips from the movement. Forming a thin line with my lips, I ask, “With who? I didn’t know there was one.” My voice is deep, intimidating to most who don’t know me.

  Lines develop over his forehead when his eyes widen. “With Jim, The Reaper.” He places the clipboard under his arm and twists his lips in a mocking gesture. “Why? Do you have plans Friday night? Big, bad Aiden can’t make it?” His voice dips lower. “Pussy-whipped by his girl?”

  Blinking slowly at him, I bite my tongue from lashing back with unnecessary words. I pull the towel from my neck and clear away the beaded dew on the side of my water bottle, busying my eyes and fingers. “No,” I rumble, before
mumbling, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

  A date with a girl would be out of the question, even if I had a girl to call my own. I don’t date—I have no time. My time isn’t my own, it belongs to Frank and this sorry excuse for a gym.

  Someday. Someday I’ll find the right one and leave this place for a better tomorrow. Grateful as I may be, I know this career won’t last forever.

  Frank’s beady eyes narrow as he sets the mockery aside. “You know how ruthless The Reaper can be,” he pauses, considering my lack of interest. “You ready for it?”

  I glance up at him and take one more swig. My love for this sport is gone. Vanished. Over-done. But I can’t quit now. I’m close to making something of myself—so close to being something more than that nobody passing by strangers on the street, thanks to Frank. “Yeah,” I say after I swallow.

  The Reaper is known for his ruthlessness. Just last year he killed a man with one punch. It’s how he earned his boxing name.

  Frank slaps me on the back, the sting on my wet skin causes my jaw to flex. “Good.” He laughs. “Head on home. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” Frank turns before calling over his shoulder, “Bright and early, Aiden.”

  Watching him walk away, I wait a moment, my jaw continuing its rhythmic flex to the beat of my pounding heart, to my impatience. I sigh through my nose and head to the locker room. My sneakers squeak against the gym floor and echo throughout the building.

  Turning the corner, the smell of old socks, similar to corn chips, forces me to swallow a gag. I eye my gym bag sitting on the worn, wooden bench inside the locker room, right where I left it. I pick my jeans and hooded sweatshirt from inside, change my clothes at a slow pace, and dream of a future I may never have.

  ELIZA PLAATS

  EARTH REALM

  “Mrs. Tiller, you need this surgery,” I beg, my eyes remain unblinking as I try to convince my patient from across the conference table.