by H. A. Wills
“Ah ha!” She shouts, bringing me back to the present, and holds up a maroon, leather book that looks like it’s made it through a war or two. “This is also for you-- as a loan, mind you.”
“And that is?” I intone, feeling what little energy I have slowly start to drain away.
“This, my dear girl, is the journal of the last recorded spirit witch of the Volkov family,” she answers with flourish, bringing the book over and setting it in my lap.
The cover has small wave indentations in the leather and no title to indicate what’s inside. I flip it open to the first page, and in tight script at the top is the date 25, April 32 BCE-- and the entry is in English.
“This book is in great condition for being over 2,000 years old,” I comment wryly.
Mildred flashes me an irked expression that I’m starting to recognize as her ‘Save me from smartass teenagers’ face. “Do you speak ancient East Slavic?”
“No,” I sigh.
“Then you get the translated version,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Now off with you. Learn about your ancestors, while I start work on that spell.”
I close the book and hold it against my chest as I head for the open door. In the midst of my numbness, there’s a small spark of light. Within these pages is a direct line that connects me to a history I can hopefully be proud of-- even if I’m terrified of the magic we wield. The necklace nestled between my breasts speaks to family that is full of good people-- that there’s more to me than my psycho father.
I run my thumb along the journal’s well-worn spine and remember it’s more than the Volkov’s that made me. The Bastard is insane, but that doesn’t have anything to do with the spirit witches that had the poor fortune of eventually spawning him.
“Aunt Mildred?” I call from the doorway.
“Hmm,” she replies, glancing up from the two huge books in her hands.
I fidget, threads of anxiety breaching the numbness as I worry she’ll be mad with what I’m about to ask her. “Have you put in the paperwork to have my name changed?”
Her shoulders droop. “I’m so sorry, darling. I haven’t yet, but I’ll get right on it. I’ve downloaded the paperwork; I simply need to fill it out and turn it in.”
“No, no it’s fine-- actually it’s good,” I stutter out. “I want-- I mean, can you change my name to Callie Lyncas Volkov instead?”
That grabs her attention, and she practically jerks with the speed she looks up at me. Her brown eyes turn slightly saucer-like when she asks, “You want to include your father’s side of the family?”
I have to consciously keep myself from gripping the book tighter, and with a careful breath, I press the bits of emotions breaking through back down and wrap myself in the sweet disconnection of numbness.
In an even voice, I answer, “I’m a spirit witch that comes from two of the original bloodlines, and there’s power in a name like mine, right? If a member of the Volkov family is someone that people should take notice and tread carefully with, then how should a person act around someone that is both a Volkov and a Lyncas?”
She casts a searching look, trying to glean my motivations from my expression, but she won’t find anything, because I only vaguely understand why I’m asking. It’s more than connecting me to family, something that the broken girl inside me desperately wants. My name is a warning to anyone who meets me. Like my aunt said, I’m not a witch to be underestimated, and a whole lot of people might pay for one fool’s ignorance.
Slowly, Mildred nods her head. “Of course. I’ll make the changes.”
“Thank you,” I murmur back, then turn to make my way toward my room.
My feet drag against the floor, my tennis shoes creating pathetic slaps against the hardwood. When I make it inside my bedroom, I beeline for my bed and curl into a small ball on top of my comforter, the journal clutched against my chest.
I feel cold, but I don’t know if it’s from the temperature of the room or the numbing shock that’s taken hold of me. Pulling on one edge of the blue comforter, I try to roll into a burrito, finding solace in the tight encapsulation of the blanket.
I want to close my eyes. I want to sleep. But whispers of the Bastard’s torture play like a merry-go-round in my head. I’m relieved that Mildred is working on another route to remove the spell other than ‘torture Callie until it explodes,’ but it doesn’t stop the memories.
Pulling the journal out from deep within the blanket, I lie on my side, open the book to the first page again, and start reading what it means to be a spirit witch.
Chapter 4
Callie
Monday passed in a fog of my own making, falling back into the detached reality that kept me functioning for the past three and half years. The bFMoys noticed but didn’t push. I think they assumed I was still recovering from Saturday night, but that night already feels like a lifetime ago.
I just keep hearing Mildred say, ‘You are the closest being to a goddess that the mortal realm will ever see.’
Some goddess I am. All my magic has done is keep me alive so the Bastard could get more creative with his torture. Oh, and let’s not forget, turn me into a fucking magic bomb.
I didn’t get far into the journal on Sunday before sleep claimed me. It was the first time the nightmares detoured from the normal torture highlight reel to instead include all the destruction I’m now capable of. Instead of simply burning on the metal table in the basement of my old Arizona home, I destroyed the entire town.
I was awash with the familiar agony of my body ablaze, forever healing before the fire would burn out. However, the physical pain paled in comparison to the consuming devastation that was my friends’ ashes crumbling through my fingers. All that was left in the rubble was Felix-- his ghostly form protecting him from what I’d done.
Hate burned in his eyes, as he wished he’d never met me. Cursing my very existence, he spat that the council was right to rid the world of spirit witches. I wasn’t a goddess. I was Armageddon.
“Could you please put that away?” Kaleb whispers harshly, jarring me from my memories.
I blink up from my daze to find Kaleb staring down Donovan, his lips pursed in an expression that clearly states, ‘You should know better.’
Donovan scowls up from a thick book that looks like the lost prop from the original Dracula movie. “I’m studying. Gotta be a good little dark nephilim and memorize all the demons out there, so I can kill them before they kill me.”
Kaleb groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but not in the middle of the school cafeteria.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why? It’s in Latin. None of these assholes can read it.”
It’s pouring rain outside, and the whole student body is crammed into our way too small cafeteria for lunch. The air has the oppressive wet heat of a tropical forest and is filled with the shrieking noise of hundreds of students talking at the same time.
I’m wedged between Connor and Nolan with Kaleb and Donovan sitting across from us. Felix decided that it was too crowded to hang out and poofed back to the house. I made sure to give my aunt a heads up that he was there-- seemed like the polite thing to do.
Listlessly, I scoop up a bite of my strawberry yogurt, while Kaleb and Donovan continue to bicker on the merits of having a book on demons out amongst the tightly packed general populous. Nolan and Connor watch like it’s some type of comedy skit.
“Latin or not,” Kaleb chastises, leaning in so as to not be overheard. “Those detailed illustrations are more than enough for some overzealous human to turn you into the principal, and I’m sure the coven would love to hear how you were suspended for researching satanic rituals.”
“Is researching satanic rituals a suspendable offence?” Nolan stage whispers over my head. Connor shrugs, and Kaleb and Donovan unsurprisingly ignore him.
Donovan scoffs with a heavily raised brow, “This has nothing to do with rituals, and honestly, I don’t know any ritual that has anything to do with Lucifer. Dumb
asses are summoning demons, not the devil.”
“Stercorem pro cerebro habent,” Kaleb mutters with an eye roll of his own.
Donovan snorts, flipping to the next page. “You’re not wrong.”
“All I got was something about brains in that one,” Nolan comments again to Connor, like the rest of us can’t hear him. “All these years, and I still can’t seem to manage Latin. Now, French or Spanish, those I know.”
Connor chuckles, then with a half grin, mutters, “Pendejo.”
“Now that I understood, and hey-- rude much?” Nolan replies, but there’s laughter in his eyes.
Connor’s grin widens, and he takes a bite of his roast beef sandwich.
Their merriment feels like it’s happening on the other side of thick plexiglass. I can see it and hear it, but it feels muffled and distant. Everything inside me feels heavy, and a weariness so deep in my bones, I can practically see myself slide to the floor and never get up.
The book in question is tilted toward Donovan, so the only thing I can see clearly is the black leather cover with some type of symbol embossed on the front and peeks of the pages. I have no idea what the symbol is, only that it has a lot of swirls mixed with geometric shapes. The edges of the pages are browned with age, and there’s a thick strap to latch the book closed.
Kaleb sighs. “My point is everyone here won’t know the difference, so what the book is actually about is irrelevant.”
“Not everyone,” he replies, still looking down at the book, though a smirk crawls across his face.
Kaleb closes his eyes and releases a slow breath-- his expression the picture of praying for patience.
“You know what I mean,” he grinds out, opening his eyes. “You’re being intentionally obtuse.”
“Damn! Fine, I’ll put it away,” Donovan grumbles, picking up his backpack from the floor and slipping the book inside. “You know, you should really try going one day of not giving a shit what other people think or do. It’d do wonders for the stick up your ass.”
With an annoyed squint, Kaleb counters, “Careful what you ask for. If I pull the stick out of my ass, it’s only so I can beat you with it.”
That pulls me out of my stupor, and I’m so surprised by the comment, I nearly shoot yogurt out of my nose. Nolan chokes on the gourmet concoction that he calls lunch, and Connor silently chuckles next to me.
Donovan gasps with a hand to his chest like he’s been shot. “Did you just threaten me with bodily harm?”
Kaleb scrubs at his face and says through his fingers, “Donovan, you could frustrate Mother Teresa into threatening you with bodily harm.”
He grins back like Kaleb gave him the world’s best compliment, which elicits yet another groan.
Nolan pats me on the back, while I’m trying to cough and choke yogurt out of my sinuses. “You alright, Callie love? You’re starting to resemble the color of your yogurt there.”
I cut him a glare with no heat, and wheeze, “Fine.”
He leans in closer to me, and says with some flourish, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand you over the Kaleb and Donovan show. You know, no matter how hard I try, I always get the time wrong and can never remember to record it.”
Donovan flashes his trademark one finger salute, and Nolan returns it with a smirk and a wink, earning an eye roll.
There’s a long pause while we eat our lunches, before Kaleb says softly, “I know why you’ve been researching so much lately. Don’t go looking for them. It’s been ten years, and they haven’t found you. They probably think you’re dead. Let them keep thinking that.”
Ice slides through my veins remembering how Donovan told me he doesn’t expect to live past twenty-five. It’s hard enough to think about him going off to kill faceless demons-- but him facing off with those clever enough to kill his whole family alone, no. It feels like suicide.
“You can’t be serious,” Nolan whispers, all the humor draining from his face.
Connor drops his food onto his lunch bag, and his hands slowly curl into fists on top of the table.
Donovan’s grin immediately drops and is replaced with gritted teeth. “You don’t know that-- and if they do think I’m dead, it means I’ll get the drop on them. It’s better if I find them, before they find me.” He looks at Kaleb with a fatalist level of certainty. “Because eventually, they will find me, and when they do, a lot of innocent people will die in really fucked up ways before they get to me. I’m the last one.”
“That doesn’t mean it has to be the first thing you do,” Kaleb counters fiercely. “Training is one thing. At least wait until you have some semblance of real experience before you go after demons that have evaded some of the best dark nephilim for over sixty years.”
“Wait-- why would they look for you?” I ask, taking in Connor and Nolan’s downcast gazes and carefully blank expressions. “It’s not a fluke that you’re the last of your line, is it?”
Donovan’s face turns to stone, and no one will meet my gaze.
“Why will innocent people die when they find you?” I continue, my voice an angry hiss, because none of them look like they’re going to say anything.
I intensely stare Kaleb down, but for once, he refuses to crack. Somewhere in my mind that’s not ruled by fear, is a voice saying it’s not fair that I’m asking them to spill their secrets when I still have so many of my own. But I just keep thinking of my dream. Of the lives I end in a raging ball of fire, and they’re talking about people that we could save. I think of Donovan’s matter-of-fact acceptance that he’ll die young when there could be ways to prevent it.
“Answer me.” I slam my hands on the top of the lunch table, startling all of them. The ice in my veins has given way to a rolling boil.
Now they’re looking at me, and the silence seems to be filled more with shock than refusal to speak. Probably because this is the most life I’ve shown in the past thirty-six hours.
“Guys, could we not piss off Callie?” Nolan mutters, looking at me like the ticking time bomb that I am.
Just above a whisper, Kaleb asks, “Do you want me to tell her?”
“I’ll do it,” Donovan grunts. “I can’t research demons in the cafeteria, but since talking about how they murdered my family is fucking fine, she might as well get the full story-- not your sugar coated version.”
“Just because I see nuance where you like to make the world a binary of ‘with you’ or ‘against you,’ doesn’t mean it’s sugar coated,” Kaleb replies evenly, clearly trying to hold onto his patience that’s been fraying throughout lunch.
“Nuance?” Donovan scoffs, his eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Stop it,” I grind out, and the stone between my breasts begins to warm. Oh that can’t be good.
“Stop talking around me, and tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Connor takes my left hand and threads his fingers through mine, and Nolan begins rubbing slow circles on my lower back. I’d be annoyed, if I didn’t constantly feel like Bruce Banner fighting to control the Hulk. I take in a deep breath and release it slowly through pursed lips.
Donovan flicks his black hair away from his face and crosses his arms, his biceps bulging under his dark grey Henley. All the buttons at his throat are undone, and the shirt opens wider as the fabric stretches across his chest and shoulders.
“Yeah, alright. The full story,” he cuts a glare at Kaleb, before looking back at me. “Your shit is our shit-- so that means our shit is your shit, I guess.”
“I’ve heard that’s how friendships work,” I reply, dropping my right hand to my lap, so I can trace my fingers along the coarse texture of my jeans.
Donovan looks over at the door that opens to the back patio. There’s a short overhang with sheets of rain pouring off of it. “But not here-- humans around and everything.”
He flashes another look at Kaleb, like it should be him making the suggestion, and we quickly gather our things and sneak outside.
&n
bsp; The fresh air is a welcome relief to the stiflingly humid air of the cafeteria, but I shiver against the wet cold. I dressed in a fog this morning and stupidly left my new leather jacket at home, choosing the comfort and familiarity of my well-loved red hoodie.
We gather in a tight circle under the short overhang, Connor to my left and Nolan to my right, both of them doing their best to shield me from the cold and share their warmth. No longer muted by the glass windows, the rain is a powerful roar that will easily drown out anything we say.
When Donovan notices me pull my sleeves over my hands and gather them close to my chest, he comments, “We really need to get you some gloves.”
I give a hard shake of my head. “Discuss gloves later. Demon talk now.”
Nolan offers up a playful groan and mutters, “You’ve officially been hanging out with Connor too much. Full sentences aren’t a crime.”
“I’m not getting distracted,” I emphasize. “What the hell is going on?”
This is the most evasive I’ve ever seen Donovan, his vivid blue-green eyes looking anywhere but me. Anxiety builds in my chest, making it harder to breathe.
“You already know I’m an orphan and that my family was killed by the demons they were hunting,” he starts, his gaze flicking between my face and the middle space above my head. “What you don’t know is that the demons were tracking my family as much as the other way around. They enjoyed taunting my parents by staging sick displays of brutally murdered humans for them to find and know if they were faster-- smarter-- those humans would’ve been alive. As much as the demons wanted my family dead, they equally enjoyed their twisted game of cat and mouse.”
There’s a deep stillness to Connor, the sign that he’s listening intently-- possibly listening for things that aren’t being said. Nolan instead fidgets, playing with the strap of his messenger bag across his chest. This is the story I asked for, but inside I’m trembling, knowing I’m not going to like what comes next.
