Carolina Conjuring

by Alison Claire

  “But are mermaids really shifters?” Briar asked. “I man those lizard men, they changed 100% into lizards. Fully green, the whole deal. And if ‘real’ werewolves are like the movie ones, they’re not at all human when they change. But the mers are still halfway human. Waist up, they don’t change at all.”

  “That’s true, and it’s all very political. If you could get the Shifter’s Council to all agree on what constitutes a shifter, you should go negotiate peace in the Middle East next.

  “It’s an endless, timeless debate. Is somebody who was bitten and becomes a shifter, infected with lycanthropy, or vampirism, for that matter, as authentic a shifter as someone born that way? Is a merman more or less a shifter than a werewolf or bear or squirrel?”

  Briar and I both began to laugh. “Sorry, the thought of somebody changing into a squirrel is just too funny,” I confessed.

  “But a guy changing into like, I don’t know, a mountain lion could be kinda sexy,” Briar added.

  “Werewolves are the tip of the iceberg,” Aleta explained. “I can practically guarantee that the two of you have run into shifters and have never known it. Most of them, when they change, the longer they stay in animal form, the beast asserts itself more and more. Some prefer it, although yeah, of course, who would choose to be stuck outside in the cold as a squirrel when he or she could be stretched out on a couch drinking wine and watching Netflix?

  “But, by the same, token, imagine how lumbering and clumsy a human body would feel if you’d been scampering and leaping through treetops all afternoon?” “Like when you’ve been jumping on a trampoline and then try jumping on the ground,” Briar offered. “You know how your legs feel like concrete at first? But probably times a million.”

  “And when Henry is in human form, not flying must royally suck,” I added.

  “And that’s what Lukas and Palmer are struggling through. Having their wings clipped. Or fins clipped, as it were,” Aleta said.

  “Let’s hope Henry can help them.”

  Charleston Harbor appeared, and The Belle was guided expertly to the dock by her crew.

  Aleta left to drive Dr. Ibis back to Frogmore. Virginia asked Darla if she’d like to stay the night, but she thanked her and politely declined.

  “I need to get home, it’s been a long day. Thank Chantelle again for me. The food was divine.” As Darla spoke, she packed tobacco into a small pipe that looked like it was crafted from bone. She lit it by strumming her fingertips on the underside of the handle and took a huge pull. She blew the smoke over her shoulder, waved goodbye, turned, took a step, and… vanished.

  Left behind were wisps that smelled faintly of jasmine, even against the overpowering backdrop aroma of the marshes and saltwater that surrounded us.

  All I could do was sigh.

  “I wish she’d teach me how to do that.” Virginia confided as we climbed into the Land Rover for the trip home.

  17 Briar

  Lukas and Palmer joined Emma, Josephine, and I in the theater room, where we debated what to watch on television for approximately six centuries before Jo and Palmer decided being alone together would be much more fun, and they snuck off to her room.

  I felt bad for Emma being alone in her overstuffed chair as I snuggled into Lukas, who’d commandeered the remote.

  “This thing must need batteries,” Lukas complained, mashing the buttons on the remote to no avail as Netflix began playing the Korean- language movie he’d been trying to browse past when the remote stopped working.

  “The batteries are fine. It just doesn’t like you,” came the voice of Calista from the back of the room. “How’s Notting Hill sound, twins?”

  “Ugh!” Lukas protested, as he tried every button on the remote while Hugh Grant strolled past fruit stands and a tattoo parlor on Portobello Road.

  Emma grinned at me and back at smug Calista, standing in the doorway in a velour sweat suit that looked like Juicy to me, but that was inevitably quadruple the price and crafter by some designer with a French or Italian name I couldn’t pronounce.

  She slipped between the chairs and took her place at the end of the sectional vacated by Palmer and Josephine.

  “It’s settled, then,” she concluded, despite Lukas groaning and covering his eyes. I couldn’t argue with her choice. It was one of my favorite movies. Emma seemed to agree.

  “Let’s go, B,” Lukas insisted, standing up and stretching.

  Some alone time with Lukas didn’t sound so bad, but it had been ages since I’d watched Notting Hill, and I was in the mood for romance, while Lukas’s wandering hands had made his intentions abundantly clear.

  “I’m gonna hang with my sister…s.” Calista cocked an eyebrow at my late addition of an “s” to sister, but she didn’t protest.

  Lukas leaned down. “If you change your mind,” he kissed me deeply, “You know where to find me.”

  Lukas and Palmer were sharing a guest room that was bigger than the average two-bedroom Charleston apartment. Virginia wanted them where she could protect them in case Ezekiel attempted to make good on his threats from earlier in the day.

  “I won’t forget, Romeo,” I answered with a smile. I blew him a final kiss as he headed toward the kitchen.

  We watched the movie in silence until Calista surprised me with an observation: “Julia Roberts was so beautiful,” she said out loud, to no one in particular.

  I didn’t expect somebody who looked, and acted, like Calista to compliment anyone else’s appearance. Ever.

  Emma gave me a searching look and a slight shrug.

  “She’s no Helen of Troy, I’m sure,” Emma countered.

  Calista raised a finger, which was evidently enough to pause the movie, which we were viewing via means I couldn’t begin to guess.

  “How would you know, Emma? Or are you just baiting me? Again.”

  Emma, who had been twisted sideways in the chair as if she’d been poured onto it, sat up bolt-straight.

  “Excuse me? You’re the queen of baiting., snide remarks, and passive aggressive bullshit. Briar and I were minding our own business, hanging out, and you came in, pretending to be nice, masquerading as a human being, and we treated you as such. Our mistake. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

  Even I, typically the trailer trash target of Calista’s ire, thought maybe Emma was a we bit out of line. What started as an innocent comment had blown up in a way nobody could have anticipated.

  “Whoa,” I said, standing up to block Emma from walking out. “Can everybody just take a deep breath and rewind a minute?” Emma paused, but her eyes were smoldering. “Helen of Troy. I don’t guess you mean from the movie, right? The Brad Pitt one?”

  “Diane Kruger.” Emma replied flatly. “And no. I meant the real one. Because of course Calista used to hang out with her back in the day. When she wasn’t kicking it with Cleopatra. Or Nefertiti. Right, Calista? Tell us all again how amazing you are. Regale us.”

  “Nefertiti was before my time,” Calista said calmly. “Helen of Troy may or may not have been a real person. I did see Cleopatra in person, and she was stunning. But to my experience there are great beauties, and men who could be mistaken for Greek gods, in the unlikeliest of places.

  “Those who rise to positions of prominence, whether royally speaking or in Hollywood, do so most often as a quirk of fate.

  “Think back through your own lives – haven’t there been times you’ve been walking down King Street, or Main Street in Summerville, or some other less than extraordinary place, and spotted someone, male or female, who looked like a movie star or a model?”

  Emma and I nodded our concession.

  “But, if you want to push me to an answer, and limiting myself to the past two hundred years, and even further to names you two might recognize, then Ava Gardner is the most beautiful woman to have ever lived.”

  “And we can all agree that Chris Hemsworth is most handsome man of all-time,” I added. “Am I right?”

  “He isn’t e
ven the best Chris!” Emma said, her mood brightening. “Or even the best superhero Chris! Chris Evans. Come on.”

  Calista chuckled. Her laugh was as magical as it was rare.

  “Chris. Pine.” She said simply and got a faraway look in her eye I didn’t recognize.

  Emma and I both stopped ourselves mid-syllable and turned to look at her.

  “What?” Calista said, and her icy demeanor threatened to return.

  “Nothing,” Emma answered. “I guess we just didn’t expect you to have an opinion on something so mundane.”

  “Or to find a ‘regular’ person attractive when you’ve had lifetimes of magically-enhanced people from which to pick,” I added.

  “Chris Pine reminds of… someone.” I could almost see the pages turning backwards in Calista’s mind to memories of that evidently special someone.

  Just as I was about to ask her about the mystery man, she snapped out of it. “Let’s just all agree that Chris Pratt does not belong in the pantheon of Chris’s, no matter how much Hollywood tries to foist him upon us as a sex symbol.”

  “I don’t know, in Jurassic World there’s a scene where he’s working on his motorcycle…” Emma replied dreamily.

  I knew the scene, and couldn’t argue, but Calista was evidently not familiar or becoming uncomfortable relating to us on a human level. She swirled her finger in the air and the movie resumed.

  Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts fell into improbable love, all was right with the world, and the three of us fell asleep where we sat and lay, awakened in the morning by the smell of Chantelle’s breakfast wafting through the air.

  Despite all the physical similarities between Emma and me, and curious peculiarities such as favoring the same types of food and sharing some favorite songs, our disparate backgrounds necessitated differences in our personalities.

  By any measure, Emma was more sophisticated than I, and much more well-read. Whereas I’d grown up having to amuse myself amid avoiding lecherous older boys in the various group homes I called home, and avoiding bullies such as Marla Muchow, Emma benefited from endless trips to museums, historical landmarks, and her (our?) parents fostered in her a love of reading.

  I didn’t hate her for any of her advantages, but I admit to no small amount of envy. When the subject of art or literature came up around the Embers estate, which it often did in the presence of such cultured women, I often found myself at a loss.

  As brilliant as Emma is, however, knowledge gleaned from books only can’t compare to having actually been there, and even Emma would find herself out of her depth at times conversing with the other Belles, leaving her feeling as inadequate as I.

  On a rainy Saturday afternoon, Emma and I explored the house. Classical string music wafted down the hallway as my twin and I left the kitchen. We found the source was the Pilates room, where Calista was exercising. As usual, she ignored us, so we kept walking until we arrived at the library, where we found Josephine stretched out on a divan, reading what looked like a very old book.

  “Hey, Jo,” Emma greeted her. Josephine held up her index finger to put us on pause for a moment while she finished her page. Doing so, she sat up with a smile.

  “Hey twins,” she replied. “I can’t believe how rusty my Cyrillic is. I haven’t read anything in Russian in ages. At least decades.”

  “I have the exact same problem,” I answered with a laugh. “My Russian is almost as bad as my Mandarin.”

  Josephine shared a look of concern. “I know, right? When I haven’t used a language in, like, ten or twenty years, I just lose it. Want to practice your characters with me some time?”

  “I was kidding,” I confessed. “The only foreign language I’ve ever even tried was high school Spanish, but all I retained was the Taco Bell menu.”

  Jo and Emma laughed. My sister wandered off to browse the library shelves.

  “How many languages do you speak?” Emma asked Josephine from across the room.

  “Speak fluently? Off the top of my head, today? Probably only a few… English, Spanish, German, and French I could manage conversationally; maybe a few more. I can’t believe how bad my Dutch has gotten. Like I said, my Russian is rusty, but I could speak it better than read it, evidently. I can read all the Romance languages, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese… Aleta gave me Igbo and Swahili, too.”

  “What do you mean gave you?” I asked.

  “She can telepathically implant things in your brain. If she knows something, and she wants to share it, she can sort of upload it to you. She did that with a couple African languages. But eventually my brain felt too full, so I stopped there. Calista is the one with the aptitude for languages, though. She’s even fluent in some extinct languages. Although getting her to share any of them might be a chore.”

  “Or impossible,” I countered.

  Josephine shrugged.

  I joined Emma in browsing through the massive collection of books, and Josephine set hers down to explore the shelves with us.

  “I don’t suppose I could find any Fifty Shades here, huh?” I asked. “I read the first two, but never got around to the third.

  “I doubt it,” Josephine said, “but Fiona might be a fan, they could be here somewhere.”

  “Fiona?” Emma asked, incredulous. “Sweet Fiona?”

  “She’s a saucy minx! It’s all an act!” Josephine insisted.

  “Sure, and Chantelle reads dystopian fiction?” Emma asked. I laughed along, pretending to know what ‘dystopian’ meant.

  “Oh, Fifty Shades is way too tame for Chantelle,” Josephine laughed. “She probably has a copy of the Kama Sutra here someplace.”

  “Did you know Fifty Shades started as Twilight fan fiction?” Emma asked.

  “I’ve never read the Twilight stuff,” Josephine said. “Too much experience with real-life vampires and shifters to interest me as fiction, I guess.”

  “I’ve seen the movies,” I added. “They’re great, even though they could have saved a lot of money and just used a Kristen Stewart cardboard standee to play her part and had her lines dubbed. She’s awful!”

  The others nodded their agreement.

  “I wonder if Bram Stoker had any idea when he came up with the whole vampire genre that it would someday become what it is; Twilight and True Blood and everything,” Emma wondered aloud. “Josephine, did you ever…?”

  “What? Meet Bram Stoker?”

  Emma nodded.

  “No, I never had the pleasure. By the time he wrote Dracula, I’d been living in the United States for a while. But Stoker didn’t come up with fictional vampires – John William Polidori did, almost seventy-five years before Stoker. He wrote The Vampyre, but with a Y rather than an I. And I did know John, quite well.” Josephine got a faraway look in her eye, which made me wonder just how well.

  “I thought Byron wrote that,” Emma conjectured.

  “It was published as his work,” Josephine corrected. “But the magazine it originally appeared in published it without permission anyway, and since Byron was the bigger name, they slapped his name on it. But George himself admitted he didn’t write it. He felt bad for John that he didn’t get proper credit.”

  “I love how you call Lord Byron ‘George’, like he was a friend,” my twin interjected. “I mean I guess he was, but it’s still so weird to wrap my head around, to be sitting here talking to someone who can talk about hanging out with Byron.” Josephine grinned and shrugged.

  “You two have me completely lost,” I confessed. “Dracula, I know. The Mummy? All day. And I’m down with Frankenstein. But Bram Stoker and Byron and Polidoli or whatever his name was, I don’t have a clue.”

  Josephine giggled. “John Polidori. He was George’s…sorry, Lord Byron’s personal physician. And an author. And, don’t tell Palmer,” Josephine whispered conspiratorially, “but he was a fantastic kisser.” Josephine blushed a deep crimson. There was so much more to these Belles than met the eye. So much history.

  “Of course,” I said, sarcast
ically. “That John Polidori.” I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. “What was I thinking? Now, if I only knew who Lord Byron was, I’d be all set.”

  Snickering, dismissive laughter erupted behind us. Not the kind laughing with me, instead rather obviously laughing at me.

  Laughter that could only belong to Calista, glistening with post-workout sweat, looking impossibly beautiful.

  18 Emma

  I could feel Briar bristling next to me, so I reached out and put my hand on her forearm and eased her back and beside me before she went after smug Calista.

  “Didn’t they teach you anything at the orphanage?” She sneered.

  Briar tensed, and I tightened my grip on her. “Jealousy is ugly, no matter how pretty you are, Cal,” I said.

  Calista cocked her head. “You think I’m jealous of her?” Calista pointed at Briar.

  “No,” I responded. “Although you ought to be. But I’m talking about Josephine. You never pick on her, yet you’re always at your snottiest when she’s around. Why is that? Is it because everybody likes her? Or because she’s led such a more interesting life than you have?”

  Calista rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, sorry, yeah, spreading your legs for pirates while their crewmen died of scurvy was a tremendous contribution to western civilization. Bravo, Calista.

  “But while you were doing that, Josephine was the muse for some of the greatest thinkers, authors, and musicians of the past few centuries.”

  Calista’s right eye twitched with fury for a moment, and I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Meanwhile, next to me, Briar’s eyes were as big as truck tires.

  “No disrespect to Lord Byron or anyone else young Josephine rubbed elbows with, but if you want to dig into my past, start with the Septuagint.”

  I had to assume everyone’s faces were as baffled as mine, and Calista picked up on our confusion, as she knew she would.

  “Oh, forgive me, Emma, I continue to overestimate your intelligence. That would be the Greek translation of the first five books of the Old Testament. From the original old Hebrew, of course. Mommy didn’t teach you that?”