by JB Caine
Copyright © 2021 JB Caine
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 978-0-578-81378-3
Dedication
I would like to take a moment to express my deepest gratitude to the folks who have been my helpers, cheerleaders, and support team. Without them, I don’t think I could have made this lifelong dream come true. First and foremost, thank you to Buck and Haley, who are not only my biggest supporters, but believed in me so much that they were willing to ignore me as I disappeared into my writing room for hours at a time. Any writer will testify that this is possibly the greatest expression of love a family can show to an aspiring novelist.
I’d also like to send some love to my muses: Jessica, thanks for giving Lia some of your soul; and Shawn, you (just like Treigh) steal any scene you’re in. I love you both!
I didn’t even realize until after I finished my first draft of Rise of the Moon how important having an excellent editor is. Barbara, you were my first and biggest fan, and gave me both a reader’s and an editor’s pair of eyes. And Kelly, your advice and perspective (and blessed critical eye) has been invaluable to me, and I can’t thank you enough.
I’ve been so blessed to have so many folks in my corner from the jump. Thank you for believing in my dream. I hope I did you proud.
COMING SOON! Arcana Book Two: Rush to Judgement
Follow JB CAINE on social media!
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www.jbcaine.com
Energy of the cosmos
I bind you and release you
Find life eternal
In service to the Universe
The Great Mage chanted in rhythm as he stared intently into the fire that burned within the cauldron. He grabbed a handful of grey powder and tossed it into the air over the flames, which popped and sparked a greenish blue in response.
Energy harnessed and
Blood to blood
Twenty voices joined the song and one by one approached the cauldron, carving small sigils into the skin of their left forearms, letting two drops of blood from each wound drip into the flames, and then one more onto small pieces of paper arranged carefully around the pot.
Blood to blood
For all time
So mote it be
Chapter 1
High school is a highly evolved form of torture. Or so my best friend would have me believe.
“I swear on all that is holy, Lia, the devil himself created math and laughs at our daily punishment.” My bestie Treigh Allen looked at me squarely and, to drive the point home, threw himself dramatically against the lockers.
“Good Lord, Treigh,” I laughed, “it’s not THAT bad. I mean, the odds of us ever actually having to use Trig are pretty slim…” He squinted at me hard and shifted from his dramatic pose into a jaded lean. “...okay, the chances are exactly zero. But at least Mr. Nash is pretty cool.”
“Please do not rain on my pity parade. I’m pretty sure I scored a negative twelvety-seven on that quiz.”
“Oh, come on. I'm sure you passed.”
“Says the girl who passes everything. Ev. Ree. Thing.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I winked at Treigh. “It’s not the end of the world. It may not be my favorite subject, but at least we’re in the same class. Next period I don’t want to deal with anyone. Seriously. I feel like a one-woman leper colony in English.” Despite my dread of second period, it was hard to be anything but cheerful around Treigh, even when he was complaining. Maybe especially when he was complaining. No one complained quite as eloquently as he did.
“Say no more, my queen. I will escort you and ease your suffering.”
I shoved my carefully-color-coded-to-match-my-textbook red folder into the locker and pulled the blue book and folder out. “You’re my hero.”
We walked arm-in-arm through the courtyard, dodging the thousand other meandering bodies and the occasional judgmental glance. We were an odd pair, to be sure...Treigh Allen, who looked like he stepped right out of a Nordstrom's ad with his designer everything and flawless grooming. I, Lia Alvarez, on the other hand, looked more like an ad for Hot Topic with my black cut-up tee shirt and red plaid skirt.
As we pulled up to Mrs. West’s classroom, Treigh took a bow so deep that his Gucci sunglasses nearly slid off his head and headed for the concrete. He squealed and caught them as they fell.
“That was too close. Gave me a heart attack.”
“You are not allowed to die on me. You’re my light in the darkness.” I eyed the classroom, checking to see who had arrived before me.
“Keep talking like that and you’re going to make me unbearably arrogant.”
“Impossible. But I AM going to make you late. Go!”
“Girl. You know Haney is never going to hold a tardy against me.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Play nice with the other children, darling.”
I affectionately rolled my eyes and smiled. “Get.”
“And I’m gone. See you at lunch!”
Still smiling, because Treigh always had that effect on me, I turned to face what should have been my favorite class. Literature was my great love, my escape, and yet this group of ultra-suburban juniors made it feel like Purgatory. I sighed, my grin fading slightly, and made my way to my seat. I edged myself into the far right corner of the room, away from as many people as possible. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my classmates...some of them were actually really nice. TOO nice. I’d been plopped into a class of complete extroverts, and if I didn’t put the physical barrier of space between myself and them, they’d likely talk to me all period. About nothing. It didn’t matter if I actually participated in the conversation. It just never stopped.
“Hey, Alvarez. Impressive boots.” It was Gemma, the fully-crowned high queen of St. Augustine High. She was looking very intently at me with a cryptic half-smile that I couldn’t ever quite interpret. Could be that sort of distant approval the high school aristocracy used to grant favor on the huddled masses below them, or it could be sarcasm. It was pretty hard to tell, particularly with Gemma.
“Um, thanks. They were a present.”
“I’m pretty sure you could kill someone with them. Are they real?”
I paused for an awkward moment before responding, trying to figure out exactly what “real” meant. Then it dawned on me. “Oh, yes, they’re genuine Docs. See the yellow stitches…?” I started to explain, but Gemma just nodded and turned her attention to the newest arrival.
“Hey, Alex! I have been waiting ALL DAY to ask you about that text you sent Lauren…” And off she went.
I heaved another sigh, this one a mix of awkwardness and fangirling as Alex Conroy walked into class. I wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened between Gemma and me. Feeling awkward had the side effect of making me feel vaguely hostile, though I knew it wasn’t real anger. I just always felt this way around Gemma, and as a result, disliked having to interact with her at all. I threw myself down in my seat and glared over at Gemma and Alex.
I had been in classes with Alex since the seventh grade, and had probably had a crush on him that entire time. Not that he knew anything about it, of course. Oh, no. Instead, I had wallowed in what I viewed as a tragic and unrequited love for the past four years, on and off. I’d dated a couple of guys, but Alex had always been my ideal. He was slender, with chocolatey hair that fell into his green eyes quite a lot, no matter how he tried to gel it. I imagined myself reaching up to brush it to the side for him, and…
RIIIIIIIING!! The tardy bell jarred me back into reality. Mrs. West came inside and closed the door.
“Good morning, everybody! We’re onto a new unit today; we’re going to be reading
a play.” Groans filled the classroom, but I sat up a little straighter as I remembered the syllabus. “Yeah, yeah, your lives are miserable,” Mrs. West teased. “But today we start The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Is anyone familiar with it?”
Without thinking, I shot my hand up in the air in an uncharacteristic show of enthusiasm. Mrs. West raised one eyebrow and looked at me with interest. “Lia? What can you tell me?”
“It’s about the Salem Witch Trials…” I began.
“That’s a common mistake, “ Mrs. West interrupted. "Can anyone put the play into its correct historical context?"
Gemma spoke up without raising her hand. “It’s actually a commentary about McCarthyism during the 20th century. It uses the Salem Witch Trials as an allegory…”
I slid down in my seat as Mrs. West went on to explain the function of an allegory and Arthur Miller's inspiration and passed out the class copies. If she had let me finish what I was saying, I’d have gotten around to that. I raised my eyes as the books came my way, just in time to make brief eye contact with Gemma, who was giving me a look that could have been sympathy or judgement. It was sort of hard to tell. Again. I groaned inwardly. It was going to be that kind of day.
Biology and History passed without incident, but I was still fuming when I plopped down beside Treigh on our favorite people-watching bench at lunch.
"I hope your morning went better than mine," I began. "In case you've ever wondered, it's not actually possible to die of embarrassment. If it were, I'd have done it in English."
He looked over the tops of his sunglasses. "Do tell."
I relayed the story of my mortification, as Treigh punctuated it with well-timed noises of outrage.
"I don't care what West says. The Witch Trial angle is more interesting anyway," my friend affirmed.
"I know, right? I mean, I understand that the principle of false accusation and stuff is the same, but come ON. Politics is BORING. And besides, if they wanted us to focus on the 20th century aspect, they would have put it at the end of the year, not the beginning of American Lit."
"I couldn't agree more, my dear. And Gemma Harris needs to stop trying to be teacher's pet all the time. She doesn't need ALL the attention on the planet." He sniffed in disgust.
"And besides," I continued, "the Salem Witch Trials have historical value, right? Why can't we study them directly? People might actually pay attention in class if we could read about THAT."
"No doubt you're right. But this is our lot. I must say, though, I passed your man candy on my way out of your class. He was looking mighty tasty today. Speaking of..." Treigh inclined his head toward the lunchline, where Alex stood punching his student number into the cashier's keypad. "Skinny jeans and an untucked dress shirt? Both careless and calculated. So very like an Aries. Well played," he approved.
I stared wistfully across the lunch patio. "I know. He doesn't lower himself to try to fit in. Seriously, look around this lunchroom. Most of the people in here look like they don't know how to find their own clothing sizes. How did this happen in, like, 50 years? Men used to wear tailored suits and fedoras. Now they look like they wear hand-me-downs from three different-sized people and THAT is supposed to be fashionable." I snorted disdainfully. "Our culture has lost all its class."
"I beg your pardon, madam," Treigh protested.
"Not YOU, of course. You are perfect in every way. You actually iron."
"That is because I am a KING of style, not a slave to it. Just so we're clear."
I chuckled, my momentary outrage fading. "I hope he wasn't listening in second period. I felt so dumb."
"YOU are not dumb, my dear. YOU are brilliant. Which is WHY Miss Gemma feels the need to try to look smart in front of you. Never forget that. Especially not since you have to see her again in Drama. Do NOT let yourself look rattled or upset. Do NOT give her the satisfaction."
"Yessir, " I smiled, bumping him with my shoulder affectionately. I began poking vaguely at the cheese congealing on my school pizza and made a face.
"You going to eat that?" Treigh asked.
"No, go ahead," I shrugged, pushing the paper plate toward him. "Have you ever wondered if there were any real witches in Salem during the trials? I mean, actual Pagans who came over with the Puritans searching for religious freedom? They would have really had to keep a low profile, you know?"
"To be honest," he said around his bite of my pizza, "I never really thought about it. But there had to have been a couple, right?"
"It must have been quite a struggle, wouldn’t you think? Trying to be dedicated to their religion, knowing what would happen if they got caught. It would have been terrifying day-to-day. It would make a really good story."
"You should write it, then. You're good at that storytelling stuff. And you can thank me in the dedication for being your most devoted fan."
I smiled, more to myself than to him, as the ideas began to swirl. "Maybe I will."
Chapter 2
Drama class was always scheduled for seventh period, the last class of the day. It was a practical arrangement; when we were rehearsing a play, having class at the end of the day cut an entire hour out of after-school rehearsals. And when we weren't rehearsing, class was either a study hall or decompression period.
I sat on the stage, waiting for the Drama teacher to finish talking to one of the stagecraft kids. As Mr. Adams approached, Gemma called for the class to quiet down and pay attention. Mr. Adams nodded acknowledgement to her for her efforts.
"Okay, folks," he began, "as most of you know, we are hosting the district Thespian competition this year. I'd really like to see us have entries in every category. With that in mind, I've posted a sign-up sheet on the exit door on stage right. Please, for the love of all things holy, don't sign up for a musical event if you can't sing. Don't make me be the one to tell you. Friends don't let friends make fools of themselves.
"We also didn't submit an original play last year or the year before, and I'd like to see one of you writer/director types out there stretch your compositional muscles. We only get to submit one, so if more than one of you wants to fill that spot, you'll have to pitch your ideas to me first...so everyone will need to choose their scripts or prepare their pitches between now and the day after tomorrow, okay?"
My pulse quickened. Write a play? This opportunity had presented itself on the very day I'd had a story idea! Surely this was meant to be! My mind started whirling like a carnival ride, creating the protagonist in an oppressive and cruel New World, struggling to stay true to her inner voice...
People had started to make their way over to the sign-up sheet, eager to get their first choice of competition event. I stood and pushed my way to the door, pen in hand and brain buzzing. I excitedly scribbled my name under the Playwriting subheading and stepped back, feeling breathless and excited.
"Oh, you're thinking of writing, too?" The voice came from behind me, and I cringed. Gemma. I ground my teeth together and slowly turned around, narrowing my dark eyes. "I've done pretty much every other category in competition," Gemma continued, "so I really want to try things from the director side, you know?"
"I never...I didn't know you had an interest in writing, Gemma." My answer came out slowly, measured. Carefully hiding the response screaming in my brain that went more like, Is there any part of my existence you are not going to invade?
"Oh, well, I like to challenge myself. Don't you?"
"Well, yeah, I guess. Writing is sort of my thing, though. I just have a story idea and this gives me a chance to put it together, so..."
"You do? What are you going to write about?"
I was suddenly wary. What was she up to? "Um, witches, sort of. I got the idea in English class..."
Gemma laughed, and I couldn't tell if she was laughing AT me or NEAR me. "That is just so YOU. Always going for the Gothic angle. Remember that time you got in that argument with that kid in English class about whether or not Edgar Allan Poe was actually an alcoholic and a creep for marryi
ng his cousin? Poe would have just flipped if he knew he’d have a devoted fan like you someday. I bet you know a lot about witches and horror stories and things. I don't know if that's the kind of play Mr. Adams is looking for, though. Sort of shock theatre..."
"It's not shock theatre, and what do you...you know what? Never mind. You write your pitch and I'll write mine, and we'll see which one he chooses.”
Gemma blinked back at me, surprised by the sudden change in tone. "Okay, then. I guess we'll see. May the best play win." Gemma's smile was a mask of civility, but I knew we'd both be taking this competition seriously. The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown down.
At the end of the day, I rushed home and fired up my laptop. I cross-checked formats and expectations for script pitches. I wrote a synopsis and character list. I drafted a rough staging plan, including anticipated props, sets, costumes, and lighting ideas. I kept it simple...this was intended to be a short play after all...mustn't try to do too much. Mustn't plan it like one would plan a film...my brain spun and my fingers flew across the keyboard.
There was no way I was going to let Gemma beat me out of this.
The next morning, I ran, wild-eyed, up to Treigh.
"Treigh! You have to come over tonight. I need you to go over my script pitch."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa...slow your roll there, dearest. Are you okay? Did you even sleep?"
"What? No, well, not much anyway. But seriously, can you come over for an hour or so? I really need another set of eyes on this."
"You know I am never going to let you down, Lia, and I will be there, for whatever help I can provide. Is this your Salem story?"
"Yes!" I replied breathlessly. "It's going to be so good! But I have to pitch against Gemma, and I just have to be ready. Adams HAS to choose me."
"Okay, okay, just relax. It's going to be fine. You do realize, though, that the extent of my metaphysical expertise is horoscopes and Harry Potter, right? Are you sure I'm the best person to..."
