by Rue Volley
I leaned forward, craning my neck in an attempt to find out what could possibly have made that noise. Then I spotted a small creature, no bigger than the palm of my hand. My heart leapt into my throat.
It was a little blue swallow. Mom calls that color faded azure. I think it sounds pretty.
The birds love to sit in the apple tree, but they never take the fruit. They wait until it’s fallen and then try their best to get what they can before a larger predator comes along.
Like my cat—Bitter Bat. I called her that because she has an attitude and ears like a bat. She’s a long haired black and white cat with bright yellow eyes. We’ve been growing up together, here at the cottage on the lake.
She doesn’t like to be cuddled, but it doesn’t change how much I care about her. I just keep trying, hoping that someday she’ll accept me. But for now, she sits on Mom’s lap and glares at me, which I don’t appreciate at all. Plus, she tries to kill the birds that hang outside in the apple tree, and she doesn’t need to do that. Mom gives her plenty of food every single day.
She says we’re all hardwired, like machines, to do certain things.
That Bitter can’t help it. It’s just who she is.
But I can’t imagine naturally wanting to kill something because it was just who I am.
So, I have hope for Bitter. I know she’ll come around. But in the meantime, I have to get to this little bird before she does.
I gasped, spinning on one untied shoe to make my way outside. My mission set with optimistic determination. I hit the door running with an outstretched hand. The sharp slap of wood hitting the doorframe echoed out from behind.
I nearly fell, catching myself with one balled fist buried deep in the shaggy green grass. It’s so soft. Maybe it had allowed the bird to fall unharmed. But hope turned sour. I dropped to my knees when I spotted its lifeless little body.
Bitter was hovering too close.
“Go away.” I angrily snapped. “You can’t have it, you meanie.”
My lip quivered. Did it see me sitting there at the table and thought it could come in? Did this happen because of me? All because I wanted to draw by the window?
Silent tears streamed down my face as lake water lapped at the rocky shoreline. Everything I once loved—sky, sun, water—no longer mattered. This deep sense of guilt settled into my bones. Overtaking my emotions.
Time stood still. Things slowed down. Even my breathing.
I reached in, as gently as I could, and scooped the tiny bird up in my hands. My heart ached. The breathless sobbing hitched in the back of my throat. This was death, staring right at me. Reminding me of how fragile this world is. How nothing was ever going to stay the way it was.
I’d keep growing and so would my Mom and Dad, and eventually we’d be just like this little bird in my hands. Lifeless and forgotten.
No more songs. No more flying. No more happiness.
Just darkness and decay.
The tears continued to flow!
I couldn’t stand it.
My eyes snapped shut. I tried to find a safe place to hide away, but I couldn’t. The tiny body lay in my hands. The still heart. The stolen breath.
A happy life cut short.
I suddenly felt a strong sense of purpose.
I opened my eyes and stared up at the blue sky, past the clouds and the atmosphere—reaching into the heavens as far as my mind would allow me to go. I could see stars clustered together, forming galaxies far far away. Places I’d never been, but felt as if I’d been there before. Touched them. Was a part of them—of everything.
Then it happened.
The rise, as I’ll call it.
First in my eyes.
My pupils felt like swirling pools of light.
Then my throat hummed, forcing me to part my lips.
This energy continued to travel throughout my body—radiating outward on a rolling wave of compassion and love.
Rising from inside of me, through me—it was me.
This was the same light that passed through but never left, not entirely, as I grew inside my Mom. It lingered like an old friend. Like a memory of what was or could be.
My hands began to glow with a yellow light that turned pink, then green, then pastel blue. It pulsated like an engine starting to run again.
My eyes widened in wonder.
The energy encapsulated the little bird, surrounding it with these tangible sparks of light that now glowed like embers from a dying flame.
Orange, then yellow—now red.
I held my breath and waited. Surely something wonderful was about to happen.
Then there was one twitch—then two. A wing fluttered. A beak moved. A tiny foot stretched, then kicked. I was witnessing a rebirth—a new creation.
Life.
The bird flipped in my hands and shook off death like an inconvenience that merely interrupted its day.
It turned to stare at me as if to say thank you. I offered a small nod while lifting my hands into the air, and it flew away, but not before Bitter lunged upward, swiping at it.
I screamed with the wave of my hand and she dropped out of sight.
I watched the small miracle circle overhead, diving and twisting. I envied that freedom.
I heard a gasp from behind, so I pushed myself up and turned to see my parents staring up at the bird in disbelief. Then their attention returned to me.
“Oh, honey, what have you done?” my Mom asked while inspecting the ground with her eyes. Dad placed his arm around her with a strange expression on his face. I couldn’t tell if I was in trouble or not.
Then I looked down at my feet.
A circle of dead grass surrounded me. Black and charred. Nearly dust in the wind. But worse than that, Bitter was lying there, dead as a doornail. Panic gripped me and I ran without stopping.
My stomach churned. My head felt light. My body tingled with the last traces of energy that had been drawn through me and into the tiny creature.
But worse than that, I not only gave life, but took it away.
I rushed into the kitchen, half out of breath, then grabbed the sketch and held it up, exposing the full scene.
It was our house, the lake. Our apple tree—but one thing stuck out more than the rest.
I had drawn a picture of myself holding a small blue bird in my hands out in the yard with a charred circle beneath my feet.
And there was Bitter with an X over each eye.
I had predicted everything before it happened.
I didn’t know how I knew then.
But I do now.
Chapter One
TEN YEARS, TEN DAYS, TEN MINUTES, AND TEN SECONDS LATER…
“Rook—Rook—sweetheart?”
I turned with a tight lip, tapping the thick rimmed, green-as-grass, frames back up my pale button nose. It’s a solid move that I’ve perfected over time. One flick with a rigid index finger always does the trick.
My Mom thought these glasses were too big for my face, since they brush against the middle of my cheeks, but I love them. They’re the exact same color as my almond-shaped eyes nestled in thick dark lashes. I got my eyes directly from her. We have the same shape—color—everything, making it easy for her to claim me as her own. Which she loves to do.
My lashes are so thick that I can skip using mascara. I guess that’s a plus, even though makeup really isn’t my thing.
If anything, I’ll use a little liquid blush and some lip gloss, along with a shiny highlighter stick that I also ordered online, to run down the middle of my face. I never use foundation because my pores are small and I’ve been blessed with clear skin. So, the highlighter stick and blush seem to do the trick. I consider myself lucky.
I saw a girl use them on some video online, so I mimicked what she did. Those tips and tricks came in handy toda
y. I also have a few freckles here and there. I noticed that some girls actually draw them on. Luckily, I don’t have to, and they don’t really show that much unless you’re right up on me, which no one will be doing anytime soon.
I’m not the type who—well, I don’t have friends, other than my Mom and, um, a cat who loves to hate me, with good reason.
But I can’t think about any of that right now. This is a big day. HUGE. A day I dreamed about for what seemed like forever.
The disheveled ball of light purple hair with hot pink undertones shifted on top of my head. It’s thick and wavy. I got my hair from my Dad, it’s naturally chocolate brown, but fun temporary colors seemed like a good idea right up until we got here. I placed my hand over a little tattoo of a star that I had drawn on my wrist in black ink.
Everything I did to myself was due to nerves. This wasn’t really me. UGH!
The hair color, the fake tattoo. I reached up and removed the clip-on nose ring and slid it into my pocket. Why the heck did I watch all those videos online and then decide to change how I look before coming here?
I had tried too hard, and Mom had gone right along with my crazy ideas! Yep. Crap!
I blankly stared off into space while picking at one loose strand of dyed hair.
“Mom—I should wash this—”
She promptly interrupted me. “Okay, shirts—check, skirts—check, coats—and—and—” My mother rattled off her inventory list, tapping a separate finger for each one.
Mom let out an exasperated sigh, while biting at her nail. She turned to face me with a wild gesture of her hand. “What am I forgetting?”
She checked her watch.
My breathing eased. “Mom, we have time.”
She ignored me with unblinking eyes.
I tilted my foot, resting the bulk of my weight on the edge of my hot pink industrial boot with black laces. Hot pink may be my signature color as far as boots go. I’m not sure yet. I’m fifteen. I have plenty of time to change and change again, and I’m sure I will as often as possible with annoying irregularity.
“Oh—honey! Your socks.”
I glanced down at my white skinny jeans neatly cuffed just above the top of my shoes, exposing my socks. One deep yellow, one dark green.
“You know matching socks annoy me. Besides, it doesn’t matter. They all end up lost in the dryer sooner or later, so honestly, I think I’m giving every pair of socks I own a better chance of survival.” I added a reassuring nod to drive my point home.
She cracked her neck. I grimaced. I hate that habit most of all. It’s like fingers on a chalkboard.
Her hands landed on the edge of the trunk. “Rook—honestly, your theory about socks and their survival is the last thing we need to be discussing right now.”
I spoke through shaky laughter. “Says the woman who let me do this to my hair.”
She side eyed me. “I was only supporting you.”
“And you kept me up all night watching movies.” I added. Which she had, but I didn’t complain.
She stiffened. “You wanted to watch Twilight again!”
“I said we could, not that we had to do it.” I retorted. “So, now I’m exhausted.”
I hid a yawn behind the edge of my hand while my eyebrows arched high. I didn’t dye them, even though it had crossed my mind in the heat of all this panicked decision making.
Her tone dipped to a hushed whisper as a girl passed us by, “And what does that have to do with mismatched socks?”
I rolled my hand in defiance with a soured expression. “Maybe you should’ve let me get some sleep and the great sock debacle wouldn’t be ruining the world.”
Dissatisfaction plowed her brow. “Rook, my love—light of my life—girl who took nineteen hours to exit my body. Causing waves of excruciating pain that were never-ending while I screamed in agony—begging for it all to end. Eating nothing but ice chips and just hoping I wouldn’t die, while making promises to all the Gods that I would do whatever it took to just get you out of me once and for all—”
My eyes darted from embarrassment. “Mom—quit it.”
She winked at me. “I can be just as bratty as you are.”
I giggled when she jabbed at my ribs, knowing how ticklish I am. “And you know I love you more than anything in this world, but for the life of me, I don’t know why I decided to create a smaller version of myself and then try to argue with it.”
I blinked with feigned innocence. “I’m not a brat.”
“Seriously.” She prattled on. “I have no idea what I could’ve possibly done to deserve this type of treatment other than give you everything you ever wanted.” She pointed at me, “And the hair was your idea. Remember that. All you—all day—all night. You.”
The silence clung between us, but she wasn’t able to hold her poker face for long. The laughter followed when a few drops of rain forced me to take my glasses off to clean them. It’s the end of August. Soon September would usher in my favorite season when I get to drink hot cocoa, and wear baggy sweatshirts and my UGG boots. Everything went out of focus for a moment, then I tapped my glasses back up my button-nose and the world came into view.
My new world. This oddly acceptable placement for me and what I was.
A fledgling necromancer who desperately needed guidance.
I shook my head as she returned to the meticulous task of checking and re-checking the contents of my suitcase. She must’ve counted my shirts five times, not including the “final” flight check before we left the house early this morning so we could be on time—which isn’t something we usually accomplish with any sort of success.
I pulled out an orange BIC highlighter and palmed it tight enough to remove the lid and replace it with my thumb, over and over again, turning it into a makeshift fidget toy.
I attempted to discretely spy on my fellow classmates as they continued to congregate in circles. I’m one year behind—having been accepted late, as Mom said, but I have my suspicions that she just wanted to keep me with her for one more year. Most of the kids start when they’re fourteen, but there are multiple grades here. It’s a five-year school and after that we get to stand before The Great Tree of Wisdom, prick our thumbs, place it against the trunk of the tree and it chooses our Kingdom.
But that’s a long way off.
My attention shifted as more students arrived. One by one I watched, until it started to sink in that this school was more than just books and learning. It was more than receiving final placement in the Seven Kingdoms of Myth and Magic once we graduated, or hopefully graduated, because some leave to never to return to Hemlock Academy of the Dark Arts. But this is like a small town, a community of people, made up of both students and teachers that I didn’t know and didn’t know how to know.
Could I fit in? Was it possible?
My hand twitched from nerves and I dropped my highlighter, forcing me to lower to one knee. I spotted a group of girls staring at me so I rose up with it in my hand acting like I belong here, just like they do.
More and more kids arrived.
So many faces. So many different personalities. So many people who could easily see me as a fake—a fraud.
A total imposter.
UGH!
Their parents are NOT human. Not a single one of them. Mine are, and that makes me an anomaly, even though I’ve read about Necromancers like me. Ones who come from non-magic folk, once every five-hundred years or so—but not everyone accepts what I am that easily. I can feel it with every distrusting glance and hushed whisper.
And here I am with hot pink and purple hair and mismatched socks just asking for it.
No one said to wear the uniform! The white shirt, the jacket with the Academy Crest with a sprig of hemlock in faded gold and blue, or the pleated skirt. But I could see that some kids chose to show up in theirs.
What d
id they know that I didn’t?!
Had we missed something in the admission paperwork?
I looked down and twisted my boot.
Suddenly my choice of attire had me on the verge of a panic attack. I had made every mistake that I could.
Did I want to fail at this? Maybe I deserved it.
I don’t belong here. I don’t. I can feel it. They’re all staring at me saying the same thing. Whispering amongst themselves. I’m not like them. I’ll never be like them. I have human blood. I’m different—strange. A fake.
I mouthed the words. “Mom—Mom.” But nothing came out as my throat began to close up.
My inner voice took control.
They probably had a big meeting about whether someone like me should be allowed into this place. I could hear it now. WHY would we let this thing come here? To this school of all schools? The only one for magic that has ever existed. Especially since her Mom waited a year before the new classes started, putting her at a disadvantage!
It was rude of us to wait.
I’d fail because I don’t know what I am or how to use it for good.
My eyes glossed over and I laughed to fill the deafening silence.
Yep, this is it. I’m breaking right here and now in front of everyone.
No—no—stop it, Rook. Just knock it off. You belong here. Everything is fine. Just freakin’ fine. Stop being a baby. You took the tests. You passed. You belong here just like the rest of them.
I could fake an illness right now, or have a catastrophic meltdown, and I bet Mom would pack me right back up and take me home without question.
I know she isn’t completely convinced that this is the best plan anyway—she’s only doing it because of my—well—powers that showed up when I was five.
Since then I’ve brought ninety-seven caterpillars, six birds, twenty-two fish, a frog, and of course Bitter Bat, my awful cat, back to life. I had, too. She may be a terrible friend but I basically murdered her.
But she just stands around looking all raggedy like a zombie sourpuss. She also kills everything she can chase down just to spite me.
Seriously, she does it on purpose. Half of my resurrections were because of her.
