Raven
A quick breeze whips the leaves of the trees outside. Like thousands of blinking green crystals, the foliage quivers, reflective emerald flashes in the afternoon light become nature’s chandeliers.
Mind racing with thoughts I can’t shut out, I shift on the second of two twin beds in my best friend Maggie’s fuchsia bedroom and stare out her open, double window.
Taking an adult role at a young age kept me focused, driven, so I don’t know why I’m so freaked out about starting school in the fall. It’s stupid, since it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
No matter what, I’ve always been tough, tenacious. And I sort of liked that about me. Now, I’m more like a flat tire with all the air sucked out of a big hole in the rubber—that hole being the death of my stepfather. Sure, our world before was chaos, but it was chaos I understood.
After being held captive in the Maddox mansion, after Ben died of cirrhosis, after Gideon said he loved me, I needed time to deal, get my head on straight. So, having no other family, I moved in with Maggie Wilson and her parents. I couldn’t very well keep living with Gideon—not that he didn’t try and convince me.
The plan we settled on was that I’d stay here until college started in the fall. Then Maggie and her boyfriend Dane would head for Armstrong Atlantic, and I would go to SCAD in Savannah. Gideon would attend at College of Charleston to be near me, and that was that. But plans can change. No one knows that better than I do.
The cell on my bed chirps signaling another text. Speaking of change … Cole and I have been talking on and off all morning. Actually, we’ve been talking ever since he flew home to France eight months ago.
Cole: I’m in hell here, Raven. Another bizarre nightmare. I miss you. Wish we could meet for coffee.
Raven: Me, too. I’m sorry, Cole. Hang in there. Life will get better.
I don’t know if it will or not, but I send him what hope I can. Poor Cole. In light of all he’s been through, it’s not surprising the guy suffers from bad dreams.
The Artisan curse that left him haunting Maddox mansion drove him to ask me for help. It took months to unravel the mystery that threatened my sanity and my life. With the help of my friends, Jenny, and finally Gideon himself, we went to the mansion’s cellar where we performed the ritual that set Cole free.
Life altering, supernatural events tend to blow your mind, then bind you irrevocably to the people you went through them with. At least, that’s what happened to me.
My boyfriend doesn’t like my friendship with Cole, but he tolerates it. In time, I hope he’ll accept that while I’m drawn to Cole, there’s no one else like Gideon Maddox.
Still, I can’t deny the strain between us, and I know he feels it, too. We came together like two speeding trains, barreling toward each other with opposite goals ending in a fierce and fiery meeting. All the ugly, painful parts of our lives spilled onto the ground for the other to inspect first. How does a new couple rewind to small talk and seemingly unimportant details after that? We’ve both lived crisis to crisis for so long, I’m not sure we know how to live without one.
Maybe it takes time to adjust. And maybe there’s not enough time in the world to adjust to what we’ve been through. But no, I can’t let myself think that way. We’ll work it out. We have to.
Edgar meows and bumps my hand with his massive head. I stroke his soft, black fur and peer out the window again. A jet parts the thin clouds overhead. Gideon’s plane will have landed in New York by now. He’s traveled much less lately, and I suspect that’s because of me, but I miss him anyway. I’ve never been the doe-eyed, clingy-type. Then again, I’ve never been crazy in love before, either.
The wind blows the arms of the oaks outside, and I swear they call my name. I’m mesmerized, can’t stop watching. This fascination with fauna is new. Growing. And honestly, a bit disconcerting.
I spot Dane in his red T-shirt coming up the sidewalk. His stride is uniquely him, athletic with a little gangsta-strut thrown in that I’d recognize anywhere. Not that anyone could miss the long russet dreads that hang like macramé cords from his head. Just the sight of him cheers me up. I grin as he strolls through the yard and up to my window instead of going to the front door like normal people.
Two years ago, he was the new kid at school. Quiet, brooding, but one day he complimented my clothes. I said I liked his hair. He told me I could dance—for a white girl. Another smile breaks free at the memory of us debating everything from movies to whether or not rappers are poets. Boom. A friendship was born. Always there for me, Dane protected me those nights when I used to hunt the bars for Ben, and I stitched him up whenever he’d come over after a fight with his dad and needed a place to crash.
He stops in front of my window and speaks to his shoes. “Hey, little Rae.”
“Hey, yourself.” He tends to use my nickname when he’s worried—about me, or himself. Based on this afternoon’s activities, I’m betting on the latter.
“Will you walk in with me?”
“Chicken?”
He nods. “I ain’t even gonna lie.”
I sympathize. When I introduced him to Maggie, lightning struck. His feelings were instant and obvious, at least to me, and he carried that torch in silence for a long time. In Dane’s mind, his poverty and past next to her middle class status made her as unreachable as a star. That is, until we knocked some sense into his hard head a few months ago. He still gets nervous around Maggie’s parents—especially her dad.
As for Gideon, his parents passed away when he was young. I never had to face them, but since Dane and I are from the same (wrong) side of the tracks, I can imagine quite a scene if I had.
“No worries, bro. Meet me at the door, I got your back.”
I grab my sketchpad, and bounce off the bed. When I get to the front door and swing it open, Dane’s face is riddled with anxiety. I pull him inside and loop his arm through mine with a gentle squeeze to bolster him. Arm in arm, we make our way down the hall, through the living room, and head for the back door. I’m grinning because pretzel-walking in tight spaces with someone is awkward, yet my friend grips me like a life preserver. His skin grows clammy, and his complexion exchanges color—cinnamon for green. He’s stiff as a ruler.
“Try and relax,” I say. “They’re good people and so are you. Just be yourself.”
Dane snorts as we push past the screen door and step onto a rambling two-tiered deck.
The Wilson’s backyard is a fenced quarter-acre of suburban normalcy. Dogs bark, birds sing, and neighbors swear at their burning bratwurst while little kids squeal and play on their swing sets.
Mags’s father stands in one corner, grilling burgers. He waves his spatula, and I lift my chin in greeting. I’m sorry to say he wears a white chef’s hat and a chartreuse “Kiss the Cook” apron that I plan to burn later. Maggie’s mother sets the picnic table for five. It’s like Norman Rockwell threw up out here, and I love it.
Dane takes an unsteady step forward. “Sup, Mr. Wilson?”
Poor guy.
I wink at Mags as I head for the big maple tree in the center of the yard. Sketching until dinner’s ready will give Dane some time alone with the fam, and Maggie can more than handle his frayed nerves.
Easing my back against the tree, I sketch a new design for my steampunk timepiece line. The breeze is warm for early June, and I predict a blistering summer. Dandelions dot the yard in need of mowing. Cirrocumulus clouds cover the hazy blue sky. I’m proud I remember that handy tidbit from science class, they are also nicknamed Mackerel because the clouds look like fish scales. So, why can’t we just call them that? Why do scientists always have to name everything such long, stupid names that no one can ever remember for a test?
Except that I just did. Gah! Shut up, Raven! Sometimes I can’t turn my rambling brain off.
Maggie giggles, and I watch the foursome on the deck, enjoying the day. Simple gratitude wells up inside me until the feeling spills over. Thankful for the sun, the shade that a faithful, old tree provides in summer, for the strength of its support, the music of fluttering leaves in the breeze.
The ground jumps and rumbles beneath me.
Startled, I glance around, but there’s nothing to see.
Another rumble and energy infuses my nerves, sending a shock through my body.
I drop my pad and pencil. My palms press the grass on either side of me, fingers digging into the soft soil for balance.
Then the shaking stops.
On the deck, Maggie tosses her head back and laughs as her father points the nozzle of the ketchup bottle her direction. She begs Dane for help, but he puts his hands in the air, as if to say this is between her and her dad. Mrs. Wilson frowns, warning her husband to stop his teasing.
No one seems alarmed by the fact a small earthquake has just taken place. No one seems to notice at all.
Does a power line run under this tree? Maybe a neighbor dug in the wrong place. Lawn mower run amok? Sink hole? I wait, rooted to the spot, but nothing else happens.
My muscles relax as another soft breeze floats by. I shake my head at my overactive imagination, and settle against the tree. Slowly, I’m eased forward and back again. As a child, I often fell asleep on Ben’s solid chest. Gentle swells and contractions of his ribcage forced me up and down in a steady rhythm like a lullaby with each breath. The tree trunk breathes the same way—like a giant lung. Shivers wrack my body. I force myself to sit still as several limbs bow low. Leaves gently caress my face and neck sending little jolts of energy skittering under my flesh. As the maple rolls me forward again, a warm sensation fills my mind with a sense of awe and wonder. And power. Light floods my eyes in a brilliant flash. I scramble to my feet with a shriek, and, too fast to track, the tree limbs retreat to the canopy above.
“What’s wrong?” Maggie yells over her father’s shoulder. “Ew, is there a bug?”
“Uh … ” How do I explain? I stare at my friend, unable to answer with a single intelligent word.
Worry, fear, and doubt weight the air easing from my chest. When Gideon and I broke the curse last year, I thought the ritual would end our troubles—the supernatural ones, anyway. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. And if the magic’s retuning, how in the world do I tell my beautiful, strong-willed, and overly protective boyfriend?