Spell Fire (7 page)

"Mom bought me a burger, so I'm good." I pulled off the scrunchie and slid it onto my wrist. A jet taking off drowned out the bubbling of the fountain outside. My gaze migrated to a small desk to the left of the closet, then above it to an eighteen-inch, arched niche in the wall. It reminded me of the built-in altar in a hotel we had stayed in Mexico City. Instead of a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, this one contained a red pillar candle, a small glass bowl of clear crystal shards, a dark green, egg-shaped rock, and a small stuffed animal.

"Love the owl." I reached for the finger puppet perched on a bottle of apple green nail polish. "It's my school mascot."

"Owls are associated with the Greek goddess, Athena," Aunt Terra said.

"I know." I slipped the little owlet puppet onto my forefinger and bobbed it up and down. "I attend the Athenian Academy."

"Extremely auspicious." Uncle Esmun strode into the room with the loose grace of a man grooving to an inner beat. A knowing smile passed between he and my aunt.

Aunt Terra nodded. "Indeed."

It all zoomed over my head. Maybe it was a light warrior or shaman thing. Reluctantly, I returned the owlet to its perch.

Aunt Terra moved beside me, her skirts swishing. Light from the ceiling fan glinted off her crystal bracelet as she reached for the desk latch and lowered the drop leaf. "We have a surprise for you." She stepped aside.

Inside the desk were little cubicles filled with gel pens and fairy note cards, and a wrapped gift the size of an address book.

"Open it. It's an early solstice present."

"Made specially for you," Uncle Esmun added. "We've been working on it for months."

The fear and worry strangling my heart eased a bit. "Seriously? For me?"

"Yes!" they said in unison.

I carried the gift to the nearest bed. Inside my brain, my former four-year-old self jumped up and down and screamed, "Presents!" Outwardly, I remained cool and carefully slid my finger beneath the tape and broke the seal. I peeled back the shiny blue paper, embellished with moons and suns, to reveal a little handmade book. An orange sticky note stuck to the cover warned in black permanent marker, "DON'T READ AHEAD!" In smaller print, someone had added in blue ink, "Unless you absolutely have to."

The contradiction paralyzed me.

"Open it," Aunt Terra said.

I folded back the cover to reveal the title page:
Ainslie's Almanac.

Aunt Terra plopped beside me on the bed, engulfing me once more in her lavender scent. "We made the cover from rags and scraps of colored paper. That's why it's so stiff and speckled."

Glued to the inside of the cover was a photo I recognized from the Hubble Space Telescope. Amazing points of light hovered in a black sky above churning yellow, orange, and mauve galactic gases. I loved the way the biggest stars burst with white light and emanated slender crosses of rainbow light. Smaller stars shined summer-blue, and the tiniest ones appeared as dots of yellow fringed in red.

"Your aunt be an intuitive tarot reader." Uncle Esmun placed my backpack on the floor beside the desk, then pulled a box of matches from one of the cubby drawers. "And a fine artist. The sketches are her work." With a single strike, the match hissed to life. He lit the candle in the arched niche, then waved his hand to disperse the smoke. The sulfur stench dissipated.

"And I be an astrologer and aura reader, among other fine things."

"So we worked together to create a day planner attuned specially to your birth chart, the phases of the moon, intuitive hints about you—" Aunt Terra glanced at the little owl.

"Et cetera," Uncle Esmun finished.

"Wow. I don't know what to say." Dad and Mom usually gave me gift cards or expensive jewelry. "I've never had a solstice present before."

"Technically it isn't the solstice yet, but we knew you'd need this before—" Uncle Esmun bit off his words and threw Aunt Terra a guilty glance before hanging his head in what seemed like a silent apology.

Several warning bells clanged inside my head.

"Turn to today's page," Aunt Terra suggested.

Heeding the sticky note's foreboding instructions, I carefully flipped to the next page.

December Six

Twelve nights until the Long Nights Moon/Oak Moon

Tarot: The Moon (Major Arcana XVIII)

Is the moonlight true light, or merely a reflection of the sun? Force yourself to journey through the darkness. Part of you must die to be reborn.

"Don't look so worried! It isn't as ominous as it sounds," Aunt Terra assured me. "Think of it this way. The days keep getting shorter, the nights—"

"Or darkness," Uncle Esmun cut in.

Aunt Terra nodded. "The darkness grows longer."

"But you'll get through it," Uncle Esmun promised. "Major Arcana cards indicate work on a deep spiritual level."

If they were referring to my parents ditching me at Christmas, I so did not want to have this conversation. "Thanks," I mumbled.

They stared at me a minute, then exchanged a quick look.

Aunt Terra patted my knee. "We should let you get settled in. Esmun and I are teaching a workshop tomorrow. You can hang out at Spiral Journeys until we're done."

"Spiral Journeys?"

"It's our metaphysical store and little mystery school," she replied.

"What's a mystery school?"

"Mystery schools date back thousand of years. A Master Teacher — usually a priestess, shaman, or light warrior — would pass on secret knowledge to one or more initiates."

Great. Woo-Woo U.

Uncle Esmun threw me a sly look. "Jett will keep you company."

"Who's Jett?"

Uncle Esmun's expression reminded me of Jazmin's when she was the first in our school to get the latest smartphone. "Jett is just a sixteen-year-old kid who works for us."

Aunt Terra's eyes crinkled at the corners. "No one special." She stood up. "We need to get there early to set up. How about we wake you around eight for breakfast?"

"Sure."

"Fresh towels in the guest bathroom," Uncle Esmun said. "Let us know if you need anything else."

I nodded, and they left, closing the bedroom door behind them. After placing the almanac on the bed, I pried the stilettos off my swollen feet and wiggled my toes. I should have been studying for my Chemistry final, but the almanac called to me like a second scoop of double fudge brownie ice cream. I cracked it open, careful to not read ahead. The warning annoyed me. Don't look ahead? What would happen if I did? I contemplated for a moment the kind of revenge an angry light warrior or shaman might exact.

Pass.

Airplane engines ripped the silence. I re-read the passage.
Part of you must die to be reborn.
Which part?

I could have sworn the almanac knew the answer; it didn't want to tell me.

Fine. I'll ask Jett. Whoever he is.

Chapter Eight

A coyote and a wolf flanked a moonlit path leading to two standing stones. The animals raised their noses to the full moon and opened their mouths. Cloud-like breath slipped past their fangs. The wolf's howls and the coyote's yips pierced my ears, trapping me like blue nets. Guardians. Gatekeepers. Should I flee? Should I summon my courage and dash between them? Should I make myself wake up?

I stared at the moon for guidance. It appeared larger and brighter than normal because it was nearing perigee, the point in its elliptical orbit when it passed closest to the Earth.

Even in my dreams, I am such a nerd.

The standing stones pulsed with ancient power and magic. Their rhythm thrummed in my veins, beckoning me. I stepped closer, and the wolf and coyote halted their noise and studied me with pale eyes. Unnerved, I glanced at the standing stones.

An orange sticky note had been stuck to one of them. I inched closer and deciphered the warning: "DON'T READ AHEAD!"

I woke with a gasp. Sunlight sliced under the vertical blinds onto the orchid carpet. The owlet puppet stared down at me from its nail polish perch. The almanac rested on the bedside table where I had left it, but the orange note was stuck to my right palm. At least nothing had smote me during the night.

I stared up at the ceiling. Maybe Mom and Dad were getting along better without me. Maybe they wished I had never been born.

An ache pressed on my heart, threatening to suffocate me.

"Ainslie?" Aunt Terra knocked on my door.

I cleared my throat. "Yes?"

"Breakfast time."

"Thanks. I'll be out in a minute."

I held my breath until her footsteps retreated across the entry tile. I sniffed back tears and noticed the smell of bacon drifting under my door. I had totally pegged Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun for vegetarians. Intrigued, I slipped into skinny jeans, a ribbed long-sleeved top, and flip-flops.

A quick stop in the spotless guest bathroom revealed an unwrapped bar of lavender soap made with organic oils. Instead of burning my cracked skin, it caressed and moisturized it. Revived, I headed for the kitchen.

"Morning, Ainslie." Uncle Esmun passed me a plate of French toast, generously dusted with powdered sugar.

"Thanks. Good morning." I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten breakfast with someone. It must have been at Jazmin's.

The dining room table, a low-end veneer Queen Anne reproduction with curving legs and claw feet, had been polished to a dull shine. I pulled out a chair and sat beneath the small overwrought chandelier. I could just picture our interior designer rolling her eyes and saying in her smoker's voice, "It's hideous. I'm afraid I'll break into hives just sitting here." Then she would have rubbed her arms and shivered.

"Organic maple syrup?" Uncle Esmun handed me a tiny ivory pitcher.

"Bacon?" Aunt Terra asked, bringing out a steamy plate from the tiny kitchen.

"Yes, please." One taste and I could tell it was top grade, applewood-smoked, and probably made from pigs raised without antibiotics or added hormones. I downed my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety meds with freshly squeezed orange juice. If a solicitous waiter had lurked at my elbow, I would have sworn I was brunching at the Ritz. Which made me worry Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun had fried their food budget to impress me. "Everything looks delicious."

"I see the family sugar addiction got you too," Aunt Terra said as I practically licked the powdered sugar off my French toast.

"Big time," I answered between bites. I didn't care what anyone said — sometimes cupcakes
were
hugs. The trick was self-discipline.

Jazmin and I had strict rules regarding food. We never brought a bag of chips or platter of cupcakes to the table — or worse, to the television. Way too easy to mindlessly graze. Instead, we would put a handful of chips on a plate or a cupcake on a napkin. That way, we had to think about whether or not we truly wanted or needed more. If the answer was yes, then we still had to get up off the floor (Mom would freak if we sat on the silk sofas), and drag our sorry butts to the kitchen.

"Eat up, ladies," Uncle Esmun said in his island accent. "We roll in forty-five minutes."

As if I could get ready for the mysterious Jett in so little time. I didn't care, of course. Instead, I wondered if Mom and Dad had boarded their ship yet.

"What's your workshop about?" I expected them to say astral projection, shamanic drumming, or something dangerous, like seven ways to stop a vampire.

Aunt Terra swallowed some juice, then said, "Conscious eating."

"What?" Uncle Esmun's voice raised half an octave.

"You know, dear. You have to eat in silence and be mindful of every bite."

There hadn't been much joking around since Mom and Dad had become verbal gladiators, so I almost missed the sly, play-along-with-me look Aunt Terra threw Uncle Esmun.

"Oh, right." Uncle Esmun stabbed a piece of French toast. "Which is why I be eating as much as I can now."

"Truly?" I wavered between playing along and showing them I was more astute than I appeared.

Uncle Esmun regarded me for a moment while he chewed. Actually, his glance was focused on a point just beyond me, as if he was reading my aura or something. He jabbed his fork in my direction. "Almost had you going!" He flashed a huge, moon-colored grin, then slipped another piece of French toast into his mouth. Aunt Terra stood and planted a syrupy kiss on his cheek.

I tried to picture Mom kissing Dad in the same way.

"Think she'll like Jett?" Uncle Esmun asked.

Aunt Terra sat down again and broke off a piece of bacon. "Oh, they'll get along. But only if you stop matchmaking."

I decided then and there to change into a nicer top and dig out my black stilettos.

****

No one had told me mountains surrounded Palm Springs. Not rolling foothills like we had back home, but gigantic, rocky, jutting-into-the-sky, snow-tipped, breath-stealing
mountains.
I wondered how I had missed them last night in the dark. After the blue sky and palm trees, they were the first things I noticed when we got into the car. The second thing I noticed was Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun's rattletrap received only two radio stations: an all-Spanish channel, and one devoted solely to Christmas songs. They opted for the latter.

I stared out the window, trying to shut out memories of making Christmas cookies with Mom and searching for the perfect tree with Dad. I watched for stores that might sell disposable cell phones and cards with prepaid service. The pickings were slim as we left the outskirts of town. The litter-strewn desert, a barren wasteland, soon dominated the landscape. Acres of sand whisked by while "Little Drummer Boy" and "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" droned in my ears. I wondered where I would be stuck next Christmas if my parents split up.

The car began a steady upward climb through a rocky mountain pass. "How long have you had your mystery school?" I asked.

Aunt Terra swiveled in her seat. "We've had the store for seven years. We started the mystery school four years go."

Hmm.
I wondered if the two endeavors had been recession-proof. It seemed doubtful.