Camdeboo Nights (6 page)

Damon’s fall, arms held before him, seemed to happen in slow motion. From the way he sprawled, he appeared unable to decide whether he’d try to stop his fall or save the books.

“No!” The cry escaped Helen’s lips and she leapt forward, closing the distance between herself and the guys. “Leave him alone!” So not cool.

“We didn’t do anything,” Jean-Pierre said. “Your brother is clumsy.”

She glared at Jean-Pierre then returned her attention to her brother. “Damon! Are you okay?”

He looked up at her with startled eyes. “I’m fine, sis. I think I tripped on one of my shoelaces.”

Helen stared daggers at Jean-Pierre. In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of other students approaching, no doubt drawn by the commotion.

“I saw you push my brother, JP. I’m not blind.”

Odette’s voice intruded as she pushed between Helen and Jean-Pierre. “Well, you must have been mistaken.” Someone laughed.

Taller than Helen, Odette had the kind of body one would associate with a professional netball player or swimmer. There was nothing soft about Odette, with her heavy jaw and hard gray eyes. Cow.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Odette. What has Damon done to deserve this treatment? He’s barely been here a week!”

“Oh, so the new girl wants to start pointing fingers, hey? Come guys, we don’t need to hang out with city trash. We always knew you Capetonians were a bunch of snobs.” Odette sneered.

Muttering, the others grouped around her to follow the tall girl, but not before one or two, no doubt emboldened by their numbers, nudged Helen so hard she almost tumbled down the steps to join her brother.

She was so seethingly angry, Helen knew if she opened her mouth for a parting shot, she’d sputter rather than give the desired expletive vent, which would not do her situation any favors. Instead, she took a deep breath, unclenched her hands and helped her brother to his feet.

“Just try to avoid them,” she said quietly. Not that it would help prevent future episodes.

Damon gave a wry laugh. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do since they started, sis.”

“Well, they’re a bunch of fuck-heads. I’m going to go and see the student council about this.”

That was when Etienne chipped in, “It won’t help, you know.” His sudden appearance startled Helen so much she couldn’t help but give a small jump.

The diminutive boy must have been watching the drama unfold, hidden in a doorway all this time. Now, he strode forward, his blue eyes wide.

“And, how would you know?” Helen asked, immediately regretting her words. Stupid wench! He’d been carrying the brunt of the abuse for years already. What was the point of projecting her sense of injustice on him?

Etienne said nothing. Only a twisted half-smile played across his lips.

Damon chipped in, “That’s the most stupidest thing I ever heard you say.”

Etienne gave a dry chuckle and hopped down the steps to help Damon with his books. The two looked comical together, Damon already half again as tall as the older boy.

“Safety in numbers?” Etienne asked, smiling up at Helen.

He was not good-looking by a long shot. His eyes were too wide apart, his mouth too small and already a hint of a black moustache formed on his upper lip.

However, there was something warm and honest in the manner with which he smiled at her, his stubby hand extended in an age-old gesture.

Helen shook Etienne’s hand.

Chapter 8

Reluctant Wyrdling

Contrary to school regulations, Arwen changed into her civvies before going home for the weekend. She sighed with relief when she stuffed her jeans into her suitcase, reveling in the swish of layered satin and netting skirts. Trousers always made her feel boyish, ungainly.

Wearing anything but a short-sleeved top in this heat was, in her mind, a very bad idea. She was inordinately proud of the large silver pentagram she’d painted onto her strappy top. It always gave the Student Christian Society kids the willies.

Carry on praying, kiddos, your god ain’t listening.

Arwen timed it perfectly. She was always nine minutes late when her father collected her on Fridays, not long enough for him to start sending terse text messages but long enough so that his fingers would be drumming on the steering-wheel by the time she reached the car.

She dawdled, drawing in lines along her lids with liquid liner. Egyptian priestess eyes.

Then with gentle, artful smudges, she added kohl below her eyes, so her skin looked bruised.

And, just for shits and giggles, she drew a tiny teardrop, on the left, which she filled with a small amount of red, from her paints. Her father would bitch.

“You’re trying to look like your bloody aunt again!” was his standard reaction. He didn’t like his sister much.

There was an additional reason why she took so much trouble with her appearance today. That new girl and her brother–the Freckled Freak–would be catching their first ride home with Arwen and her father today.

She had already decided that she disliked Helen and her brother. Helen was everything she was not, tall, with that red-gold hair–skin the color of warm honey. That other, niggling bother was an issue too, something marking Helen as
other
. Like her own damn family, but just that bit more indefinably
edgy
.

Besides, Etienne seemed quite taken with her and could talk of little else.

“You’ve got a crush on her,” Arwen had said on Wednesday.

“I do not!”

She knew her accusation had annoyed him and it made her want to smile but she kept her expression guarded. Etienne was quite obviously gaga over Mr. Robins but it amused her nonetheless to get her small friend riled. There was no way in hell he’d admit
that
infatuation. Even to himself. What was wrong with being bi anyway? It doubled one’s opportunities.

Etienne was in his room when she stopped by the boys’ side of the dorms. He sprawled half off his bed, eyes closed, listening to music on his iPod. Perhaps he would not notice when she slipped into his dorm. He’d decorated his side of the room with a clutter of vintage horror and sci-fi movie posters. His roommate must have left for the weekend already, for that space was too neat.

She reached out a hand. Good. Etienne’s breathing was regular, his lips parted. Arwen was about to pinch his nose when Etienne opened his eyes and Arwen jumped back.

“You thought I would be caught dozing?” he said, sitting up. He pulled the earphones out and for a moment Arwen caught the tinny strains of operatic music before he switched the player off.

“I’m going now,” Arwen said. “You could still come with.”

“Not when your dad’s there.”

“What’s he going to do? Eat you?”

“He makes me excessively nervous and, in any case, I’d like time to work on that history assignment.”

“Boff. I wanted to try that thing in the cemetery tomorrow night.”

“It can wait ’til next week. Besides, it’s not full moon yet.”

“I want to do a dummy run.”

Etienne smirked, which annoyed her because she already anticipated what he would say next. He leaned back, regarding her with those impossibly blue eyes.

“You’re just trying to avoid making small talk with Helen. She’s not that bad, you know. And, Damon’s a good kid.”

A flare of annoyance made Arwen draw in her breath with a hiss.

Etienne continued, ignoring Arwen’s discomfort with evident pleasure. “You gotta just fucking chill. You’re acting all jealous ’cause I’ve been spending time with those two today but if you just get of your stupid high gothy-ness some time, you could learn to have a little fun.”

He spoke the truth but she would not give Etienne the satisfaction of knowing she acknowledged this.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” she said, summoning as much venom as possible. He was infuriating.

Etienne’s eyes crinkled and he laughed.

She slammed the door hard but his laughter echoed after her for several paces.

Arwen did not want to talk to sunshiny Helen and her nerdy brother. Things were comfortable as they were and she did not want to change anything.

The spread of cards she’d worked with the previous week before that bitch ruined them had been The Aeon with its blue Horus child still smiling its secret smile–the end of the old and the start of the new.

The Princess of Cups–all dreamy–and the Prince of Cups. Just odd how those two showed up together, to dignify the spread at the heart of the reading.

She’d heard the Voice,
You’ll know them when you see them.

When she’d seen Helen, she’d known. Although difficult to see in the school environment with its myriad distractions, she had often thought she’d seen little telltale sparkly bits floating above Helen’s head.

Here is one part of the puzzle.

Arwen did not want to be involved but Aunt Sonja had said that there was no denying the Gift when it revealed itself, when a Wyrd was spoken.

“Our kind can’t help it. It’s in our blood,” Sonja had told her.

“And it didn’t help Aunt Caitlin either!” Arwen had shot back.

Her remaining aunt had looked hurt at those words but did not admonish Arwen. Aunt Sonja’s fingers had continued untangling snarls from the white-blond hair of the girl child who rested her head on Sonja’s lap–Arwen’s cousin–the child who had eventually proved to be Caitlin’s death.

Now, Arwen felt the threads of her own Wyrd start to pull together, like the strands of a purse seine, trapping her movements like so many silver fish flashing in futile directions.

I won’t befriend Helen. I can’t!

The familiar metallic contours of her father’s Volvo gleamed from the parking lot and Arwen dragged her suitcase toward it, cursing the little wheels that did not turn as they should.

Szandor Wareing was an imposing man who, although reed-thin, had a presence about him. Like his sister Sonja, he had wild, white-blond hair and eyes so icy they could freeze the unwary to the spot. Arwen wasn’t afraid of her father but she knew she was something of a disappointment to him.

The Wareing strain had not proved true in her. Her eyes were brown and so was her hair–a warm nut-brown that she preferred to dye pitch black, much to her mother’s dismay.

“Hullo Szandor,” she greeted her father. The Wareing clan was not big on familial titles.

“Arwen. You’re late.” Always the same admonishment.

Helen and her brother already sat in the back, following her movements with wide eyes. Arwen chose to ignore them. Her father helped her put the suitcase in the trunk and they pulled away from the school, the familiar relief of their departure making Arwen let out her breath.

However, tension remained in the car. Usually Arwen and her father would have a stilted conversation about her week at school or he would comment about the clan’s antics during her absence but, today, only heaviness penetrated past the hiss of the air-con.

On the pretext of checking her eyeliner, Arwen flipped down the passenger seat mirror. Damon sat right behind her. He was looking at her. Freckled Freak.

A sneer tried to tug at her lips but Arwen suppressed it, not wanting them to know they bothered her so much.

“So, Helen, what do you think of the Owl House? Have you seen it yet?” This would be a good gauge of what she was like.

Helen started as if stung, like she had been a million miles away and unaware of this heaviness.

“I...uh. I thought it was beautiful but it also made me very sad.”

Interesting.

“Miss Helen was so misunderstood and... I can’t help but feel something for someone who shares my name. It was like she’s still there, in the house.”

Interesting and interestinger.

Arwen’s lip twitched. She wanted to smile. Maybe the girl had potential after all.

Before Arwen could frame another question, Helen surprised her by putting in one of her own. “But you’ve lived in Nieu Bethesda your entire life. You must have picked up some interesting stories about the Owl House.”