Old Magic (7 page)

A large group of people shove us aside in their rush to the door, knocking us into a corner. The rumble grows more intense, making it difficult to stay standing. Everything appears to be moving. The floor especially is going up and down like ocean waves. And where the floor rises up, tables and chairs follow, and more crockery crashes to the ground.

“Thank goodness, at last. There he is!” Hannah points toward the center of the room, yelling over the growing hysteria. Jarrod’s standing still, a vacant expression on his face, his eyes glassy. “Hurry up, Kate. Go get him!”

“I will, Han. But you go home and I’ll call you later.” I take off, losing her, before she has a chance to follow. For some reason I don’t want Hannah suspecting Jarrod of anything paranormal. She can handle it, of course, she’s used to Jillian and me. It’s just that Jarrod himself is oblivious. This whole situation needs careful handling.

When I get to him he’s alone, his friends long since deserting him. Well, what does he expect, they’re all dogs.

It’s like he’s in a trance. He doesn’t even move when I talk to him. Nothing I say has any effect. For a moment I don’t know what to do. A massive crystal chandelier comes crashing down where a great crack has opened in the ceiling. I shove Jarrod hard out of the way, landing on top of him. It does little to break the trance. But at least he’s moving now, slowly pulling himself upright.

Leading him, I find the back way out through the kitchen.

At last we’re into a back alley that’s amazingly still and quiet. Looking around I see nothing unusual in any of the other buildings, no vibrations, no cracking walls, no hysterically screaming people. I shake my head, promising to think about it all later, at home. Now I have to get Jarrod to safety. If the others see him in this semicatatonic state someone might just remember how he was in the science lab during the storm and start asking questions. Questions Jarrod can’t answer.

It might be the effect of the chilly air; whatever it is, Jarrod starts coming around. He’s still vague though, and exhausted. He can hardly walk. We have to keep stopping so he can refocus and catch his breath. I slide my shoulder under his arm most of the way, especially the last uphill half a kilometer.

Eventually we arrive, out of breath but in one piece. Jillian helps me put Jarrod down on my bed upstairs. She has questions but she’s holding back until we get him settled. I appreciate this, as I’m too tired to think. He looks completely out of it, his eyes, like magnetized weights, close immediately. His breath is unusually slow. I glance worriedly at Jillian and flop on my dresser stool.

“I’ll brew something to revitalize his senses. And while it’s working, you can explain what happened.”

Jillian returns about ten minutes later with a steaming, strong-smelling drink. It’s a mix of herbs mostly: basil for mental fatigue, bergamot for stress, clary sage for muscle strength, lavender for anxiety and head pain. There’s something else but I can’t distinguish the aroma. Between the two of us we get most of the stuff down his throat. He falls back to the bed, and while he rests I explain about the cafe, Pecs’s sick display, Jarrod’s trance, and the violent earth tremor.

Jillian listens intently, sometimes shaking her head like she can’t believe it. “He doesn’t know how to handle the gift,” she explains. “His brain is triggering the trance as a coping mechanism. He has a lot to learn before he can control it.”

“That’s the problem, Jillian. He won’t learn while he’s in denial. And there’s another thing, I think he’s cursed, or his family at least.”

I explain about the accidents and bad luck that Jarrod’s family has had over the years, right down to the clumsy things Jarrod can’t seem to help doing.

Jillian looks thoughtful. “It could explain the reason his gift has been released. Perhaps it’s meant for him to use as a tool—a subconscious attempt to counter the curse. But, of course, there’s no way of figuring it out without Jarrod’s help. His acceptance is vital. And by the sounds of things, Kate, time is essential. As Jarrod’s powers grow, so could the powers of the curse. These things are probably linked.”

Jarrod

I feel so strange. There’s a heat inside my body, a burning sensation. It’s as if I can actually feel every muscle, every tendon, every nerve cell.

“He’s waking.”

Kate! Please don’t tell me she’s in my head again. I open my eyes and she’s standing in front of me, her head and shoulders slightly stooped. I’m lying on a firm but comfortable bed. Looking about, other than Kate and her grandmother, I can’t recognize anything. There’s a softly glowing amber light beside the bed, an antique-looking dresser and stool, crystal wind chimes hanging in front of a closed lead-light window. There’s a wooden bowl on the dresser, and Kate is running a finger around its rim. It appears to be filled with water and fresh flower petals. Beside this is a ceramic oil burner that isn’t being used. The room smells clean and woody, like the forest.

“How are you feeling, Jarrod?”

I lift myself up on one elbow to answer Kate’s grand-mother and wonder how to address her. “Better, thank you . . . ?”

“Just call me Jillian,” she suggests. Her smile is warm. At least this time she isn’t screaming and ranting about snakes.

“Is this your room?” I ask Kate. She nods and helps me sit up. I swing my legs to the floor, resting my elbows on my knees. That inner burning, that strange awareness of my insides, is easing. My head starts clearing. “What happened? How did I get here?”

“What do you remember?”

I have to think. “I was at the Icehouse. You were there with Hannah. The waitress broke a glass, it spilled all over Pete.” I also recall Pecs’s slack comments. I look up to see if she’s remembering too. But her eyes, and Jillian’s, are busy elsewhere. The crystal chimes have started spinning, filling the room with flickering pastel colors and little tinkling noises.

When they stop, Kate glances at Jillian; a knowing look passes between them. “Is that all?”

What does she want? An instant replay? My thoughts spin back to the moment. When Pecs grabbed Kate’s elbow and started mauling her throat I wanted to do damage. And I’ve never been a violent person. If anything, I usually run at the first sign of trouble. I haven’t got the stomach for blood, let alone spilled blood, especially mine. But Kate is waiting for my answer as if she wants to hear all the gory details. “Pecs spewed some very descriptive stuff about you, then slobbered all over your neck.”

There’s an awkward silence. I’ve probably hurt her feelings. Whatever Kate is—strange, weird, wacky, even psychotic—at this moment I don’t care. Her unusual blue-gray eyes lock with mine and I can’t look away. I take in everything about her. Long, silky black hair, pale—almost translucent—skin, the exotic shape of her eyes, and I know no girl could look more . . . I dunno. Striking.

“Thank you, Jarrod,” she says softly, and I wonder about this.

“Why are you thanking me?”

“For what you did tonight. In your own way, even though it ended disastrously, you did what you did because . . . Well, at least at the time, you cared. Pecs insulted me, and you got angry.”

I try hard to follow. Sure, I remember getting angry. “What did I do?”

“You caused an earthquake.”

Okay, I hear what she’s saying. I caused an earthquake. I stare at her. “I caused an earthquake!”

A smile forms, but there’s no humor in her voice. “I can’t be sure exactly what it was. Let’s put it this way, there’s not much left of the Icehouse Cafe.”

“I remember something now. Breaking glass, screaming.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. There’s more I’m sure, but the memory of it is fuzzy. “Maybe I got hit on the head. If it’s as bad as you say, something must be responsible for my hazy memories. I don’t remember an earthquake.”

Kate is shaking her head in frustration. “You almost were hit on the head, by a collapsing ceiling and crash-ing chandelier. But I pushed you out of the way.”

“Are you saying you saved my life?”

Suddenly the frustrated look mutates into something definitely hostile. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jarrod, you’re missing the point.”

Jillian touches her arm, an attempt, I realize, to calm her. “A little slower I think, my dear.”

Kate tosses her head aggressively, spinning around and muttering under her breath. She moves to the center of the room where she can stand without stooping, her hands on her hips.

Jillian is still hovering by the door. I realize these are the only two places a person can stand without hitting their head on the ceiling. “I met your mother this afternoon, and your little brother, Casey, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I reply. Jillian is trying to lighten the atmos-phere. I’m glad of the reprieve. Things have a way of growing eerie very quickly with Kate.

“They had a browse in my shop.”

I drag my eyes from Kate’s stiff back. “Did they? Mom would like that. She’s into all this weird stuff.”

Jillian’s eyebrows lift. Oh no, I’ve probably offended her, too. “I didn’t mean . . .” I stumble to find the right words. As usual they never come when I want them.

She smiles reassuringly, and I see a resemblance to Kate. Not in appearances; they’re different there. Jillian’s hair is wavy, kept short, especially at the back, and light brown. Kate doesn’t look anything like Jillian except in the eyes. It makes me wonder about Kate’s father’s origins—Asian probably, or some Hawaiian island perhaps. I bet she wonders too.

“She told me about the clothes and jewelry she makes,” Jillian says. “They sound interesting. She’s going to drop in with a sample next week. We’re going to hang them in the shop, see if we can generate some movement. Tourists like that sort of thing. You know, weird stuff.”

I can’t help but laugh. Jillian is all right. She has a sense of humor. I wish she could’ve passed some on through her genes to Kate.

“I’m going to make you two a couple of sandwiches.” And to Kate, Jillian says, “Remember, Kate, you’ve had sixteen years to adjust to your talents, but can you tell me you’re totally at ease with yourself, with your abilities, even now, after this length of time?”

Kate nods without replying. It seems Jillian doesn’t require any other confirmation anyway. I’m glad. The thought of them discussing powers and talents and abilities gives me the shivers. Jillian leaves and I decide to set this discussion straight before it gets out of hand. “Look,” I begin and Kate spins around with an aggro look on her face. “I know you’re into magic and stuff.” She glares at me, her incredible almond-shaped eyes narrowing defensively. I put my hand up to stop whatever she’s going to say. “That’s okay with me. I can handle that, I think. At least, I will, as long you don’t involve me in it. I mean, you can involve me but not include me. The point I’m pathetically trying to make is that I don’t have any magical powers, or mystical talents, or anything like that, unless of course you count clumsiness in your list of paranormal qualities.”

She actually smiles, then lowers herself to the floor so that her back rests against the edge of the bed. My knees are level with her shoulders. My hand is so close to her head I have a sudden urge to touch her, feel for myself if that hair is as soft and silky as it looks. I don’t though. As much as part of me wants to, I’m just not sure. She’s beautiful. In a really exotic sort of way. But looks aren’t everything. Kate is different from other girls. Maybe that’s the attraction. Those other girls at school, Jessica Palmer, Tasha Daniels, they’re really shallow. I guess their only appeal over Kate is that they’re “safe.” They don’t scare me, like Kate does. And that makes me comfortable in their company.

“Snakes are an ancient symbol of evil.”

I hang my head in my hands. “Oh, God.”

“I looked it up. Here, I’ll show you.” She scrambles to her knees and carefully lifts a thick ancient-looking book off the dresser, holding it like she’s afraid her fingerprints will make the soft leather cover disintegrate. She sits back on the floor cross-legged, the book in her lap. It has to be a thousand years old, with thousand-years-old yellowed and tattered pages. The soft black cover is bare except for a twisting pattern of gold vines like a border. “This is the oldest book Jillian has. It’s unique, you know. Handwritten and filled with Old Magic.”

“Oh, right,” I mutter, not knowing what she expects.

Her head lowers as she finds the page she’s marked and starts reading. “‘Snakes are an ancient symbol of evil. Many snakes, especially around the head, indicate that evil surrounds the figure and all those to which the bearer has alliance.’”

I yank out my glasses from my jeans pocket and scan the script. It’s handwritten, all right, articulately in black ink, but the letters are completely indecipher-able. I wonder what language it is. “How can you read that?”

She spins her head around and looks up. “It’s an early form of English, dating back almost a thousand years. Jillian taught me how to speak and read the ancient tongue.”

I’m going to be sorry I ask, but I just have to. “Why? It seems like a lot of work for something you’re never going to use. I mean, if you learned French, or Japanese, sure, you could travel there one day.”

Kate’s eyes widen as if she can’t believe anyone can be so stupid. “So I can read the ancient scripts, of course. I’m fascinated with this era, Jarrod. Magic was alive then. There were some really powerful sorcerers around.”

I decide to go along with her. Even though I don’t believe in this stuff, I can see it means a lot to her. She must spend half her life on the subject. It’s all she thinks about. I guess she doesn’t get to talk about supernatural stuff with friends very often, except per-haps for Hannah. Most people already believe Jillian is a witch. How would they treat Kate if they knew just how deep she is into this stuff herself?

“And you think,” I begin, leaning forward with what I hope is a mild amount of interest in my voice, “this snake stuff relates to a curse or something.”

Her smile transforms her face into a picture of relief and excitement. It very nearly blows me away. I experi-ence a moment of instant regret, and hope my humoring hasn’t accidentally misled her. Her eyes sparkle. “Look here,” she says, holding the heavy book up high for me. Why? I wonder. I can’t read this ancient script anyway. So I focus on the diagram, sketchy but still clear, a bit like a 3-D drawing. I peer closer and see that it has incredible detail—a half-man, half-bird creature. I think it’s a crow. The half that is human grips a smoothly polished wooden staff with a serpent’s head. His—its—eyes are eerie, crowlike and tilting sharply upward at the outer ends, yet oddly human. I swear the creature is looking straight at me.