The Carver's Magic (4 page)

After she takes a long drink from his brand new bottle she places it back in front of him, giving him the "let's get out of here" look. The poser looks her over and then narrows his eyes at the bottle like it offends him. The look was similar to the way he looked at the brunette earlier.

"Rum and coke," a small, pink haired looking pixie calls out from my right. I leave the disgruntled Nickleback poser to look at the frilly-looking girl who earns my appreciation for her pixie-like style. She bites her bottom lip playfully. I pick up the Captain Morgan and begin to make her drink.

I have a weakness for fairies. Humans are not supposed to know about the supernatural creatures, according to my real father. He said it's like signing a death warrant. If the Magic Council finds out you were the person who spilled the magic beans to the humans, it would be your ass on a slab being tortured and then killed. So with that warning I have never been friendly and close with humans since I was eighteen. I have never bedded a human, nor have I ever invited a human friend or acquaintance into my home. I keep to myself and I like it that way.

After a few rounds at the bar I seem to be keeping tabs on the poser. Irritatingly, he seems to be the only interesting person worth watching tonight. I watch him hold on to the beer in front of him tightly as if it's holding him upright, but his eyes are faded out as if he is thinking instead of listening to the bag of bones next to him. Then if that wasn't a little odd, his eyes keep lightening to amber every once in a while. At first I thought it was because of something the chick was whispering to him, but there were times when she was saying nothing and his eyes were still blazing.

I don’t get wolves. I really don’t, but there is clearly something not right with this one. He was so quiet that I almost missed his question when I rounded the bar.

"How often do they come in here?" The poser asks.

Taking in his mood and the vibes he was leaking out, I can tell he's pissed. His eyes are light but not glowing, and it seems as though talking is a bit of a strain. Everyone knows that when a werewolf's eyes glow, you want to be somewhere else. Everyone except me; I am not afraid of him. Just because I am a bartender does not mean I want to pass along gossip or information, specifically information that correlates to a person I have no intentions of talking about to anyone, ever. I ignore his question and keep walking to find another thirsty patron.

The wolf growls at me as if that is going to entice me to answer him. He has no idea who I am and I aim to keep it that way. The best offense is keeping your challenger in the dark. Telling him that I am a Carver, and that no one on the planet can touch me just sounds a little too cocky, even for me.

According to my biological father, I am the only fourth generation Carver. My biological mother is a third generation Carver and so is my biological father.

When they came to get me the day I turned eighteen, I found out that I was important, which is the exact opposite of how I felt my entire life. My adoptive parents were not decent, and their four boys belonged in hell, not jail or somewhere to talk about their feelings. The things they did to me and others made me into the person I am. And I am the person that took away their ability to hurt anyone ever again.

Of course I didn't know my adoptive family had been magically forced to take care of me until my biological parents told me. My mind told me not to blame my adoptive parents for being indignant, but I was a child and they never, ever, acknowledged me or helped me by keeping me safe from their sons! I had to take care of myself because they didn't.

My biological parents thought I was going to jump at the opportunity to be a part of a real family. They must have forgotten what it was like growing up with an adopted family, because I was not buying their crap. And they did a good job of feeding me their crap. Something about a war and how the Carvers were going to take over some kind of Magical Council.

At first I was happy to just be out of my adoptive parents’ house. Yes, my biological parents were far more attentive and giving… at first. They tried to test me to find out what I could do. Maybe it was because I was uncomfortable with other people knowing too much, or maybe it was because there was something in my biological parents’ attitudes that rubbed me the wrong way, but I couldn't become the show monkey they asked for. I did show them a few tricks, but the big stuff, like my fire, I kept to myself.

After they watched me show them the few tricks I knew they were disappointed, but by then I didn't care, nor did I want their approval. The next month they sent me to a stupid camp with the most arrogant assholes I have ever met. I grew up in Hollywood, so I know what an arrogant asshole looks like.

In their camp run by my dad, Rich, they tried to learn and teach basic magic and spells. It was so unbelievably easy. For example, to do witch - I mean earth- magic, all you had to do was to say the words or incantation that always made me think of Dr. Seuss, because most of the time it rhymed.

Fairy magic was all about exercising the magic already inside of you and exploring all the little nuances that each fairy could do, in addition to their basic fairy talent. Vampires and werewolves didn't have any magic. They used their instincts.

Compared to the magic I did, I was floored with how little these other Carvers had. If I had a hard time believing my parents when they told me I was special, I wouldn't doubt them after going to that camp. It was clear that all the first and second generations Carvers were weak in comparison to me.

Weeks later my parents sat me down for another long talk. They told me that they knew I had a lot of potential and I needed to use it for a purpose. Annoyingly, they had decided what purpose they wanted me to serve. My purpose, according to my parents, was to find the family members of the council members to later use them as leverage. Oh and let’s not forget my bride, oh, I mean, heart. A Carver’s mate was called their heart. They said they knew another couple that had a very powerful daughter who would be my perfect match.

My father briefly explained a little bit about Carvers and their hearts. It’s similar to werewolves, in the sense that a werewolf could breed with another wolf, but when he or she found their mate, they couldn’t be with anyone else. For a Carver, we didn’t have to bite one another to mix blood like the wolves, instead we offered our hearts – or better explained, our soul, to the other person in our blood language, and then poof, we were bonded for life! Two souls bound for eternity.

Not. For. Me.

Not to be too dramatic, but I can’t even fathom being with the same women for a year, let alone a lifetime being bonded.

My father told me that he and my mother were not bonded. They had only come together to join their powers to make me, the most powerful person alive.

My biological father described how the Carvers planned to change the Magical Council to a Carver Council. In short, he planned to expunge the unnecessary rules, like having someone else raise your kid for eighteen years. There were a lot of rules for Carvers.

The idea of making the rules less strict was an idea I could believe in, but then they told me how I was supposed to use the Magical Council’s family members as leverage. It was going to be a blood bath if it ever happened, and I truly hope it never does.

The Carvers had done their homework and watched almost every person on the council to make sure that when they killed the council member, their families and friends, no one, would try and avenge them or be willing to fight back.

I hated the idea of hurting someone who is genuinely innocent. I wouldn’t stand for it, and if they pushed me I would stand against them. If the bride they told me about was going to sign up for butchering innocent families then she could join all the other people I cut out of my life.

I objected to my father’s plan and he quickly lost his cool. So much so that I went flying into the opposite wall, dislocating my shoulder. My father didn't even blanch at what he had done. In fact, he was still trying to argue his point while my mother was calling for a healer to come pop my shoulder back in place. I never thought I would hate my real parents more than my adoptive parents, but it’s true. The day he threw me into a wall using his power was my line. I was done.

I let him try and intimidate me. I pretended he convinced me of my errors, well I doubt I did a good job of acting convinced, but I said the right words anyways. I did all I had to do so that I could return to my room to gather my things, and then I teleported my ass as far away as I could.

I left everything from my life with my adoptive family in my biological parents' home, even my favorite yellow amber necklace I wore every day until that night. I was determined to start a new life. One without magic, one without any ties to my previous life, and one where my father would never find me.

"Hey, bartender!" Some schmo in a pinstriped suit called out, trying to talk to a chick that looks like an eighteen year old.

I look around quickly. The werewolf is gone and deep down I know I am going to see him again. I am unsure what it was about the shy blonde's sister that he had an issue with, but there is definitely something about that brunette that doesn't sit well with him.

I walk to the schmo who called for me as three more people call out, "Hey, bartender!" The night is just getting started.

* * *

Finally the last patron leaves the bar. I watched Sal, the owner of Amber Line, exit his office. "Sal!" I call out. I catch his attention with a short wave.

"Hey, what's up, Shane?" He asks as he tilts his chin up to me. I am easily four inches taller.

"You need to hire another bartender," I say as lightly as I can, which isn't really casual at all. We have had this conversation before so I don't think I had to explain my point yet again.

"Hey! You know I like you kid, but don't tell me how to run my bar." Sal is a New York Italian and believes he runs the world because he has a lucrative bar that's still going hot. I don't apologize. I’m right. He’s wrong. And we do need another bartender and I have been telling him to do this for at least a month. I am running low on patience and tonight was too heavy for one bartender.

I keep looking at him, waiting for him to simmer down and have a man-to-man conversation without him getting in my face about being disrespectful. He has an overly sensitive attitude and that is not my fault. "Yeah, well, I put out an ad. I'm going to do interviews this week." He eyes me waiting for my response. When he didn’t get one he asks, "Happy, now?"

I untie my apron and fold it up. "Just make sure the dude has some experience. Teaching isn't my strong suit."

"Don't I always do right Shane?"

My mouth twitched.
No
. "Always," I answer, while covering up a yawn. I watch Sal walk to the back of the bar to get the cash register and receipts I already counted and had ready for him. Done for the night I head out the side exit.

The fresh night air is crisp and fills my lungs. It’s at times like this that I am thankful I am not a vampire or werewolf so I don’t have to smell every single person who has passed by here, all I smell is the damp earth from the light rain that must have fallen earlier tonight.

I walk to my car and click the remote to unlock. I have to keep up appearances and drive like a normal working-class human, even thought I could simply teleport to my apartment. On the plus side of having to drive, I really like my new car.

I start it up quickly and peel out of the parking lot. At home I park my car in the parking garage, get out, lock the car and walk to the elevator. Once inside, I teleport to my loft.

Home. Mine. No one comes to visit, so I don't have to worry about someone stopping by unannounced or looking around and making comments about my lack of decoration and family photos. I pay in cash, and I don't make noise. And that’s the way I like it.

CHAPTER FOUR

BETH

It's five minutes till four in the morning; I walk in the house tired and groggy from running the Bar trails at Pike's Peak. It’s a 13-mile hike, one way. I’m exhausted. It’s exactly what I needed to clear my mind from tonight’s crap.

Cory is sleeping on the couch with her book on the floor beneath her hand where it must have fallen. My chest feels heavy.
She waited up for me.

I grab a blanket from the laundry room and lay it over her. I pick up her silly Thumbelina bookmark, slide it in the back of the page before folding it closed. She looks so peaceful. I watch her for a few minutes.

Folding my arms to watch her shallow breaths, I conclude, yet again, how important she is to me. Cory has always accepted me, and I can’t put into words how much that has grounded my life. Sure, she has also pushed the limits of my patience, but never once did she do anything spiteful. Cory is a good person with an amazing, good-natured heart.

Growing up having the ability to do magic is not as cool as it may sound. You always have to hide a huge side of you from humans who have a proclivity to kill what they don’t understand.

Yes, my family loved me, but they also didn’t trust me not to do something harmful. I know they were being cautious but it hurt, nonetheless. At the same time, I did a lot of stupid stuff as a kid and I did break a lot of stuff, some on accident, and some on purpose. I wasn’t going to hide who I was at home. Magic is a part of me; I didn’t want to lose that small part of me that made me unique.

Since I was a baby, if something broke I was the first one to be blamed. I admit that I was usually the one to accidentally break it, but it wasn't always my fault. My magic was new to me and I had no idea I could break stuff anytime I was angry or sad or too excited. I mean, come on! I am not a robot.

One time I left a human sized dent in the hallway wall because Cory jumped out of the bathroom screaming “raar”. It was pitch black, and we had just watched Freddy Krueger! Seriously, she knew better. I responded to the perceived threat of a possible Freddy Krueger attack, at which time Cory was flung back really hard and the air was knocked out of her.