The day after a game, there was no early morning practice. Instead of showing up at six-thirty in his gym clothes, Darren wandered into the school at seven-thirty, wearing jeans and a sweater, feeling better than he had the night before. The halls were full of students talking and laughing, pushing and shoving, a few running, but primarily filling the halls with the clamor of preparing for class.
Darren opened his locker and pulled out a literature textbook and a binder. English was first period with Mr. Whitmore. Dean Whitmore had started teaching at Sky View only two years ago, but was already a student favorite. He had an excellent command of the English language with a subtle British accent and a gift for making literature interesting.
“You got any mints?” Mike appeared like magic from the flow of students. Darren took in his wide grin.
“You forget to brush?” Darren tossed him one of the three white round circles on the shelf in his locker. He had no idea how long they’d been there, but nothing seemed to be stuck to them.
“As if. You just never know when you’re going to meet someone new.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Darren asked.
As they made their way to English, Mike said, “I just passed by the office, and maybe saw something.”
“A new girl?”
“Yep. And she’s hot! As in smokin!”
“Was she blonde by any chance?” Weakness crept into Darren’s knees, but he tried to sound unconcerned as he posed the question.
Mike laughed. “She’s not your little delusion from yesterday. For one thing, she was standing on the ground. For another, I can’t see her being blonde. Let’s put it this way, her skin color’s closer to mine than yours. Actually, she’s darker than I am.”
Darren visibly relaxed. “Oh, cool. Cute, huh?”
“I didn’t say cute. I said hot. We’re talking, red-hot poker hot!” Darren’s eyes grew wide as Mike nodded wolfishly. “Hot,” he said in an airy, heated voice.
“Baby!” Darren grinned.
“Baybee!” Mike emphasized. “And she’s a senior. That much I heard. Yummy!”
Darren laughed. “She’s got to take English.”
They entered their class and moved to the back where they normally camped out next to each other.
“You know it.” Mike waggled his fingers, and Darren joined him.
“You must have seen the new girl.” It was Travis, a lanky kid from across town. He sat in front of Mike and traded comments with them from time to time. “Ooh, baby.” He winked from behind his glasses.
“You saw her in the office, too?” Darren asked.
“No, I’m looking at her right now.” Darren followed his gaze to the front of the room and saw the back of a blonde girl talking with Mr. Whitmore.
Darren whipped around toward Mike. “I thought she was black?”
“Dude, she is. This is some other girl, I swear.”
Darren’s mouth went dry. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He knew as soon as the girl turned around, she was going to be the mirage from yesterday. She’d have those striking green eyes.
Mr. Whitmore finished talking to the girl and pointed to the back of the room to the empty seat next to Travis and in front of Darren. Darren tried to swallow, but it felt like his whole throat would have to roll up and go down in order to do so.
The girl wore faded blue jeans and a small jacket over a purple t-shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she stood about five foot six.
As she began to turn, holding her books tightly against her chest, Darren’s mind filled in the face. This couldn’t be happening, but he knew as soon as she headed down the aisle, it was going to be a repeat of yesterday. She’d dissolve to transparency and float to the ceiling where she’d hover during class, and he’d be the only one who could see her.
Suddenly she was facing their direction, smiling.
It was her all right. Her eyes were green and just as vibrant as he remembered them. She didn’t float, although she did seem to glide. Time warped as she moved in slow motion. Then, all too suddenly, she was in front of him.
“Hi,” she said and sat down.
Darren couldn’t move; he just stared at the back of her head.
Mike swatted his arm with the back of his hand. “Hello, Darren. Come in.”
“Shh!” Darren fumbled with his folder.
“Are you kidding me?” Mike asked, watching his reaction. “Is this the little floater from yesterday?”
“Shut up, Mike!”
Mike smiled and tapped the new girl on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” The girl turned around. “My name’s Mike Conklin, and this is my friend,” Mike nodded over to his left, “Darren Stevens. Now, here’s the kooky part. He thinks he saw you floating in the gymnasium yesterday during our basketball game. I just need to ask, was it you floating in the gym yesterday, or is Darren mistaken?”
The girl laughed. “You’re cute, and so is your friend. But, sorry, no, I wasn’t floating anywhere yesterday. We were busy moving in. My name’s Samantha.” She stuck out her hand. Mike shook it. She turned to Darren, who was examining her face, afraid to move.
Mike jabbed him. “Don’t be rude, Darren. Say hello to the young lady.”
Darren’s arm moved forward, and he shook her hand. It felt real, not ghostlike. As a matter of fact, it felt very nice. She smiled at him as they shook, and a pleasant thrill passed through him. It wasn’t the thrill he would normally experience when meeting a very attractive girl. It was sort of like that, but there was something else as well, a sort of a frisson that shot up his spine. It was hard to identify. Not unpleasant, but it seemed to have, if this made any sense at all, a wariness about it, as if this was an important event in his life, a turning point, possibly even a warning.
“His name’s Darren,” Mike repeated.
“Yeah, my name’s Darren. Nice to meet you.”
The bell rang, interrupting their introductions. Samantha turned around as the other students settled into their desks. Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat, his signal that informally called the class to order.
“All right, it appears our two star athletes have met our new student.” He pointed to the back of the class. “In any case, Samantha Spelling has moved here from Massachusetts. It’s nice to have you with us, Samantha. Now, if everyone will open up to page 113, let’s continue with our reading of The Crucible.”
The class dutifully opened their books to the requested page. Mr. Whitmore assigned roles, and the remainder of the class was spent reading through the play with Mr. Whitmore filling in the gaps with interesting bits of information.
Darren had a hard time concentrating. He wanted to reach out and touch Samantha and make sure she was real. Her handshake had been real enough. At one point during class, she slumped down and her hair spilled across his desk. It was beautiful. He inched a finger forward and picked up a few strands, letting them fall through his fingers. It was silky and smooth, and he could smell the subtle fragrance of her shampoo. The hair’s sheen caught the light at certain angles causing it to glint off random strands. He moved his head into various positions, watching the glint change from one spot to another. As he obsessed over the way the light played with her hair, he had a sudden feeling overtake him and turned guiltily toward Mike.
Sure enough his friend was watching him, his eyebrows raised in a dramatic expression. He pointed at Darren and then at Samantha, while puckering up with kissy lips. Darren retracted his hand quickly, sat back in his seat, and felt his face burn. He stared at the textbook with absolutely no idea where the class was.
When the bell rang, the students hopped up, quickly heading for the door. Samantha turned to Darren and Mike. “It was nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll have some more classes together.”
They both waved and watched her leave.
“What was the deal with the hair touchy thing?” Mike grinned at his friend. “I thought you had a girlfriend.”
“I had to make sure she was real.” Darren knew it sounded stupid, but it just came out.
Mike chuckled. “Well, was she? She looked pretty real to me. How’d she feel?”
“She’s real.”
As they left class, Mike continued to snicker. “Dude, I haven’t seen you this weirded out over a girl ever. Are you a bit smitten by any chance?”
“Smitten?”
“Yeah, you know, got the hots for, twitterpated, in love, lust, whatever?”
Darren sighed. “I’ll see you at lunch.” He headed down the hall to his second period class.
Mike laughed and headed in the other direction, shaking his head. “Yep, he’s in trouble.”
In his other classes, Darren wasn’t quite sure what took place. He took notes, he listened, sort of, but it was all very mechanical. His mind was on Samantha. She was real, not a ghost. Okay, but then how had he imagined her yesterday? She was the same girl; there was no doubt about it. And, yeah, she was cute, too. But that didn’t matter. Something unusual was going on. Unless he was mistaken. Maybe he just thought she looked the same.
But that wasn’t it. She had the green eyes, the blonde hair, and if she were wearing a flowing black dress, she’d be identical.
These thoughts bothered him until lunch. He decided he’d let it fall, forget it. He couldn’t do anything about it, and he wasn’t crazy. At least, if he didn’t think about it, it was easier to believe he wasn’t losing his mind.
Bumping through the crowd, Darren jumped in line with Mike, effectively butting, but the other students jostling about covered his move. “Hey, look at me. I’m back to normal.”
“You’ve never been normal.” Mike picked up a tray as they reached the counter.
“Well, I’m back to being me. I can look at Samantha and not have a panic attack. She only looked like the mirage I saw yesterday, and that’s all it was.”
Mike grabbed his silverware and handed some to Darren. “All right. You’re back to normal. Now, tell me the truth. You totally have the hots for Samantha, don’t you?”
“I have a girlfriend,” Darren protested. “In any case, you think she’s hot too, don’t you?”
“Samantha or Andrea?”
“You know which one I meant.”
“But the important thing is you do think she’s hot!” Mike nudged Darren’s arm, causing the applesauce he was picking up to slosh around on its way to his tray.
“Mike, you know what I like about you?”
“I used to think it was my eyes, but if you’re being honest, I’m sure you’re going to tell me it’s my personality.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s your uncanny ability to make me feel like busting you in the face.”
They approached the table they typically occupied along with the group that hung out at Tony’s. Darren sat next to Andrea, and Mike sat on his other side.
Andrea hooked a thumb toward Mike. “What’s he laughing at?”
“He’s high on life. He laughs at everything. How are the posters coming along?”
More than happy to tell Darren about what she was working on, Andrea allowed herself to be led into the new conversation. “Oh, you’re going to love this!” Her dark eyes flashed with excitement, and her face flushed.
Darren smiled at how cute she suddenly appeared.
“Lindsey and I had this great idea to photograph the basketball players and have the pictures made into life-size cardboard cut-outs that stand on their own. Then, at the top of their heads will be thought bubbles with funny things written on them or information about the upcoming state championship games.”
Mike leaned across Darren and interjected. “Only problem is Darren’s bubble will be empty, because there’s nothing in here.” He knocked on Darren’s head.
Tony and T.J. chuckled, and Seth’s face split with a half-smile, which for him was the equivalent of a fairly loud chortle. Lindsey and Shelly shared a giggle as well. Even Darren allowed himself to enjoy the humor at his expense.
Then, a peculiar sensation prickled Darren’s spine, like a touch of cold air blown down the back of his shirt. He sat up in a rigid posture, knowing if he glanced over at the lunchroom door, Samantha would be there.
Samantha smiled across the lunchroom at him. She coyly turned away, but continued to smile as if she knew a secret.
Noticing what had transpired between the two of them, Mike rapped Darren a good one on the head one more time. “Dude, there really is nothing in here.”
“Leave him alone, Mike!” Andrea said. “He isn’t Mr. Kung Fu like you. He’s not as used to having blows to the head.”
“That’s Taekwondo,” Mike corrected her. “And typically we’re not hitting each other in the head… we’re kicking each other in the head.” Once again everyone at the table snickered, except for Andrea who smirked at him.
“Just leave this head alone, will you?” She hugged Darren’s head, which brought cat calls from the boys.
“Yeah, yeah,” Darren replied. “You all wish it were you!”
“Are you coming over tonight?” Andrea asked. Her large brown eyes were mesmerizing sometimes.
“Yeah, after I get a chance to check on Atavus. He had an attack last night. He couldn’t stop coughing. Mom was able to calm him down, get him back on his oxygen.”
“But he’s okay now?”
“I think so, but I want to check on him.”
“Hey!” T.J., who’d been attentively listening, suddenly jumped to his feet. “Keep your fries on your own plate, you greasy sleaze ball!” He hurled a mashed end of a fat fry across the aisle at Samuelson, a trouble-making junior engaged in a not-so subtle food fight with some boys at another table.
“I hate that punk,” Seth growled into his lunch.
“Easy, Seth,” Darren said. “Don’t do anything that will keep you from playing in the state game.”
“Besides,” Mike said. “He’ll get his. He’s not that clever. Eventually Julander will catch him.” He referred to the vice-principal they all hated, who shared no great love for Darren and his friends. “And Julander doesn’t take any prisoners.”
“That’s for sure.” Tony lounged back in his chair and dumped his size twelve Nikes on the table.
“It better be soon,” Seth rumbled under his breath.
“Why so upset?” T.J. asked. “He didn’t hit you with a fry.”
“It was close to me. He bothers me. He always has.” Shelley put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it.
Darren watched Seth stir the ketchup on his plate as if it offended him, worried Seth’s temper would blow at any minute. Over Seth’s right shoulder, Darren was drawn by a flash of blonde hair.
Samantha was making her way toward their table carrying a tray of food. She was completely unaware of the on-again off-again war of flying food between the tables. As she reached the nexus where the food war was raging, fat wads of fries from both tables shot across the breach. Samantha seemed oblivious to the exchange of projectiles.
Neither Samuelson nor the opposing faction, three sophomores at an opposite table, had expected Samantha to cross at the next moment. Darren was transfixed as she entered the hot zone, only a microsecond away from being covered in greasy potato fragments from both sides.
Samantha walked straight through the assault, her eyes locked on Darren. She briefly covered her nose to sneeze. At the same moment, an unmistakable shudder ran through Darren, like an ice cube skittering down his spine. The fry-throwing combatants’ arms began their trajectory forward. As the boys prepared to release handfuls of food, each flew backward like an invisible rug had been ripped out from beneath them. They hit the ground simultaneously, their fries flying up into the air and coming back down into their own faces. They scrambled back to their feet, scraping potato muck from their eyes and looking around bewildered. Other students at nearby tables pointed and laughed, happy to see fate turn the tables on them.
“Did you seek that?” Mike snorted. “That was incredible!”
T.J. and Tony were already laughing so hard they started to slip from their chairs. Seth’s shoulders shook up and down in quiet laughter. The girls at their table tittered, too, at the strange but satisfying incident of the flying fries.
Samantha, however, hadn’t seemed to notice a thing. She walked toward their table, smiling with her eyes locked on Darren. “Can I join you?”
Darren gazed into her green eyes and swallowed hard. He glanced quickly at Andrea, realized that was a mistake, and turned back to Samantha. Mike saved him by jumping up and offering Samantha his seat. “Sit here. I’m done anyway.”
Samantha took the seat graciously, flanking Darren with two beautiful girls. Darren glared dangerously at Mike who pulled a seat up from an adjoining table and plopped himself down between T.J. and Seth. Mike caught Darren’s stare, but he only ducked his head, hiding a grin.
“I’m Andrea.” She leaned around Darren and smiled at Samantha. “Are you new to Sky View? I haven’t seen you before.”
“Today’s my first day. My name’s Samantha Spelling. I met Darren and Mike in first period this morning.”
“Darren, you didn’t say anything about meeting Samantha.” Andrea glared accusingly at Darren.
“Yeah, just met her in English this morning,” Darren mumbled before pushing food into his mouth.
“Where are you from Samantha?” Andrea asked.
“Massachusetts. I moved here with my great-aunt. She has a brother that lives nearby, so we moved out west to be closer to him. He set my aunt up with a house and some work she can do from home; she’s really old.”
“Where are your parents?” T.J. asked.
“My parents died when I was young. I’ve been raised by my great-aunt since I was four years old. How about you? Are you all from around here?”
Everyone said they were from Cache Valley or round about. Their parents had all grown up in the area as well.
“Stevens!” The booming voice startled Darren, who hadn’t seen the vice-principal come up behind him. He had Samuelson in tow, looking sullen and petulant. “There was a food fight in here earlier. I understand some food flew from this table. Know anything about that?”
For reasons Darren couldn’t understand, Julander hated him. The vice-principal was huge, but not in a muscular way. He had a humongous gut and bald head that made him appear as if he had no neck, just a head that widened at the bottom as it joined his flabby body. He wore dark horn-rimmed glasses that made Darren think of him as Jabba-the-Hut with astigmatism. It was rumored he had once played football and killed another student. No telling where that rumor had come from since Julander appeared at Sky View Darren’s first year. From day one, if Julander had an opportunity, he accused Darren of things and suspected him of things he was unconnected to. Now, it was the food fight.
“No, I do not,” Darren said, with a tinge of righteous indignation.
“Uh-huh.” Julander grunted dubiously. “Being an athlete doesn’t give you privileges, Stevens.” He glared down at Darren, the message clear: I’m watching your every move.
The oversized administrator waved his fat forefinger at the others. “And the rest of you as well. I don’t tolerate misconduct!” He paused when he saw Samantha. “Oh, no, not another one. Don’t tell me he’s got a new squeeze.” He squinted at Samantha with his beady eyes.
“What’s a squeeze?” Samantha asked innocently.
The boys at the table hid their grins. Mike said, “He saying you’re Darren’s new girlfriend.”
Nodding appreciatively, Samantha replied to the administrator, “Not yet, but I’m working on it.” She returned his glare with remarkable aplomb and smiled. The rest of the table broke into laughter. With the exception of Andrea.
Bending down into Samantha’s face, Julander growled. “You do not want to get on my bad side.” His nostrils flared, and his beady eyes bore into her.
“Which side would that be?” she asked.
“Young lady, I am not someone you want as an enemy!”
The table was now as quiet as a funeral parlor with similar disquieting feelings being shared all around. Those at nearby tables also became quiet as they nervously watched the drama unfold.
“That’s true, sir. I’m sorry I didn’t understand,” Samantha said, attempting to smooth out the situation. “Perhaps we could bury an axe?”
Mike couldn’t stifle the laugh that fought to break free, and a snort escaped him. As soon as that happened, the rest of the table broke up.
Julander grew as red as an oven coil, and steam seemed to billow all around him.
“What is your name?” Julander accented each word like he was biting them off of something.
Samantha cheerfully responded, “My name’s Samantha. What’s yours?” She stuck her hand out for him to shake as if this was all a pleasant introduction. More stifled snickers popped up around the table.
“I’ll remember the name.” His voice was low and feral. He stalked off, swinging his bulk from side to side and dragging Samuelson behind him. The gangly young man did his best to keep up.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Darren said.
“That was excellent,” Mike echoed.
“I don’t understand,” Samantha said. “What did I do?”
“What did you do?” Darren repeated. “You upset the most dangerous man in America.”
T.J. smiled across the table at her. “Well done! Welcome to the team. T.J., and you are?”
“Samantha Spelling,” she replied, a dimple to the side of her eye appeared when she smiled. Darren found it very cute.
The boy next to T.J. waved. “I’m Tony Howard.” Seth halfway grinned and nodded from down the table.
“It was nice meeting you.” Andrea popped out of her seat. To Darren she said, “I have to meet with Sandy in the Commons. I’ll catch up with you later.” Andrea left, but cast a suspicious look toward Samantha on her way out. Having caught this, Mike cast a questioning glance at Darren.
“That was great what you did,” Darren said to Samantha, “but probably not the smartest move. That guy can make your life miserable around here.”
Samantha turned to face him. “I don’t know. I’ve done stupider things.”
“She ought to join us at Tony’s tonight,” T.J. suggested. “That is if you’re okay with it, Tony.”
Tony nodded. “Sure, the more the merrier. And if you’ve got any cute friends, tell them to come, too.”
Still gazing at Darren, Samantha said, “I’d like that very much, but I won’t be able to tonight. Do you all go to Tony’s every night?”
“Pretty much,” T.J. answered. “He’s got the party house: pool table, video games, a big screen TV, and an outdoor cabana.”
“Don’t forget the pool,” Mike reminded him.
“Yeah, and a pool,” T.J. confirmed. “Just makes sense to hang out at Tony’s.”
“Tony’s dad is Trey Howard, the actor,” Darren explained. “You’ve heard of Trey Howard, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t,” Samantha replied. “He’s a movie star?”
The boys chuckled at this question.
“You could say that,” Mike explained.
“What has he been in?”
“Just about every big movie in the last five years,” T.J. said. “I was at Tony’s house the other day, and Tony answered the phone. He said, ‘Sure, hang on,’ then yelled to his dad, ‘Dad, it’s George.’ After he hung up the phone, he told me, ‘George Clooney’s been trying to get a hold of my dad for several weeks,’ like it’s no big deal.”
“It isn’t,” Tony said. “He had an idea for a project he wanted to work on with my dad.”
“Such is the circle we run with.” Darren smiled at the green-eyed beauty, whose gaze remained on him.
“It sounds fun. I’d love to, really, but if I don’t help my great-aunt when I get home, she’ll disown me. Rain-check?”
“Of course,” Darren replied, realizing their constant eye contact should be uncomfortable by now, but determined she should be the first to look away.
From across the table, Mike turned his gaze from Darren back to Samantha, then back to Darren again. He chortled at them.
“What?” Darren and Samantha asked simultaneously.
“Nothing.” Mike snorted. “Nothing at all.”
***
It was dark in Julander’s office after school; nevertheless, he had five guests with him tonight. Four of those, from the hallway the night before, were now comfortably sitting in padded wooden chairs. The fifth one stood by a filing cabinet, smoothing his blonde hair.
“I want that witch found!” Julander barked from behind his desk. “None of you have the slightest idea who it was?” His face was red with frustration.
“There is the possibility it’s the new girl, sir, Spelling,” said the man in shorts.
“She wasn’t even here when the spell was cast,” said the sole woman in the room. “She didn’t show up until the next day, you idiot!”
“It must be her,” the man countered. “We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary from the other students. She could have been using a blind-man’s spell.”
“And I suppose she just showed up to throw the basketball game? Please!”
“You’re one for denigrating, but I haven’t heard you offer any suggestion worth discussing yet.”
“When I have one, you’ll be the first—”
Julander cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I checked out the young lady in question today. She may be worth watching. She’s got a mouth on her, but then, they all do. The problem is we’ve been expecting the Key to show up. This is the first sign she might be here, but we’ve been expecting someone older. Assuming we are wrong about the age, we should be paying more attention to the students and less to new teachers. So, let’s not count out this Spelling girl.”
The man by the filing cabinet finally spoke. “It would be extremely providential for the Key to find her way to us, and perhaps she has, but we should not forget Endor. Though confined in the Appensus she is nevertheless a dangerously powerful foe. She could find ways to manipulate us. I assume she knows we’ve located the Grimoire but are powerless to obtain it. I think Endor’s sent one of her own. Her magic remains very potent. She knows better than anyone what possession of that book means. I simply refuse to believe she’s sitting on her hands while we find the Key and acquire the most powerful book of spells ever penned.”
Julander grunted. “He’s right. There’s a covert witch or warlock traipsing around this school! Whether it’s the Key of Endor or Endor’s agent, we need to find out!” He turned his considerable attention on the student sitting behind the others. “Which brings us to you, my young friend. With a Warder allowed to wander without consequence, I don’t believe for a second he isn’t in some way connected to what is going on. What have you seen?”
“Basketball is his life, sir.” The young man struggled to keep the quiver out of his voice. “He spends most of his time with his friends. He dotes on his grandfather, but he’s usually just checking on his health or telling him about his day. The old man’s as close to dead as he can get.”
“All the more reason for him to tell the kid what he is before he dies!” Julander growled.
Swallowing hard, the student continued. “From what I can tell, he hasn’t told him anything. I’m using the listening charm you gave me, and I hear everything they say inside the house. Stevens has no idea who or what he is. And there has been no sign of a Guardian or Oracle.”
Julander considered this for a moment. “That it?”
“His only other interest is Andrea, and she’s just a ditzy cheerleader. Besides, she was too far away, directing cheers, when the spell was cast on the basketball. It wouldn’t have been felt from that distance.”
The man in the shorts nodded in agreement.
“Keep on him!” Julander insisted. “Keep me informed. The rest of you, find that witch!” Julander’s hand smacked down hard on the desk, and it quivered violently from the blow. The young man whose task it was to follow Darren trembled in sympathy with the desk, as if the vibrations had traveled across the room and shook him.
***
Technically Darren had a curfew on school nights. He was supposed to be home by ten. He’d left Tony’s a little early and arrived home at nine-forty. All he’d been able to think about was Samantha. She was cute. She was funny and clever the way she took care of Julander. But then there was the floating in the gym and the food fight she’d walked into just as Samuelson and his fellow food-flingers all conveniently slipped at the exact same moment. Something about her was strange and unexplainable. Yet, this pull of excitement suffused him when she was around. There was something about her…
He wanted to go to bed so that tomorrow would come sooner and he could see Samantha again. But first, he wanted to check on Atavus.
When he entered the room, he thought for sure the old man would be asleep, but instead he found him propped up on some pillows in a sitting position, the oxygen mask covering his mouth while he read a book. When he saw Darren, Atavus pulled the mask away from his ashen face and smiled.
“Ah, there you are, my boy. Come in, come in. I won’t die on you tonight. I promise.” He paused and took in a slow, wheezy breath.
“Atavus, you freaked me out last night.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But you needn’t worry now. See?” He smiled. “No coughing.” He wheezed for a moment. “I’m better, really.”
Darren sat down next to the bed. “Atavus, I need to talk to you about something.”
Atavus’s watery eyes locked on Darren’s. “Has anything else happened since the floating girl you told me about last night?”
Darren’s throat went dry. “You believe me?”
“Of course I believe you.” He took a measured breath. “I’ve seen the same thing many times.” Atavus’s track record of storytelling dampened the impact the old man’s revelation might have had. “Listen, boy, this is not a tall tale. You’re a Pessum Ire. To be more accurate, you’re a Veneficus Pessum Ire, and that’s why you can see them.” The old man closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He brought the oxygen mask to his face and took several long breaths.
“I don’t understand,” Darren admitted. His grandfather’s penchant for storytelling was warring with Darren’s desire for an explanation—even if the explanation was improbable.
“It’s Latin for Destroyer of Evil, or more precisely, Destroyer of Witches. The witches themselves simply call us Warders because of our ability to resist some of their spells.” He paused and swallowed. “I know this all sounds incredible, but tell me what you think it was, and how it happened.”
Darren couldn’t answer. After a long pause, filled with the sound of his grandfather struggling to breathe, Darren said, “I was dehydrated.”
“You were dehydrated.” Atavus scoffed. “And dehydration makes you feel iciness down your spine and a peculiar dizziness when you look at your hallucinations?”
It was Darren’s turn to feel like he couldn’t breathe. “That happened,” he managed to whisper.
“It doesn’t matter where we go. It doesn’t matter how many we kill; they find us.” The old man shook his head and brought his thin-skinned hand to his face. “It has been so long.”
“What has been so long?” Darren asked.
“Oh, there’s so much to tell you,” the old man groaned. “I’d thought perhaps this line could die out, but circumstances are forcing my hand to make sure it continues.”
“Tell me, Atavus, what’s going on?” Darren’s voice was a whisper.
The old man licked his lips. “To begin with, I’m not your grandfather.”
Shocked, Darren blinked, and his mouth fell open.
“Oh, we’re related, not to worry.” Atavus reached out and patted his hand. “I’m your great-great-great-great grandfather. I was born in 1742.” He put the oxygen to his face again and breathed while his great-great-great-great-grandson spluttered in an attempt to respond.
Darren found all he could do was stare at the old man, this sudden stranger. His mouth opened slightly, and his eyes darted from side to side as he weighed the preposterous claim. He wanted to believe it, but right now it sounded more outrageous than floating ghosts and witches, or whatever.
“Matt believes I’m his father because when his father and mother, your grandfather and grandmother, were killed, he was very young, not quite two years old, and I took him in and raised him.” He paused before quietly continuing. “It was my fault they died.” Atavus took a break and lay back against his pillow, drawing oxygen in through the mask.
Darren finally asked, “How can you possibly be 267 years old?”
Atavus nodded from behind the mask. He lifted it. “That will take a lot of explaining.”
“Dad thinks you’ve got Alzheimer’s. Atavus, you know what this sounds like, don’t you?”
More nodding from Atavus. “I assume you’ve figured out the floating witch and what it was?”
Darren bolted up from his chair. “It was a hallucination! It wasn’t a witch! I was dehydrated. I was seeing things.” Darren paced to the end of the bed and, with his back to his grandfather, grabbed the bedpost for support.
“Okay.” Atavus wheezed. “You were seeing things, and your grandfather has dementia. That does make more sense than my being 267 and you having seen the flash and a witch.”
“It does make more sense. I mean, come on.” Darren turned and faced his grandfather. “200 years old? Almost 300?” He started to say something more but stopped abruptly and stared hard at the old man. “The flash? I didn’t mention that.”
“You didn’t?” Atavus gave him a wry smile. “You must have. How else would I know about the bright flash just before the witch appeared?”
Darren reached for the bed as his legs turned to water. “Atavus,” he pleaded. “You can’t be over 200 years old.” He staggered back to the chair beside the bed.
“It’s okay, boy. I’ve been trying to tell you this your whole life, trying to prepare you for this day. But I always let you believe they were just stories. I’m sorry. It didn’t really prepare you at all.” Atavus’s last word was choked off by a long hacking cough.
Darren stood to help him, but Atavus waved him away with his hand and drew in long, labored breaths of air.
“Your father has always thought he had a very old father.” Atavas’ voice sounded strained. “He either doesn’t notice I’ve never appeared to age, or his mind simply won’t let him believe it.”
“Why doesn’t Dad know? You’ve never told him this?”
“No need. I’ve seen no sign of witches for almost twenty years. Besides, your father isn’t a Pessum Ire. It skips a generation.”
“Wait, if I’m one of these Pessum Ire things, what about Ethan? Was he one?”
“Yes, I was training him up until he left for Peru. He was progressing very well. He was very insightful, your older brother.”
“Did he believe all this? Did he believe you were over 200 years old? Did he believe in witches and that it was his duty to kill them?”
Atavus grunted a laugh. “Yes, but as I said, he was very insightful. I think he might have suspected some of this before I revealed to him what he was.”
Darren added things together in his head. “If it skips a generation, and you’re a Pessum Ire, and Ethan and I are Pessum Ire too, doesn’t that mean there should still be a whole lot of other Pessum Ire living? Or are you the only one who lives forever?”
Atavus sighed. “No, the Pessum Ire have lengthened days, but we don’t live forever. We can be killed, and we do eventually die. As you can see, I am not going to last much longer. My original grandson, Thomas Radford Stevens died fighting witches in Europe almost 150 years ago. He was only in his eighties.”
A skeptical frown stole across Darren’s face. Atavus began laughing at him but ended up coughing. “He appeared to be barely thirty. We age slower, although somewhat quicker since the last millennium.” Atavus gazed at Darren and at the incredulity on his face. “Go to the closet, Darren. In the back is an old duffle bag. In the bottom of the bag are a couple of wooden boxes. Bring me the box on top.”
Darren did as he was told. He fished through the bag and found a wooden box about one foot by one foot and six inches deep. He brought it back to Atavus, who immediately fumbled with an old rusty padlock dial. “I haven’t opened this thing in decades. Let me think. Oh yes, Juliette’s birthday.” He swung the dial about, then tugged at the locking bar. The hasp slipped out of its slot with a scraping sound.
Inside the box, which when opened gave off the aroma of cloves, was an ancient looking book, badly worn and rotting at the edges. It was several inches thick. The paper, though gray and brown with age, looked to be in remarkable shape, considering how old it was. Darren had heard once that cotton-based paper could hold up for centuries as opposed to wood-pulp pages used today.
“Here,” Atavus said, handing Darren the book open near the beginning. “This is the Grimp. It’s my own historical legacy. It reaches back, way before my time. It’s a collection of histories, legends, prophecies, myths, religious rites, and ceremonial spells, even some old potions, I think.” He turned to a page. “Here’s the generational chart followed by some histories that date back before my time. It’s all here.”
“Dad’s never seen this?”
“Your father?” Atavus asked. “Oh, he might have, but he disregards it as an old man’s crazy way at keeping genealogy. He’s never shown a profound interest, and if he did, I doubt he would ever believe its contents.”
As Darren viewed the black and white pictures and graphs drawn by hand, his grandfather continued with his story.
“Thomas Radford Stevens had two sons. Radford, the younger of the two, stayed in Europe. The older son, Jacob, returned to America, where he settled in Ohio and had a family in 1832. He married a Mormon woman and joined the church back then. His two sons were born in Ohio and moved to Utah in the 1840’s. I followed them out later. Only one of the sons survived, and that was Davis Lorenzo Stevens. He was a Pessum Ire. I taught him about our history and our role as a balance to witches. He found it very difficult to believe I was almost 120. I probably appeared to be in my forties to him. At that time, I wasn’t trying to pass myself off as one of the family. I believe I told him I was a lost uncle or something. I’d let most people think I’d died back in Europe. Davis, however, eventually accepted who I was and, consequently, who he was.”
Atavus paused and lay back against his pillow. He closed his eyes, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. The old man breathed quietly for several minutes. Darren watched him, thinking he’d drifted off to sleep. Just as he was about to leave the room, the old man began speaking.
“There was a hot-bed of witches in Eastern Europe, and Davis felt compelled to return there to help drive them out. There is a network of Pessum Ire, and we’d been contacted about the trouble there. All sorts of stories surfaced from that area: stories of witches, but also vampires and werewolves. It was a dark time. Everyone’s imagination had caught fire and run away with them. We travelled together and searched them out. We were in Europe during the Civil War. Later, I was told many witches had migrated to the New World during the previous decade and their influence on the Civil War had been devastating to both sides. There were no Pessum Ire in the United States at that time. We’d all travelled abroad. The witches were unchecked and wreaked untold havoc to the North and the South.
“Of course, they never revealed themselves because they knew they could be captured and killed. But by 1850, no one believed in witches anymore. There were no more hangings or burning of witches. There weren’t even any accusations. Witches quickly became nothing more than quaint folklore. That’s why they raised up in great numbers during that period. Witches struggle around the profoundly religious.”
Atavus stopped talking again, quietly breathing as if asleep. He whispered, “Before Davis and I left for Eastern Europe, he had married three women.” His eyes flashed open. “Davis was a polygamist.” Darren found his grandfather’s reaction humorous, as if having a polygamist in the family tree was the real scandal rocking their family line. “Two of those women had sons.”
“Wait,” Darren interrupted. “What happened to Davis?”
“Ah, well, after we’d routed many of the witches and hordes of Dawsin Gypes from the old country, we traveled west. We planned on returning to the States and were waiting for a ship to sail out of Bordeaux. Davis had heard about an ancient text called the Grimoire of Moloch that supposedly contained all the spells Lucifer had bestowed on the witches from the beginning. He claimed to have a lead to some clue regarding its whereabouts. The last time I saw him was in the catacombs that ran beneath the Cathédrale Saint-André de Bordeaux. I don’t know where it led him. I waited for him to return, but after several days, I began to fear the worst. I spent a month searching for him, but found nothing. No sign of witches either, but they can be canny. When they aren’t casting spells, they blend in with the crowd. I suspected he was captured by a coven hiding in the town, but I could never confirm it. That Grimoire of theirs has been a legend long before my time. It’s mentioned several times in the Grimp.” His hand floated up and waved in the general direction of where Darren was holding the old book. “I think it’s a legend to their kind, like the Fountain of Eternal Youth. Nevertheless, if they were to ever capture a Pessum Ire trying to find it, he wouldn’t last very long.”
“That man who came the day of Ethan’s funeral?” Darren asked slowly. “Was that Davis?”
Atavus nodded. “I was back in this valley for twenty years before he contacted me again. He’s been searching for the Grimoire. Complete waste of time.”
Atavus appeared grayer. He was obviously worn-out as he disappeared into the pillow and his thin eyelids fluttered shut. For a while, the old man simply breathed deeply. At length, he swallowed and continued his narration with his eyes closed.
“Two of the wives had sons, nine between the two of them. One died of influenza while still an infant. Two others died in accidents before having children of their own. One died working for the railroad; another was gored by a bull working his farm. The other four lived to have families. One had only daughters. The other three had six boys between them. All six were Pessum Ire. Four fought in the Great War; there always seem to be witches in wartime. Of course, I found my way into the battles myself. This war drew the witches like moths to a flame.”
“There were witches in World War I?”
The old witch-slayer merely nodded his head. “They weren’t interested in who won the war. They fed off the killing. They set men against men on both sides, walked through the mustard gas, and invited men to join them. They used their spells to appear like women in distress. They were wicked.”
Darren wasn’t willing to allow the story to end there. “Did any of them have children? Boys?”
“Two died in the war, ironically, not directly at the hand of a warlock. Stirling died following a witch into a collapsing building. I tried to save him. He’d arrived in the building before me, and when he got there, the witch threw his infernal powder, but not before Stirling had set the thing on fire.
“I don’t know what happened to the other, Gideon. He disappeared. I’ve always thought the witches got him. There were two other boys who stayed behind to fight witches on the home front. The witches hadn’t moved out west at that point, so Jeremy and David traveled back east where there was a problem.” Suddenly, Atavus’s body sprang forward as he was racked with severe coughing.
Darren stood and rubbed the old man’s back. He murmured comforting words, some he’d heard his mother use. He glanced back at the door. His parents didn’t rush through, but Crissy, now seven years old, picked that time to shyly wander in. She was wearing a Cinderella nightgown and soft fluffy slippers that looked like small ducks. She wasn’t very tall, and she was so quiet, sometimes Darren forgot she was there.
“Grandpa’s sick,” Crissy said. She was the only one who ever called Atavus “Grandpa.” She reached up to pat him on the back, but Darren stopped her.
“He’ll be okay, Crissy.” Shortly after, Atavus eased back against his pillow. His eyes were teary, and his face was flushed with the exertion of coughing. Blearily, his eyes found his granddaughter.
“How’s Grandpa’s little girl?”
“Grandpa better?” She gazed up at him with her little brown eyes big and wide.
Atavus nodded. “Much, little one, much.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to rest soon.” He turned his attention back to Darren. His cheeks were hollow, and dark puffy rings swelled beneath his eyes. “Where was I?”
“The two Pessum Ire who went back east to fight witches,” Darren reminded him.
“Witches are scary,” Crissy offered. “I don’t like witches. They make you sneeze.” Crissy was always blaming someone or something for causing sneezes.
Atavus continued. “Jeremy and David. We all travelled to Pennsylvania by railroad. It was 1937. Many of the Pessum Ire were destroyed. But I was positive we’d routed or driven the witches into hiding. Certainly we’d killed most of them. It’s hard to know. We’d seen through a blanket spell they’d cast, their cauldrons smoking a screen of illusion around them. We found them and a terrible battle ensued. There were the three of us, and our Guardians, and even our Oracles got involved. There was a warlock who could control certain natural forces. Not all witches can control the weather. And when a witch learns a new spell the others can’t do, they guard it jealously. He sent a hail storm against us. The hail struck the ground like bullets from a machine gun. If not for our Oracles, we would’ve all died. They foretold the storm, and we were able to flee. The witches flew at us, using their magic to rout us. In the end, our use of fire overpowered them, and we destroyed most of them. The few that remained fled. Afterwards, Lauren, my Oracle, told us they’d left the world. We assumed that meant they’d gone into hiding. I didn’t see witches again until the Second World War, but even then, not that many.
“David and Jeremy both had sons, but they were too young to fight in the Second World War. The three of us went to that war. Somehow we’re drawn to the witches, or they are to us. The few we found were casting spells to put men in disarray. Hundreds were killed because of those spells.” He paused and turned to Darren. “Hand me that water.”
Darren moved quickly to the desktop across from the bed, where a pitcher of water stood next to an empty glass. He poured it, slopping water onto the desk in his haste, and brought it back to his grandfather. Atavus drank it down slowly. Darren watched the lump at his skinny throat bob up and down.
“Grandpa’s thirsty,” Crissy told Darren.
At last, Atavus handed him the glass and went on with his story. “The witches and warlocks turned men against men. ‘Friendly Fire’ is not always a mistake in planning or execution in a war. Witches can make men see things that aren’t there. Make them see the enemy when they are really comrades. They loved this trick and filled the air with their hollow laughter. It didn’t work on us, not exactly. We could see through it. But that didn’t stop them from killing both David and Jeremy. I went to avenge them. There was a warlock called Hamlet, who had killed them from the skies. I could never find him.” Atavus’s face contorted in anguish and frustration. Being unable to avenge their deaths was a bitter memory to the old man.
“David had a son, Charles David, who—though he wasn’t a Pessum Ire—went on to become a Guardian.”
“You mentioned Guardians before,” Darren interrupted. “What are they?”
“Guardians protect Pessum Ire. You’ll have one. They gravitate to you, and when they are with you, they will fight beyond human ability. You’ll know when he arrives. You’ll also have an Oracle, someone who predicts or gives you information you’ll need. Other than lengthened days and being able to see through witches’ spells and kill them with fire, we don’t have any abilities. The Guardians and the Oracles, by comparison, seem supernatural.
“I am so tired,” Atavus admitted. He was already lying back against his pillow with his eyes shut, and his speech tapered off during his recitation. “I must rest. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.” His lips kept moving for a second, and Darren was certain he was murmuring goodnight to the two of them.
“Come on, Crissy. Let’s let Atavus sleep.”
“Grandpa’s tired,” Crissy agreed.
“Yeah, Grandpa’s tired.”
Back in his bedroom, Darren went over the words his grandfather—his great-great-great-great grandfather had spoken. It was all so hard to believe, and yet it felt right. Believing what the old man said was sort of like setting a burden down and enjoying the relief that follows. Atavus had sounded convincing when he told of those people and incidents, like it was something he’d remembered, not made up. But 267 years old? It still sounded ridiculous. But was it any more fantastic or unbelievable than seeing Samantha floating in the gymnasium?
Darren hadn’t mentioned to Atavus that he’d seen the transparent ghost today at school. He should tell Atavus about Samantha. He’d do it tomorrow.
And, what about Samantha? If she was a witch, and according to Atavus’s explanation she must be, what was he supposed to do about her? Was he supposed to kill her? He was a ‘witch destroyer’ a Pessum Ire, whatever that was supposed to mean.
He was supposed to kill witches? This whole thing was crazy. His grandfather was crazy, and he was crazy for listening to him. Samantha was a beautiful girl, not a witch. Witches were old crones, casting spells on unsuspecting people. They weren’t real! What was he thinking?
All Samantha had done was interrupt his basketball game. His mind began to drift, and he pictured her floating in the gymnasium, the wind blowing her blonde hair and the light shining on it in a soft glow.
As he drifted into sleep, he saw those boys again, only this time they were in the gymnasium, throwing fries at each other. Their feet slipped out from beneath them, and they flew backward in slow motion, floating until they hit the ground. Samuelson’s head hit the ground like a raw egg and splattered into a gruesome display of gore all over the cafeteria floor.