Edge of Seventeen (8 page)

Sunday pursed her lips, and she drew a hard
breath through her nostrils. She had trained for this, precisely
this. The world was filled with people who sought to do others
harm. Unlike Bernadette and her coven,
those
witches and
creatures were monsters. They didn’t care about the greater good;
they cared only for themselves. They were profiteers. They were
carpetbaggers of the mundane. Without question, they needed to be
stopped.

The world needed the Incarnate to take
action. Magic was no one’s plaything, and she wouldn’t let anyone
take advantage of the less powerful or the mundane. If all witches
were like Bernadette, then all would be well in the world. But they
weren’t. No one was as good. No one was as kind.

… And no one had an Incarnate.

“Okay,” Sunday finally answered. Her course
was set, and her pulse raced with the anticipation. She smiled
broadly when she imagined herself standing at Bernadette’s side as
she told them that they would never raise a demon on her watch. On
their watch. “Let me get my stuff out of bags, and I’ll meet you in
the study. Sound good?”

Alone in her room, Sunday thought of all the
things she’d learned, all the things Bernadette taught her.
Tomorrow, she’d be taking the first of many steps toward her Fate.
And she was never so happy. Right at that moment, Sunday knew.
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, she was and would always do the right
thing. Let someone get in the way of Bernadette’s altruistic
mission, and they’d have to face the preternatural and mundane
worlds’ greatest weapon:
her.

Present day…

Sunday’s tightly pressed lips barred her
from unleashing a string of expletives and curses against Fate. For
almost six years, she had managed to avoid the preternatural. No
witches. No vampires.
No magic.
After just over a year of
living in Columbia, South Carolina, it seemed her luck had run out.
Fate reared its ugly head when her only two friends in the world
outed themselves as witches. Almost two months later, Sunday sat
with those very same friends, Kayla and Sammy, in Sammy’s kitchen.
They’d been bugging her for months to join them to meet their
coven. Usually, Sunday didn’t flinch when her friends talked shop.
She let them go on to their hearts’ content, grinning, nodding, and
staying mum while they talked. To Kayla and Sammy, Sunday’s
nonchalance meant only one thing: she was a potential recruit for
their coven. At first, the invitations to join them for esbat, or
coven reunions, were gentle nudges. Months later, their requests
had grown more blatant. In the last week, they’d become
relentless.

Silently grinning and bearing it was
Sunday’s usual go-to avoidance tactic, but that method had lost its
effectiveness. At this point, she was well past tiptoeing around
their invitations. Explaining to her friends why she
couldn’t
join some stupid, probably lame, and innocuous
coven was the last thing Sunday wanted to do. As her friends’
involvement with their coven increased, rejecting them outright
meant threatening their friendship.

For Sunday, witchcraft wasn’t something that
quiet, happy mundanes engaged in while someone else baked scones.
Witchcraft was something real and potentially extremely dangerous.
Sunday was the Incarnate, a purported god-kind and preternatural
conduit of magical and mystical forces. It was the bane of her
existence, and for years, since breaking from the servitude of the
most powerful witch in the United States, Sunday had run free and
clear of all Fate’s designs for her. She’d been running non-stop
for six years when she landed in Columbia. There, she found the
only thing she’d ever wanted for herself: the chance to live a
normal life, a life of being something other than the
Incarnate.

Of course, her normal life with her normal
friends was turning out to be anything but. As Kayla and Sammy
flipped their twin golden ponytails and sipped from their
mid-morning coffees, they stared at her with expectant eyes and
eager smiles.

“You really need to come with, Sunday,”
Kayla said. “It’s not what you think. It’s less ‘Satan’ and more
‘knitting circle’, except with no knitting and more chanting.”

Kayla and Sammy shared knowing smiles,
pleased with the former’s description of their coven. Placing her
coffee mug on the table, Kayla leaned onto her elbows and twirled a
long strand of hair around her finger. Brows pinched and eyes
narrowed, Kayla searched Sunday’s expression as she considered ways
to make her offer more enticing. Sunday was sure that if she stared
into Kayla’s eyes, she would see the wheels spinning.

“It’s like…” Kayla’s voice stalled as she
came up empty-handed. She quickly looked to Sammy with a silent
plea for help.

“It’s like magic,” Sammy continued. When she
said
magic
, Sammy raised her hands and wiggled her fingers,
miming butterflies fluttering away. As trite as the gesture was,
Sammy’s lips fixed into a tight line and her jaw set tight.

Magic.
Sunday forced a grin as she
gulped hard. Could she have expected any different? No matter how
far she ran or how hard she tried to escape it, Fate nipped at her
heels. If Kayla and Sammy weren’t her only friends, perhaps Sunday
would have packed up her things and left Columbia the minute they
confided in her for the first time. “You’ll probably think we’re
flakes, but we’re Wiccan.”

“I just don’t think there’s any point to my
going along. It’s really not my thing,” Sunday mumbled. She dug her
fingers in her hair and looked up at her friends with pleading in
her eyes.

“You don’t
know
if it’s your thing—”
Kayla started with a smile.

“
Yet
.” Sammy beamed, her eyes wide
and sparkling, and a broad, bright smile painted across her
face.

“It’s
white
magic, not
black
magic
,” Kayla explained for the umpteenth time in the last
year. She tried to place her hand on Sunday’s for encouragement,
but Sunday quickly pulled away and dropped her hands to her
lap.

Since Sunday was sorely out of practice at
blocking other people’s emotions, she had made it known that she
didn’t like to be touched. If only she could manage physical
contact with people, then Sunday could minimize the pains it took
to control her ability.

“No bloody orgies, or demon worshipping,”
Sammy said. “I mean, can you picture
us
at a satanic ritual?
I think
not
.”

Sunday hesitated, half-stammering as she
offered yet another roadblock.

“I really don’t see why it’s such a big deal
that I don’t want to go.”

Sammy narrowed her gaze and sat upright in
her chair. Kayla crossed her arms and furrowed her brow. They were
putting on a united front against Sunday. For her part, Sunday
could do little more than slouch her shoulders and nervously chew
on her lip.

“You never talk about family or any other
friends. You may not think that you need it, but you do.
You’re
lonely
, Sunny, and as your best friends, we’re not okay with
it.”

Sammy looked to Kayla for acknowledgement,
and Kayla provided a sharp nod in return.

“This is how we can help you. The coven is a
sisterhood. They can be your friends
and
your family. It’s
like when I tell the kids that the Cub Scouts is an extension of
their support system. That’s what we’re telling you about the
sisters. You don’t have anyone else, and that’s just not right.
Everyone needs a support system.”

Pulling her hand through her short hair and
dropping her head, Sunday considered her options. Neither Kayla nor
Sammy was an innately gifted witch. For that, Sunday was supremely
grateful. What they lacked in sensitivity to the preternatural was
indeed a lucky strike. They couldn’t possibly know what was truly
out there. If they did, they wouldn’t have invited Sunday into
their lives, certainly not into their homes. Sunday wanted her
friends to believe that she was a mundane person, wholly unaware
of, untrained in, and naïve about magic. If they could gauge her
predicament, they would be curious, and in this case, curiosity was
dangerous.

For as long as she could remember, friends
were a pipe dream for Sunday. Being the Incarnate meant
superficiality and secrecy were necessities. Relationships didn’t
bode well given those limitations. For nearly a decade, Sunday ran
from everything that she truly needed: stability, security, and
sanctity. Most of all, Sunday craved companionship. Having finally
found that with Kayla and Sammy, the last thing she wanted was to
disappoint them.
Not
participating in the coven was doing
just that.

Coincidence or Fate, there was no hiding
from the tendrils of the preternatural world for Sunday. It would
always find her. Were it a book club, Sunday would’ve been there
with bells on after their first invitation. It had taken twenty
million invitations, she guessed, but she finally would accept.
Resignation was less a choice than it was Sunday’s last remaining
option. Not wanting to lose them, Sunday sighed in defeat.

“Okay,” Sunday finally answered. “Give me
details.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek and forced down the
inevitable well of tears rising to the surface. Giving up left a
bitter taste. Looking away from her friends was the only way she
could keep from crying.

Kayla and Sammy sprang from their seats and
pulled Sunday into their arms. The elation radiated from their
bodies and poured into Sunday’s own. She struggled to stifle the
effects of it to ensure that she contained it rather than dispersed
it. Because she was out of practice, she had to work doubly hard to
keep her shields up.

Through the cascade of Kayla’s bleach blonde
hair, Sunday focused on a spot on the kitchen wall, and as if
bracing her hands against it, pushed back into herself. Arms
squeezed her waist and chest, hands brushed over the back of her
head, and their tremendous excitement drenched her.
That spot on
the wall.
Sunday pushed back.
Push harder. Contain it.
It was all about containment. Lightning in a bottle.

As the women attempted to pull away, Sunday
strengthened her grip, and willed them to calm down before she
could let them go. It took considerable effort, and for that
reason, Sunday rarely found herself in a situation like this. They
couldn’t have known how Sunday strained to handle their contact,
and they would never know, because Sunday would never tell
them.

When Sammy’s husband, Carl, walked into the
kitchen, Kayla and Sammy startled and jumped back before Sunday
could put their emotions to rest. As panic filled her, she lost her
grip on the emotions she’d absorbed from them. On the counter below
where she’d focused her efforts, the toaster jumped, pulled its
cord from the socket, and slammed into the wall, sending a spray of
sparks before landing on its side. Sammy and Kayla yelped as Carl
rushed to grab a spatula and bang it to death. Sunday finally
managed to gather her wits about her and forced herself to relax
with slow, steady breathing. As her heart rate settled, the toaster
stilled. Carl smacked it two more times before he was certain the
danger had died down. Exasperated, he looked at the women huddled
by the table.

“Is everyone okay?” he asked, gasping for
breath. Fear drenched and confused, Carl appeared well out of his
depth.

The women beside Sunday were reeling from
their shock. Kayla’s hand trembled slightly. Suddenly, Kayla and
Sammy broke out in nervous laughter.

“Thanks for saving us from a toaster, big
guy!” Sammy teased. “Husband and total dragon slayer. How did I get
so lucky?”

The tension washed out of the room as they
took in the ridiculousness of the situation. Everyone laughed,
including Sunday, but Sunday’s laughter wasn’t like the rest. The
more she forced it, the closer she came to heaving. It was a
complex dance. If she didn’t maintain an even-keel, a wild toaster
was the least of the damage that she could do. Very rarely, Sunday
reminded herself, does an explosion of energy result in the raining
of rose petals on a crisp autumn afternoon.

“What were you three doing that you set a
toaster on fire?” Carl asked, smiling. He walked to the
refrigerator and pulled out a can of juice.

“Oh, nothing. Except that Sunday is joining
our book club,” Sammy chimed lightly. She threw an arm around
Sunday’s waist and pulled her closer. Sunday bit back the urge to
push her friend away. The punctuation of her words made Carl raise
an incredulous eyebrow. Kayla clapped her hands and squealed with
delight.

“Your book club.” He shot a humorous gaze
between his wife and Sunday. “Sounds exciting.” Popping open the
can, he took a sip and shrugged before walking out of the kitchen.
From the other room, he called out back to them, “Watch out for the
microwave when we all decide to go to Disney World.”

As soon as he stepped out, Kayla slapped
Sunday’s arm. Had Sunday not been chiding herself for losing
control of her ability, she might have reciprocated the playful
gesture. Instead, the best she managed was a weak grin and a shrug.
These were her friends. This was the life she’d chosen for
herself—the one she’d wanted so desperately to work. That’s how the
Incarnate’s arm was twisted into tagging along to some half-assed,
wannabe esbat.

“Don’t be such a bitch about it, Sunny,”
Sammy teased. “Eunice is going to be there, too. You like her,
don’t you? I don’t think you know anyone else there.”

“You know, because you’re essentially
antisocial,” Kayla cut in.

“Except for you two, right?” Sunday answered
with a forced smirk.

“Exactly. But like I was saying, at least
you’ll know Eunice, and you actually like her so there’s that.”