Authors: Trish Milburn
I, Jaxina Pherson, a.k.a. Jax Taylor, am going to grab a normal life with normal friends at a normal school with both hands. And I’m not letting go.
No matter how far I walk,
I can’t escape a feeling of restlessness. It’s almost like I can sense a disturbance in the air around me. It tastes and feels like impending
. . .
something. Doom? Trouble? Merely a complication? I’m so wrapped up in the potentially supernatural that I neglect to notice the perfectly normal sound of a vehicle’s engine until it rounds the curve behind me. Despite the winding mountain road, the driver is speeding. As I turn my head, everything seems to happen at once.
The driver swerves into the opposite lane, tires squealing. Before I can think to do otherwise, I engage my inhumanly fast speed and leap into the forest lining the highway.
Crap!
Engaging magic is so not a good idea if I don’t want to get caught and sacrificed. But it’s too late. I’ve done it, and the guy is already out of his truck. I can’t go back now.
He looks toward the spot where I’d been walking. Bewilderment wafts off him like steam. Some emotion seems to stir the air again. I swear it feels as if all the hairs are standing up on the guy’s neck, like he’s aware that something isn’t right. Little does he know.
He reaches inside the truck’s cab and pulls out a pistol. Great, just what I need—redneck Rambo.
The guy makes his way down the side of the road. He stops and scans the night. It’s like he knows I’m out here, watching him. My frantic heartbeat increases. He searches the ditch and the embankment. I really hope he’s not going to come crashing into the woods.
When he appears about to turn and retrace his steps to the truck, I let out a sigh of relief. But it’s premature. Instead of leaving, he opens the passenger door and retrieves something from inside. When he turns back toward the woods, he’s still holding a gun in one hand. But when he opens his other hand, it’s the small, dark object lying in his palm, the one with the slight red glow, that really concerns me.
I hold my breath, not moving a muscle, and hope that’s not what I think it is. But deep down, I know it’s a bloodstone.
Why does he have a stone that detects the energy emitted by all manner of supernatural beings—including me? Is he working for my family to find me? They can’t find me, not this soon. I’ve worked too long and planned too carefully for this to happen. They should be following meticulously planted false leads to Anchorage, not scanning the North Carolina woods.
He turns his head as if to listen for any hint of unusual sound.
Another car rounds the curve below where he is standing, its headlights illuminating his face. He’s tall, lean, with unruly dark hair and a face that, even at this distance, makes my heart thump harder against my ribs. And he’s near my age.
Would a mortal make my witch blood surge through my veins so fast it’s almost impossible to stand still? But he can’t be a member of one of the other witch families looking to improve his position among the covens by capturing and returning me to my coven for punishment. I’d have felt him the moment he got within a mile of me. And I haven’t felt anything other than the unnamed disturbances and a burst of strange, dangerous attraction.
I watch as he examines the night around him. Could he be some other type of supernatural creature, something that for some reason I can’t detect? Wouldn’t that just be freakin’ awesome?
No, that doesn’t make sense either.
If he were supernatural, he wouldn’t be able to hold that bloodstone. Legend claims that the first bloodstone was formed by the blood of Christ dripping onto the ground below the cross. If a witch or other dark supernatural being attempts to hold a bloodstone, it will burn a hole like those made by the nails in Jesus’s hands. My heart rate skids to a halt. Supernatural beings don’t tote bloodstones around. Humans do. Humans who hunt my kind.
He’s not some goon my family hired. He’s a hunter, the real deal. And not one of those goofy supernatural hunters on TV who uses useless EMF meters. TV and movies tend to get the big ideas right—that the supernatural exists—but not the details. This guy, he’s exhibiting the right details.
I lean my forehead, warm from the burst of magic I used, against the cool bark of the tree hiding me from my hunter. Why, oh why, did I use my power to zip into these woods? Why couldn’t I have simply run in here like a normal person instead of using inhuman speed that leaves a trail?
Because what were the odds the person driving by was a hunter? Like a bazillion to one. Was that Fate cackling again? Forget the slap. That old crone deserves a well-placed fist to the nose.
The crunch of gravel makes me look up. The hunter scans the forest as he walks back to his dark-colored truck. With a final questioning glance in my direction, he slides the gun, no doubt loaded with spirit-killing rock salt, into the truck’s cab then climbs in. Only when he starts the engine and drives away do I let out the breath I’ve been holding for fear he’d hear the slight sound of air escaping my lungs.
The ground catches me as I slide down to sit at the base of the tree. In the darkness surrounding me, I spot the night animals scurrying across the forest floor. The occasional pair of raccoon or opossum eyes turns my direction before hurrying away. They sense my power, the darkness from which it was born, and don’t want to be anywhere near me.
I lean my head back against the tree’s rough bark, stare at the sky filled to bursting with stars, and let the tears trickle down my cheeks, down my neck to soak into the normal T-shirt of a not-so-normal girl.
Through the dissipating morning fog,
I eye the RV at the far end of the Jasper Ridge Campground. Unlike the Rocky Creek Campground where I’ve parked my little metal box of a home, Jasper Ridge is more popular with short-term vacationers. The perfect spot to acquire a temporary “mom,” someone the locals won’t recognize.
Deciding to err on the side of caution, I’ve spent the past three days watching the comings and goings of the campers, determining which one will afford me the best opportunity to finally get enrolled in school. Going to a normal high school with normal classmates has always been a part of my grand plan to disappear into averagedom. My father would never think that was my heart’s desire, but he has no idea that the very ideas of crowded school hallways, sitting in the bleachers at football games, and the possibility of going to prom call to me more than the high-end boutiques of South Beach.
I wait for the usual morning routine to bring the man out the front door of the RV, leaving his wife behind for the day. A quick glance at my watch reveals the man is running a few minutes behind this morning. Great, today of all days. I bite my lip, hoping I don’t have to start over in my search for a likely candidate. The tourist is perfect to pose as my mother—she’s alone much of the day, has no connections to the locals and will be gone from the area soon. I just need the woman’s husband to go off for his daily fishing excursion as he has the previous three days. I love predictable people, hate it when they become unpredictable.
Come on. Surely you didn’t catch every fish to be had.
The RV door finally opens. I watch from my perch on a concrete picnic table as the man kisses his wife goodbye, tosses his fishing gear into the back of his little pickup truck, then heads down the road to some crystal-clear mountain stream. Hallelujah! I hope the fish are biting so he doesn’t come back too soon. Not willing to waste time, I head for the RV and knock on the door.
The door opens to reveal the familiar blond woman. “Yes?”
Okay, here goes.
I stare into the woman’s eyes, past them into her mind, concentrate as I navigate my way through the flitting thoughts and empty, unused areas, then finally plant the necessary information.
“Okay, I’ll just get my purse,” the woman says, oblivious to what I’ve just done to her.
No more than two minutes after the woman’s husband headed for his daily limit of trout, she slides into her car behind my cranberry Volkswagen Beetle, vintage 1969. She follows me down the mountain like a lemming, unaware of how she’s being used. I try not to think about my abuse of power as we roll into Baker Gap. A couple of turns bring us into the high school parking lot. I stare at the school, at the other students filtering inside from busses and cars.
This is it, Day One of my normal life.
My stomach performs an uncomfortable roll, spreading uncertainty in its wake. Do I have any chance of fitting in? A month after the beginning of school, cliques will already be in place, resistant to newcomers—even if a newcomer was your average Suzy Student. And that I’m not.
Deep breath, Jax, deep breath.
As I get out of my car, my temporary mom moves up next to me and walks beside me toward the entryway to the school. A few feet from the door, I once again use my power to navigate my way through the woman’s brain then give her a little zap of energy to activate the implanted memories and storyline. Her new persona kicks in as we step into the school office.
“Hello, can I help you?” a woman with short, deliberately messy red hair asks.
“Yes, I’m Emily Taylor. I need to enroll my daughter, Jax.”
“Great.” The woman extends her hand. “I’m Mrs. St. John, the guidance counselor. If you all would like to take a seat, I’ll get the necessary paperwork.” She points toward a table in the corner. My fake mom and I slide into adjacent, hard plastic chairs.
Fighting the urge to fidget, I instead scan the outer office. One off-white, concrete-block wall is filled with plaques and a drawing of the school. The one behind the receptionist’s desk holds the school’s bell system and a fire extinguisher. The hallways are quiet except for the squeaking of an occasional pair of shoes as someone passes outside.
“So, where are you all moving here from?” Mrs. St. John asks as she takes a seat in one of the empty chairs.
“Birmingham, Alabama,” my mom answers.
“What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“It’s so beautiful here, very peaceful.”
The compliment succeeds in diverting the counselor’s attention away from what would logically be her next question, what my faux mom does for a living.
A pang threatens when an image of my real mother hits me unexpectedly. Paulina Pherson, sitting in her studio, putting the finishing touches on one of the ethereal fairy paintings that made her famous for something other than being a powerful witch. Her face glows with pride and a serenity I’ve not seen anywhere else before or since. My heart squeezes, making me want to massage the pain away. But that’s impossible. After all this time, I still miss her, the person most like me, with a ferocity that makes it feel like her death only happened yesterday.
I shift in my seat, reaffirming contact with the present, not a past that can’t be changed with any amount of powers. Mrs. St. John doesn’t need to see the sadness on my face and wonder about its cause.
“Jax, that’s an unusual name,” Mrs. St. John comments.
“I’m named after my father.” I use a little more of my power and force a fleeting pained expression to pass across the face of the stranger beside me, counting down the minutes until this disgusting subterfuge is over. “His name was Jack.”
“He died when Jax was just a baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
As I’d expected and planned, the topic of a dead father quiets Mrs. St. John and causes her to focus on finishing the necessary paperwork quickly.
“I’ll need to get a copy of Jax’s school records.”
The nameless woman hands over the folder filled with forged documents I gave her on the way into the school. These, unlike the fake ID I used to secure my camping space, show my real age of sixteen. “I’ve home schooled Jax up until this point, but I thought a normal high school experience would be good for her during the last few years before college.”
Not fidgeting proves difficult as Mrs. St. John looks over the records showing I’m an excellent student. At least my GPA and the fact I’ve been taught at home aren’t lies.
“Impressive. You’re going to be a wonderful addition to our sophomore class, Jax.”
“Thanks.” I try for sincerity mixed with teenage boredom.
“Though I see you’ve not taken any physical education classes. We’ll have to get you in one of those.”
I groaned before thinking.
Mrs. St. John smiled at me. “I know girls your age often don’t like P.E., but it’s a requirement for graduation.”
I dreaded the days of humiliation ahead but tried to convince myself that it was just another part of this normal existence I wanted so much. Plus, there was no one here to disappoint with my unexplained total lack of a sports gene something no other witch suffered. It was just something else that made me stand apart from my family, one more thing that made it dangerous to live in their midst.
I force my mom-for-a-day to glance at her watch. “Is there anything else I need to do? I hate to hurry, but I have a meeting in Asheville later this morning and I need to get on the road.”