Wicked Fate (The Wicked Trilogy)

Wicked Fate

Copyright
2012 by Tabatha Vargo

All Rights Reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manor whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Wicked Fate/ Tabatha Vargo.
–1
st
Edition

Cover Art by Regina
Wamba
/ Mae I Design and Photography.

ISBN 978-1480258297       

[1. Supernatural—Fiction.
2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction 4.
Love—Fiction.]
I.Title
.

First Edition

For Mini Me, my reason for breathing <3

Chapter
1

First Impressions

I can sum up the high school experience in one word—shitty.  Spending an entire day going through the mundane motions of the learning process, while being surrounded by what can only be described as teenage zombies, merits the description.  I wouldn’t even bother coming to school if it weren’t for the slightest chance that I might get a glimpse of
him.

I’m getting that glimpse now as he leans against the milk cooler. Talking to the guy in front of him, he juggles a bottle of water and laughs out loud.  His laughter is deep and inviting, yet unexpected since he’s usually a quiet guy. His dark hair shifts, then spills into his eyes as he nods at a cute girl that walks by.
Getting his attention for even a nanosecond makes the girl blush, not that I can blame her.

No one seems to care that he’s holding up the line like he’s in the VIP section of a social club instead of standing in the lunch line. I guess looking the way he does earns you certain rights. He reaches up and runs his slender fingers through his chocolate hair causing his shirt to lift and giving everyone, including me, a brief teaser of hip-hanging jeans and golden-brown skin.

The crash of a water bottle and the aggravated sigh of the girl in front of me break my concentration. Badly dyed hair gets flicked at me as she spins around, attitude written on her face. But once she notices me, her tan skin pales before she rushes off without her tray.

Anyone else would apologize for not paying attention. If I thought for one second that she’d listen, I’d say sorry for knocking her stuff over. It’s really not my fault anyway, if
he wasn’t eight people ahead of me looking like summer seduction on a stick, then
maybe
I could pay attention.

It’s simple…I blame him.

The small commotion does, however, earn me a brief hint of emerald green eyes as
he
peeks over at me. Like the girl before, the second of eye contact causes me to blush. I look down, covering my flushed face with my ebony hair.

He turns the corner in the line, and disappears from my sight.

As if waking up from a drug-induced state, my surroundings come back into focus and the noises of the room assail me—loud gossip and laughter fills my ears. The obnoxious sound hurts my overly-sensitive hearing and enhances the headache I’ve had since waking up. I massage my aching temples for relief.

The cafeteria at Summerville High holds more drama than a
Lifetime
movie.
Last year, a
fight broke out between two testosterone-filled boys over some loose and limber cheerleader
.
Sharing wasn’t caring for those two, and o
ne of the
boys got sent to the hospital with a broken nose. The year before that,
there was a small fire in the “popular” corner. It was said that drugs were involved with the fire, but no one ever went to jail or anything.

I could blow up my table with a meth lab and no one would notice.

The big theatrical display
of this year remains to be seen
,
s
ince it’s the first day and all.  My only hope is that it doesn’t involve me or anything that could add to my less than normal reputation.

I pass the frozen pizza
that’s seared
unde
r the heating lamps before squeezing
myself
through
the dreaded mile-long line. I grab the only edible thing on the menu, a fake chicken patty on a hard bun topped with shriveled lettuce, before hauling myself towards
Mage’s Table
.

It’s the same table I sat at freshman year and it’s the only empty table in the room. Sometimes I wonder if anyone sits
here at any lunch period. Do people thi
nk I’m so disease-ridden that they won’t even
sit at a table I use?

I look down at the word
freak
that’s carved into the faux wood from the year before.  It’s thicker and bigger than the rest of the derogatory words. I cover the offensive word with my tray.

Don’t think about it, Mage.

Adam and his piercing, green eyes are nowhere in sight, so I focus on fading into the background.

The loud banging of the t
rays and chattering
disappear as I slip in my ear buds
and crank up the music
.

Today’s turning out to be decent.
So far
,
the gawking eyes have been kept to a minimum. 
So far
, being the operative phrase. Maybe
that means
this yea
r
will
be different, maybe it’ll
be better.

I’ve lived most of my life on the outside of everything
, which is totally fine by me. People
around here
don’t
have much to say to me because
, well…I
’m
different
.  There’s not really a polite way to put it, but apparently, not being l
ike everyone else is completely unacceptable. 
Who knew?

It sounds a bit cliché, but
I’m not your ordinary teenage gi
rl. I’m unique, but not in the “cute-
gi
rl-who-dresses-a-little-awkward”
kind of way. I’m uniqu
e in the “no-one-should-ever-come-near-me”
kind of way, and no one ever
does, with the exception of Adam
—once.

I’m relieved that people stay away, but I’m curious to know what they think I’m capable of. It’s not like their hearts will stop by being near me. Maybe they think they’ll turn to stone if they look me. The truth is, I’ve never seriously hurt anyone—even though accidently hurting someone is a huge a fear of mine.

My fear of hurting someone, combined with their fear of getting hurt, makes for a very isolated school experience for me.  No one ever looks at me, much less speaks to me. 
In their
defense, it’s not like I exude
a large amount of fr
iendliness.
It’s as if I
don’t exist to them anymore and
I prefer it that way. The less people bother me, the less effort I
have to exert to control what i
s sometimes an uncontrollable thing.

A girl with a lunch tray makes
her way towards my table.
She’s bouncy—a little too excited to be in school for my taste.  Not your average-sized girl, chunky, but in a cute way. Her heart-shaped face is the color of v
anilla yogurt
with a
sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her lit
tle pudgy nose. 

Unlike my
black monstrosity,
her shoulder length brown hair i
s full of vivacious curls.
They’re bouncing with the beat of the music on my iPod with every step. The shorter curls that frame her face
remind me of a teenage
Shirley Temple
with a saucy attitude.

Her dark brown eyes are an exact match to th
e color of her hair, with lush, black lashes that make them stand out from beneath her perfectly shaped brows. The scooped neckline of her aqua-blue designer shirt is a little low and every now and again a leopard printed bra strap peeks out. It makes my plain, white bra suddenly feel insufficient.

H
er jeans
, which
are made to
look dirty and distressed, look like mine, which in actuality are really old and worn. Except, while I paid three bucks for mine at the local Goodwill, I’m sure she dropped at least ninety on hers at some fancy store in the mall.

Playing peek-a-boo behind her baby-soft curls are c
ute dangling butterfly earrings
that remind me
of happiness. The pep-in-her-step is contagious and I find myself wanting to frolic across the lunc
h room like a little butterfly fairy—never going to happen, by-the-
way.
I don’t frolic…ever.

Her innocent spirit calls to me
,
and
in a bizarre way, I instantly like her. The corners of my mouth tug up against my will and I have to force them down. I’m not sure what a random smile from me would make the onlookers think, but I picture a mad-dash for the doors out of fear.

Her eyes sparkle with her
cheerful
g
rin as she tosses her matching
bag onto the table.

She must be new. Only a new person would brave the school pariah.

My tasteless chicken sandwich becomes the most interesting thing in the room as I look down at my tray and ignore her.

“Hi!” she says in a very non-Mage
up-beat kind of way.

My ear buds pop out of my ears with one quick tug. Gawking eyes beat into me causing anxiety to press against my chest.
Ev
eryone’s staring as if a meth lab explosion
just occurred at my table—jaws hanging open
and all
.

“People don’t talk
to me.
If you want to make any friends around here, I would leave
,” I mumble.

She shifts her eyes and makes a face that tells me she thinks I’m wacko. “Okay…w
ell
, my name’
s Bernadette, but people call me Bernie. Do you always sit here all alone?
”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you want me
to
move to another table?”

“Do what you want, but if
you sit here no one’s going to
talk to you.”

“I honestly don’t care what other people do,” she shrugs. “W
hat’s your name?”