Cara Shultz - Spellcaster

“I’ll come,” Cisco said, standing up more carefully than Jenn had, crumpling the remains of his sandwich into a ball. “Emma, are you coming?”

“No, I think I want to walk around, take some pics,” I said, finally finding my new camera—a Christmas present from Aunt Christine—in my backpack. Brendan had told me how much he liked Fort Tryon Park, but he hadn’t been there since he was a little kid. I wanted to take a few pictures of the grounds for him. But the truth was I really just wanted to be alone in case I started crying. Between my little breakdown last night—and the crushing flood of guilt I was drowning in—my emotions were bubbling right under the surface. Angelique would be proud of how in-touch with my inner emogirl I was. Meet the worst superhero ever! Emogirl, whose superpower is crying on command.

They headed toward the café as I took a deep breath and tried to calm my stripped nerves. I started walking along a path on the grounds, taking pictures of the impressive Cloisters. It was pretty here. Quiet—much more relaxing than Central Park. The birds were louder than the minimal traffic noises from the nearby parking lot.

I wanted to get a full shot of the museum, so I walked several yards away, farther into the park as I toyed with the panoramic setting on my camera.

I turned to my left, taking a shot of the trees, bright green with new leaves.

I turned west, snapping a pic of the beige stone structure. It looked like a knight should come barreling through those doors instead the group of tourists who emerged, cameras in hand as they piled into their tour bus.

I continued walking, into an area more densely packed with trees, trying to play with the nature settings on my camera. There were too many shadows.

“Like I know what white balance even is,” I muttered aloud, playing with the buttons. I looked at the digital screen again—there was a bigger shadow.

I put the camera down and squinted my eyes in the distance.

There’s no way I was mistaken. A person—at least, I think it was a person—in all black with a black hood covering the face—was standing amidst the trees, the figure obscured by the shade.

And then the figure started running toward me.

Chapter 3

At first, my feet were frozen to the ground. My brain screamed to my body to run, but I couldn’t force my limbs to move. It was like they were locked—immobile from the fear that this was happening to me. Again.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered, my brain reeling as the hooded figure swerved around the trees, coming my way.

“Run.”

I heard the disembodied voice from somewhere. The rough sound of it was enough to jolt me out of my shock until I realized it was mine. I spun around and started running through the trees, back to the path, the panic building as I stumbled through the unfamiliar terrain. The last time I had to run for my life, it was right after the winter formal, when Anthony chased me through Central Park. But then, I knew the area. I knew the park. This time, I was racing through Fort Tryon blind.

I sprinted back toward where I thought the path to the Cloisters were, weaving my way through the landscape. I had no idea how close the hooded figure was. I just knew I had to get away.

My shoes skidded on the rain-dampened blades of grass. I pitched forward, my palms outstretched as I stumbled into the trunk of a nearby tree, the slick soles of my Mary Janes slipping on the wet ground. I whipped my head around, looking for the hooded figure. I didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean anything. He could be anywhere. He could be behind me.

He could be Anthony.

The thought was like an injection of ice water into my heart, pumping the chilling fear through my body as I pushed myself off the mossy tree trunk. I whirled around, seeing nothing but trees.

I heard a car horn in the distance and headed off after it. The West Side Highway—the Cloisters sat high above the busy thoroughfare. I could flag someone down—someone would see me.

I pumped my arms, trying to force momentum as I slammed each foot into the ground. I weaved through the trees, skidding a few more times on the slick grass until I stumbled forward. My left knee plowed into a splintered tree branch, a casualty from last night’s storm. I cried aloud at the sharp jolt in my knee, as the broken-off wood ripped into my skin, stinging my jagged, torn skin. I shook it off, forcing my hands to push myself off the muddy ground.

Then a different kind of pain—blunt, dull pain against my shoulder blades, as I was shoved. I stumbled forward, my hands outstretched and taking the brunt of the blow, protecting me as someone tried to slam my face into the trunk of a tree. My head jerked back as he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking Ashley’s clip and some of my hair out. I instinctively jabbed my right elbow behind me, catching my assailant in the ribs.

I heard a muffled grunt and his grip disappeared altogether.

I whirled around and, crouching slightly, put my fists up in the self-defense pose Brendan and kickboxing had taught me.

Standing a few feet away from me was the hooded figure, his right hand resting slightly on his abdomen, his shoulders rising as he panted from the struggle. He—or she, it was hard to tell—was shorter than I had first noticed. Definitely wasn’t Anthony, whose massive size eclipsed Brendan’s six-foot frame. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t behind this.

The thin figure had some kind of black silk mask covering his face underneath a nondescript, bulky black pullover hoodie. A silver pentagram and another charm I didn’t recognize peeked from under the blackout mask, hanging from a thin, roped band. Baggy black jeans and black leather lace-up boots completed the look. I almost expected cloven hooves. The normal attire—and the fact that his hand hovered over his abdomen, where I had elbowed him—were almost comforting; at least I knew this monster was human. That I could hurt him. That I did hurt him.

“What do you want?” I growled, trying to make my voice sound menacing in spite of my terror. I searched the black figure for some kind of identifying mark. Some telltale sign. Hell, even just knowing what gender would have been helpful.

“What do you want?” I shouted again, taking a threatening step forward as I cocked my right fist back, searching the black hole where a face should be for a target. As I advanced, he stepped back a little, and I felt emboldened.

I reared my fist back and slammed it into what I assumed was the right side of the face. The head snapped back and black-gloved hands flew up as he—I assume a he—staggered back a few steps. I took a step forward—push him, Emma. Just knock him down and then run—but he reached his right hand behind him to quickly pull something from the back of his belt.

The hooded figure shook his head back and forth, slowly, like he was shaming me. He raised his shaky right hand high, and the sun glinted on what he held through the dappled light.

I knew how to throw a punch. I knew how to dodge a punch.

But I had no idea what to do with the silver blade that the shadowy figure held above his head. His shoulders raised up and down with exertion as his black-gloved hand flipped the handle so the blade now faced downward. The better to stab you with, my dear.

“This doesn’t have to be so hard,” a muffled voice said, and I gasped at how, well, human it sounded. And oddly false, like it was deliberately brought down a pitch. Almost…female? No…

“Just let me cut you once, Emma.”

I fought my body’s urge to lock in fear that this psycho knew my name. And said it with such disgust. Instead I screamed loudly, trying to attract attention as I shuffled a few paces back, but my hooded assailant mirrored my movements.