Cara Shultz - Spellcaster

He set me back on my feet and I smoothed out my skirt, trying not to roll my eyes at Brendan as we resumed walking.

“Besides,” he continued. “Don’t you remember what happened last time? I can handle him.”

“I remember it very well,” I said quietly. “I remember thinking you died when you went barreling off the rocks.”

“I didn’t, though,” he reminded me, sliding an arm around my shoulders. “That’s all behind us.”

“I hope so.” I sighed, looking up at him. “I just worry.”

“You know I feel the same way you do. That night, when I couldn’t find you…” His voice trailed off, and Brendan just kissed me softly on the top of my head. “I understand feeling protective—trust me, I get it,” he added with a humorless laugh. “Just please don’t worry so much that you don’t talk to me or tell me things because you’re trying to protect me or stop me from going off. Even if it comes to some idiot girls running their mouths in a bodega, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed with a small smile. I pulled back from him reluctantly when I felt my phone vibrate in my sweatshirt pocket.

Where R U?

“Well, I should definitely get upstairs,” I muttered, texting Angelique back. We had just gotten to her family’s apartment building on Tenth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, and I was already running late due to a Latin study session after school. Honestly, a few stolen kisses along the way contributed to my delay; with my new afterschool job in the library, witch classes with Angelique, my weekly kickboxing classes, basketball season in full swing—and, of course, SAT prep—Brendan and I hadn’t had much time together outside of school. I’d missed him.

Still, Angelique had insisted that we have a lesson today. She and Brendan weren’t exactly best friends—or friends at all, for that matter. She had dismissed him as an overprivileged rich jock; he had written her off as a self-important, bratty witch. Well, they were both right about one thing: Brendan was rich, and Angelique was a witch. She came from a family of witches, actually. She was also a burgeoning empath—she could sense people’s emotions. So far, her talent was unpredictable, but getting stronger every day: some days she could sense everything—she was in tune with the world. Other days, nothing at all. So I helped Angelique cultivate her empath skills, and Angelique helped me develop my newly discovered abilities as a born witch.

But after a successful initial run of spells, all I’d done in the past month was create some very smelly potions—one of which burned a hole in Angelique’s rug—and levitate a yellow highlighter. And that was only for a few seconds. Angelique kept telling me the key was controlling my emotions, but I’d either get too frustrated when something didn’t work or too excited when it did and screw it up—badly. Hence the hole in the rug.

“So what was so important that you had to have witch class today? Are you still—what, spellblocked? Witch’s block? What’s the magic equivalent of writer’s block?” Brendan asked, arching one black eyebrow as he walked me up the concrete steps framing the plaza surrounding Angelique’s apartment building. Although he’d initially balked at the idea of me being a witch, after the fight, Brendan was all for anything I could do to protect myself—be it the pepper spray he bought me or something magical in nature. He even taught me the kind of fighting I wasn’t going to pick up in my Beginner’s Kickboxing class—all the dirty, street fighting tricks he’d learned over the years. But we found out the hard way that I had a pretty good right hook when he got, um, a little distracted during one lesson. I’d apologized a billion times, but Brendan assured me it wasn’t his first bloody nose, and likely wouldn’t be his last. I just had to promise to stop wearing low-cut tank tops when we sparred.

“Witch’s block is a good term for it—and yes, I’m still witch blocked like crazy.” I sighed, running my hands through my hair and tugging at the strands. “I can’t seem to focus on anything. It’s killing me. I don’t know if I should just give it up, or what.”

“You’ll get there,” he said supportively, kissing me on my forehead before tilting my chin up to steal another kiss.

“Nice try! Stop trying to make me later than I already am,” I said, pushing him away with a laugh.

“You’re always late. To everything. And you’re here already. So what’s another ten minutes?” Brendan argued, trying to slide his arms around me again.

“Thanks a lot,” I replied sarcastically, using his joke about my tardiness as an excuse to pull myself from his arms, however unwillingly. “I’m being rude. Besides, spring break starts Wednesday, and we have all day together tomorrow.” We were both taking art history this semester, and tomorrow was an end-of-week class trip to the Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s medieval branch in upper Manhattan.

“Fine.” Brendan sighed in mock annoyance, releasing me from his grasp. “Have fun. Play nice with the other witches.”

I promised him I’d text him when I got home, and I headed up the concrete steps into Angelique’s apartment building.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late,” I apologized as soon as Angelique answered the door. “I had Latin review after school.”

“Yeah, Latin review is why your lip balm is smudged,” Angelique said tersely as she shut the door behind me. “That first declension really screws up your makeup—as if I needed lip gloss all over your face to know what you’ve been doing.” She shuddered in a melodramatic way.

“Empath skills rearing their ugly head?” I asked as I sheepishly wiped my mouth with the heel of my hand. I felt like Aunt Christine had just caught me making out with Brendan.

“Big time.” Angelique grimaced as if she’d just smelled something gross. I guiltily hung my head as I followed my friend down the apartment’s cheerful, yellow-painted hallway to her more dramatically decorated bedroom.

“But then again, you seem to have that effect on me,” she added dryly, and I ducked my head a little more. Angelique had always been able to read auras, but meeting a fellow witch like me had somehow triggered her latent empath talent. Although she was still learning how to harness it, Angelique could always read me crystal clear. “It’s like your emotions are in HD,” she’d complained. That’s how I was able to help her develop her talent—I’d think of something that evoked a strong emotion, she’d guess what I was feeling. We were like a really bizarre supernatural game show—Stump the Empath.

“How come your hair is wet?” I changed the subject, noticing that Angelique’s damp, jet-black hair was leaving little wet spots all over her oversize, comfy-looking burgundy T-shirt. She was naturally a blonde, but dyed it dark, save for the occasional colorful streak.

“Oh, my cousin Miranda’s on spring break from college, so she came over and helped me touch up my roots,” she replied, pointing to her scalp with a charcoal-gray-painted nail. “We added a few streaks of purple and blue in.”

Angelique loved being a witch—and she positively adored dressing the part. Her Goth attire hadn’t won her many friends at Vincent Academy, where the aesthetic was more Chanel than Charmed. But her flair for the dramatic was one of my favorite things about her. The rest of her witchy family—the ones I’d met, at least—didn’t share her darker sense of style.

“So what are we working on today?” I asked, kicking off my beloved, but ridiculously scuffed, Mary Janes. After taking a swig from my still-cold iced tea, I sat cross-legged on Angelique’s bed, fighting the desire to just sprawl out on it and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the purple walls. She had the most comfortable bed in the world—thick feather bed topped with a black velvet comforter. It was like lying in a gigantic plush marshmallow.