Cara Shultz - Spellcaster

“I’ve been feeling…I don’t know how to describe it. Almost like I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack at all times,” she said, getting that faraway look she always got when she explained what it’s like for her to read emotions and people. “You know when you’re watching a horror movie, and you’re waiting for the killer to pop out? And the music is building? Well, I feel like the music is building. And it’s getting louder and louder, but the killer hasn’t popped out yet.”

She rubbed her ear, as if she were trying to shake the ominous sound out. “I just feel very unsettled. The last time I was anxious like this…” she paused to look up at me, and when she continued, her voice was very low “…it was right before the winter formal. But I just thought I was feeling sick because of the flu—I’d never felt like this before,” she explained quickly. “How was I supposed to know I was sensing any kind of danger? I don’t know if this is an empath thing, or just me being in tune with the universe, but I figured I’d better pay attention.”

“You had the same feeling back then?” I whispered, and Angelique nodded, curling a finger around a drying lock of Tiffany-blue hair. “When I put two and two together—I had the same creepy feeling back then. I’d hate to think I was ignoring some kind of warning now, too.”

Angelique flopped on her bed, next to Hadrian’s Medieval Legends.

“There’s a lot in here,” Angelique confessed, flipping through the pages absentmindedly. “I’m not even halfway through it. The way it’s written isn’t consistent. Even the setting of the stories change—one’s in the 1800s, another’s medieval. But there are enough stories in here that make me feel like, well, my anxiety has to do with you, obviously.” She dropped the pages and looked at me seriously.

“Emma, someone with the amount of mystical energy you have needs to be a little more careful. And I’m not just talking about Anthony.”

Angelique was not one for any kind of emotional displays—the last time she hugged someone it was probably to give them the Heimlich maneuver—so what she said next floored me.

“Besides, Em, you’re important to me. You don’t know how nice it’s been to have someone I can talk to about this stuff. I haven’t had a witch as a friend in a really long time. Not since freshman year.” She twisted the piles of silver rings on her fingers as she spoke.

“Aww, Angelique,” I murmured, pausing my show of affection when she glared at me. I quickly changed the subject. “What do you mean you don’t have anyone to talk to? What about your mom and Miranda and the rest of your family?”

“My mom’s different—I mean, she’s my mom. I can’t talk to her about any spell that she might consider too dangerous, because then she goes all über-momwitch on me,” Angelique complained, studying the hem of her shirt. “I can sometimes talk to Miranda, but she likes to remind me all the time that she’s four years older and soo much more experienced. It’s annoying. ‘I was doing divination with stones while you were still playing with Barbies.’” Angelique affected a high-pitched, nasal voice as she mimicked her cousin’s conceited way of talking.

“You played with Barbies?” I asked, awed. I’d have been less surprised if she told me she played with live grenades. Angelique just gave me a withering look and I shut my mouth.

“Anyway, I had one friend that I could do spells with and talk to about the supernatural, and that didn’t end so well.”

“What do you mean?”

Angelique fidgeted uncomfortably. “She was always a little—how can I put this?—dark. But then, some guy she liked totally used her. We got into a fight because I refused to help her do a love spell on him. She ended up transferring out after freshman year.” She paused, giving me a tight-lipped, grim smile. “It really, really just sucked losing someone I could relate to—over some lame guy, of all things.”

“Who’s the guy? From Vince A?” Not that I was surprised. You’d think they put pheromones in the water fountains, the hump-tastic way people carried on at that place.

“Not important. Besides, he’s pretty much gone,” Angelique said dismissively. “Anyway, I really don’t want to lose you, too—to something worse than some guy. And bonus points, you’re not already a little unbalanced like she was. So let’s just make sure you’re safe.”

“Aw, Angelique…” I began, but she returned to her brisk, businesslike demeanor, grabbing the dress from me and returning to her place on the floor.

“Do you care if I rip a piece off the dress?” she asked. As I was about to give her permission—the thing looked like it’d been through a blender, anyway—she ripped the satin liner from underneath the dress, laying it on the already destroyed throw rug and motioned for me to join her on the floor.

As I sat down, she busied herself, pulling out some candles and a small, round marble canister from her desk drawer.

“What we’re going to do is find out if you’re in any kind of danger, or if there’s anything you need to be watching out for. Some of the stories I’ve read in the book, well, let’s just say that true love is something extremely powerful. Not just for you and Brendan—”

“You don’t have to roll your eyes every time you say his name,” I interrupted her. Angelique gave me a crabby look.

“You and Brendan—” she opened her blue-gray eyes really wide in exaggeration “—could be targets if someone wanted to hurt you, or steal your mystical energy for personal gain. Maybe that’s why I’m freaking. I just can’t help but think that this doom-and-gloom feeling I’m having has to do with you. I mean, I meet you, I start becoming empath-y emo girl. And you’re the only person I know who had a necklace that marked you as someone’s doomed true love. I mean, there’s a lot of mystical flotsam and jetsam around you.”

Reflexively my hands flew up to my neck, where a silver medallion used to sit. My brother, Ethan, had bought it at a garage sale, telling me it seemed like something I’d like. He had been right: I absolutely loved it—it was etched with a medieval crest, and I’d worn it every day, having no idea that it was a magical charm, finding me in all my past lives to identify me as Archer’s reincarnated soul mate. It was lost in the fight with Anthony, disappearing somewhere in the bushes near Belvedere Castle in Central Park. I liked to think it just poofed away, vanishing into thin air. The thing was magical, after all.

“Good point,” I conceded. “Did your senses feel heightened with that ex-friend of yours?”

“At first,” Angelique admitted. “But she got really dark, and we just weren’t on the same wavelength anymore. Regardless, it was never as strong as it’s been with you.”

“Well, maybe what you’re sensing has nothing to do with me,” I said hopefully. “Maybe your neighbors are into something freaky.”

“Oh, they are. I’ve heard them some nights.” She shuddered, a disgusted look on her face. “And that really sucks as an empath, by that way. So let’s hope it’s them.” Angelique crossed her fingers and shook them at me before lighting some rosemary incense—her go-to herb to help her focus. She opened a glass vial and let a few small droplets fall into a marble canister.

“What is that?” I asked, sniffing the fragrant air. “Not the rosemary—but that other thing?”

“Just some lavender to help you calm down and focus,” she said, rolling the canister between her fingers before placing it in my hand.

“These are blessed salt crystals. If you’re in any danger, these will show it.”

“Where do you get this stuff from, anyway?” I pictured her knocking on an unmarked door in some secret back alley. None of the witchcraft shops we’d been to stocked anything this cool—they mostly sold candles and overpriced tarot cards.