Ferocious Flea Market Dragons, page 6
“How did you learn it?” I asked to buy myself some time to consider.
Grandma’s movements stilled. She drew a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
“I haven’t got much else to do.”
“No, you don’t,” she replied. “I wish I could say it was like those dramas I watch. You know, the ones where a spunky heroine slips through the door to a hidden world of magic and mystery, but it wasn’t.
“It all started when I was visiting my aunt Lada for the spring.” Grandma’s face grew wistful. “Her first baby was coming, and Mama didn’t want her to be alone. Not that my aunt needed it. Back then women birthed their babies, then they strapped the babe to their chest and worked the fields, but that’s not what I should point out. It was how I’d found her. When I was crossing the fallow barley field near their house, I heard breaking glass and saw my uncle storming out. He had fire in his eyes and clenched fists. I’d never seen him like that before—he’d always been kind to my family. And yet, when I walked in, I was shocked to see Aunt Lada wiping away blood from a split lip. She’d already started to heal, but even I could see where he’d punched her.”
“Your uncle beat her?” I breathed. “Why?”
“He was a bitter man. His father had abused his brothers.” She gave me a long look. “It was different back then and your aunt told me to never tell anyone.”
“I can imagine it was difficult—wait, how did you learn old magic?”
Grandma gave me a sly smile. “I was getting to that. Not long after I’d arrived, I happened to discover Aunt Lada practicing old magic.” Grandma chuckled. “Even back then, it was forbidden, but that morning I heard her whispering words over the porridge she gave uncle. The man never complained about the taste, only about his aching joints as he worked. As February turned to April, he started to limp. By the time my aunt’s sweet boy was born, my uncle was bedridden.”
“She poisoned him?”
“I couldn’t believe it either. I’d wake up in the morning, and I heard her using old magic as if it were nothing. She cooked her food without hauling firewood, mended her clothes without needles. Plowed and planted seeds in her fields. It was breathtaking to see—she just made everything look easy.” Grandma giggled. “One day, while Aunt Lada slept-in, I got up early and decided to help. I stooped before the fire like a thief in the night and tried to cast my first spell. I’m sure you can guess how it went.”
My first-time summoning fire in Tamara’s kitchen came to mind and I laughed. After learning the words to cast water spells, I’d moved on to fire and blew up an old piece of toast.
Grandma continued. “I blasted a hole through the hearth and set the trees behind the house on fire.”
I busted out laughing and Grandma joined me.
“Us Lasovskaya girls know how to pack a punch.” I told her about my mishap with fire.
“After my aunt fixed the house while I held the baby, I expected her to punish me, but she asked me what I knew instead. She was quite surprised to learn I’d remembered everything.” Grandma tapped her head and gave me a conspiratory grin. “The women in our family, minus your mother, have a knack for memorization.”
“Tamara told me something similar. She said, ‘Memory is a tricky game, and when it comes to knowing things that can potentially save your life, you either know it or you don’t.’”
“She’s right. The words are the first step.” Grandma murmured words under her breath. A breeze rustled the trees, then swept across the pond. The wind picked up strands of Grandma’s hair and braided them. Once the last tendril of hair was in place, she added, “Belief is the second. Are you ready to learn more?”
“So I can make more trouble?” I asked with a laugh.
“No, but you’ll be able to never become one of Diana’s hunting dogs again.”
I couldn’t deny the stern expression on her face, so I nodded.
“Then let’s begin. We’ll start small.” Grandma touched the back of her right hand with her left one. “I’ll speak these words twice, and you will mark and remember them.”
Grandma spoke seven words—far more than most of the spells I knew. When she was done, she presented the reddish fur on the back of her palm. “Now it’s your turn.”
I glanced at my fur-free hands as anxiety touched my senses. I could almost imagine myself standing in Tamara’s kitchen again. The dark-haired, middle-aged woman had stood over the double sink and taught me fire spells.
After a quick prayer I wouldn’t change my hand into a toilet plunger, I recited the spell. I let the words glide across my tongue. A tingle spread across my skin, like a fingertip circling the surface, but nothing happened. I was close. So wonderfully close. I spoke again, but this time with urgency. Finally, the telltale scent of ozone crossed my nose.
After all that work, I managed to sprout a mangy looking, single patch of red fur.
Grandma leaned closer to peer at my handiwork, but we both knew I’d messed up.
“Not bad,” she murmured.
“It looks like a rabid red panda,” I blurted out.
“Kind of.” She whispered the words again and tapped my hand. The patch disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Grandma added, “It’s your first time doing this spell and you even channeled the power without hurting yourself. Baby steps, my vnuchka. With the mistakes you’ve made in the past, you may not believe in yourself, my granddaughter, but I do. I always will.”
Chapter Ten
My life and death lessons with magic didn’t begin on that fateful night I’d seen Grandma use old magic firsthand. Oh no, when you dealt with the supernatural world every day, the lessons came early. Mine arrived when I spent the afternoon at my good friend Jennifer McGuffin’s house. Since both of our dads worked as machinists at a factory near town, it was easy for us to hangout and have her dad or mine drop me off before bedtime.
On that particular Friday thirteen years ago, we’d walked home from middle school together. As eighth graders, we were looking forward to high school next year and the cuter—albeit not so mature—boys.
“What are you doing this summer?” Jenn asked.
“I have to go to Camp Harold,” I grumbled. Every attempt I’d made to appear normal like other werewolf kids had failed, so my parents had warned me about getting shipped off.
“There’s nothing you can say to change my mind. It’s for the best,” Mom had said.
Dad had added, “Listen to your mother. You’ll be normal in no time.”
Normal, huh?
“That sucks,” Jenn said. “My cousin had to go to one of those nymph camps outside of Atlantic City. Said she hated it.”
As we trudged through a back alley to Jenn’s house, I considered what I’d have to do to avoid going. Dad had already made the down payment for registration and Grandma’s protests hadn’t worked. My quirky behaviors—from washing my hands too often to obsessing over trivial things –had gone on long enough. A couple weeks of roughing it in a tent and doing trust falls with my peers was just what the doctor ordered.
“I want to stay here and finish our project,” I said firmly.
“At the rate we’re going, we should have that birdhouse done before school ends.”
The thing was, I didn’t want to be done. Being done meant Jenn didn’t have an excuse to invite me over every weekend. Perhaps I’d hoped Jenn’s family would adopt me and I wouldn’t have to deal with that stupid camp.
Unfortunately, as we arrived at Jenn’s house, nobody jumped out and declared that I was their long-lost child.
The house was quiet since nobody was home yet. Both of her parents worked at the factory. Jenn and I abandoned our shoes in the living room. The first time I’d walked in here, I found it peculiar that the TV wasn’t left on and there weren’t any snacks to eat in the kitchen. Jenn’s mother was a brownie, yet she kept a human’s home. The place had a cozy couch set from a nearby furniture outlet, family photos stylishly arranged like the ones in magazines, and the sink never had dirty dishes in it.
“You want some fairy snacks?” Jenn asked.
“No thanks.” Those things tasted amazing, but the last time I ate one, I had gas for days.
Jenn plodded up the steps and I hurried after her. The rooms up here were just as showroom worthy as the downstairs. Jenn’s room smelled like someone had doused the place in fabric softener. My nose wrinkled at the scent as my gaze swept over her wrinkle-free paisley print bedspread and her organized desk. If I weren’t mistaken, each pencil was arranged in a perfect fan. I snorted. My uncle Boris would say those perfectly sharpened pencil tips could be used as a shiv in an emergency.
“Do you guys have maids or something?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Kinda.” She gave a half-shrug. “Mom said our kin takes care of it.”
“Kin?”
“We’re Scottish and Grandpa brought over some brownies from the Old Lands.” She shrugged as if everybody did that. “I never see them, so I don’t care.”
Jenn fetched our project from a shelf above the desk. Our burgundy birdhouse—now adorned with intricate, white-colored swirls—was much prettier than the yawn-inducing ones we made in shop class.
“I think we should add a strip of fairies and wolves on the lower half of the house,” she suggested.
Now that would eat up a lot of time. “Great idea.”
She ran her finger along the spot. “The fairies should have knives, and the wolves should have sharp bloody teeth.”
My gaze flicked in her direction, but I said nothing. If I lived in a sunshine-high-on-life household like this one, I might’ve clung to morbid things too.
“I’ll get the paint.” Jenn handed me a bright orange plastic cup. “Can you get some water?”
“Sure.”
We usually painted outside, but it was way too windy today. Jenn arranged a paint tarp on the floor while I headed to the upstairs bathroom.
Except for the hum of the air conditioner, the house was deathly silent as I headed to the bathroom. I’d never been in this room before. We usually worked outside or in the dining room. Just like Jenn’s bedroom, the bathroom boasted shiny surfaces, along with pearl square tiles. I had to give it to Jenn’s mom. At least, she knew the right fabric to use for hand towels.
I approached the sink and placed my hand on the faucet handle to turn it, but I noticed something strange. There was a dim light coming out of the medicine cabinet. Faint whispers filtered out from within.
Now that’s weird as hell.
Usually, or perhaps I should say most of the time, I minded my own business. But it wasn’t every day you spotted what looked like a bedside lamp shining out of the corner of a medicine cabinet. Unable to resist, I reached for the corner.
What the hell did they have living in there?
The moment my hand touched the cold metal along the edge, the bathroom lights went out. I immediately backed up as a growl circled in the back of my throat. Even the light emanating from the medicine cabinet was gone. I scrambled backward, hoping for my back to hit the door, but I just kept moving. Step after step. The whispers grew louder until I could understand them.
A high-pitched voice near my ear said, “So dirty.”
Another voice, far too close to the top of my head, added, “Filthy, filthy, wolf. You don’t belong here.”
“Please leave me alone,” I mumbled.
“We should fillet you until we see the white of your bones,” a third deep voice added with a chuckle.
I shuddered.
“We’ll bleed you good for soiling our home.” A sharp sting raked across my shoulder blade, then another painful scratch ran down the back of my ear.
“Jenn?” No one answered me.
I turned around and bolted. My footsteps made no sound. The air conditioner’s hum had long faded. No matter how hard I ran, the scratches kept coming on my forehead and on the back of my hands. The stings were short-lived at first, then grew in intensity as the tiny, invisible blades cut deeper.
When one of my attackers sliced the skin right below my left eye, I stooped to cover my head. I was probably gonna die in a bathroom. It couldn’t get any worse than that.
I wasn’t sure how long I protected myself, but the wolf writhing under my skin nipped at me to act. Its anger grew until its rage pulsed within me. My claws lengthened from my fingertips, and the growl growing in my chest deepened. Even if I couldn’t see this enemy, I’d put up a fight. I stood again and clawed at the darkness.
Laughter erupted from everywhere. “Does the dirty wolf want to fight?”
“I’m not dirty,” I replied. “Before you judge anyone, what do you have to say for yourselves? Show me what you look like first.”
The chuckling cut off. “Does this rabid dog wish to see us?” the high-pitched voice said.
The second voice said, “The filthy creature will pay after we show them.”
A white light flared to my left. It was so bright I had to briefly turn away until it dimmed. What I found surprised me. It wasn’t three brownies but one. The grubby looking fellow stood as high as my waist and wore dark brown overalls and shiny boots. Tufts of his white hair were shorn close to his scalp. The brownie’s skin was so pale, I could make out the blue veins scattered across his wrinkled cheeks.
“Can you see me now?” He spoke with a rough Scottish burr.
The back of my legs tensed up to attack, but what good would that do since I was in his domain. He had all the power here. I’d have to set myself free.
“I highly doubt I’m dirty,” I said. “I want proof.”
Now that had taken the brownie aback. “Well,” he mumbled. “Your clothes are dirty.”
“By what definition? I had gym today, but I showered afterward.”
His frown deepened. “Your hands are filthy. I could tell when you picked up the cup.”
I folded my arms, not wanting to go there. “My hands are clean.”
“Oh, really now.” His dark brown eyebrows rose in disbelief.
I opened my mouth with a saucy retort but couldn’t force myself to lie. I recalled—with vivid clarity—everything that set me off today: the banister at school, the slimy basketballs during gym, and even the disgusting drinking fountains.
Finally, I presented my palms and said, “I washed my hands four times this afternoon.”
He gave me, then my outstretched hands, a long look as if he finally saw me.
“At least you’re cleaner than the McGuffin fledgling,” he admitted.
He must’ve been referring to Jenn. My friend walked about without a care. If she didn’t have Cheeto crumbs on her shirt or pencil smudges on her wrist, you’d suspect that she was a carefree person, but she was like everybody else. Nice and normal. Unlike me.
My minor wounds had already started to heal, but I wasn’t done with the brownie.
“You better set me free. I mean it,” I said firmly. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Jenn’s mom what you did to me.”
“And she’ll do what?”
He had a point there. Jenn’s mom tolerated this mess.
“Then I’ll come back with my pack,” I warned, “and we’ll mark this house over and over again. How about some werewolf excrement to brighten up your day? My little brother sure would get a kick out of that.”
The bathroom lights switched on again. I was standing in the middle of the bathroom with the filler orange cup in my hand. The tiny light underneath the medicine cabinet switched off with an audible click.
Instead of standing there like a fool, I frowned at my reflection in the mirror and returned to Jenn’s room. Of course, my friend hadn’t heard a thing. She kept humming to herself while she set up the tiny containers of paint. I ran my fingertips along my cheek to find the scratches had healed up already. The one on the back of my leg would take a lot longer, but Jenn didn’t need to know that.
“Can we do this at my house?” I managed to say. The confidence I’d had when I’d confronted the brownie had leaped out the window, rolled across the lawn, and was now halfway to the river.
She glanced up at me. “Something wrong?”
Apparently, she hadn’t heard me running a marathon around her bathroom. “Your kin just used me as a scratching post.”
Her mouth dropped. “Are you serious? It didn’t hurt you too badly, did it?”
I told her what happened. I gotta say, the look of horror on her face made me feel bad.
She packed up the painting supplies. “This is bad. It’s never attacked people before.”
Wow, that poor brownie didn’t even have a name.
“I really should’ve ignored that light,” I admitted, “but that’s no excuse for what happened.”
“No, it isn’t.” She sighed. “My mom’s gonna pitch a fit.”
“How often do you have ‘people’ over?” I used air quotes around the word ‘people,’ then I picked up my backpack. The sooner I got out of here, the better.
“We don’t have humans over. Mom says they’re nasty creatures.”
“Do you really believe that?” I edged toward the doorway.
“Of course not.” I caught the lie. Jenn’s heartbeat picked up and she tried her darndest not to break our gazes.
“Let’s go,” I finally said. I left the room, briefly glancing at the closed door to the bathroom. No matter the prejudices or quirks in this house, I had to be careful from now on. Whether I was normal or not, I had to be brave.
Now that I lay next to Thorn to rest for the night, I couldn’t help but think of that fearful afternoon and my eventual trip to Camp Harold. Even though I’d hated the changes in my routine, I’d survived—and I’d even met my best friend, Aggie. Now all I had to do was save myself from Diana. Just like my confrontation with the brownie, I wouldn’t go down easily. Grandma’s lessons would serve me well.
Chapter Eleven
Even at a time when pups should still be sleeping in their beds, the cabins were loud with the Stravinskys underfoot. I slept off and on, unable to shake the sight of Patty from my head. Yesterday had been an absolute disaster. I needed to speak to Owen again, but now wasn’t a good time. His spouse had died recently.
