Spell Fire (6 page)

I have great hearing. So unless "Mommy" had used telepathy, she was lying.

"Read to me," a little voice pleaded. A picture book held by a small, pale hand pushed into my field of vision.

"Look at the pictures, Isis. Mommy's reading her own book."

So not.

The skank threw me a what-are-you-staring-at glare.

Whatever.
I leaned forward and extracted
The Scarlet Letter
from my backpack. I needed to write an expository essay on it for my Lit final. I hadn't decided whether to delve into Puritan theology or gender issues.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunkthunkthunk—

Forget the Fasten Seat Belt sign!
I unclicked the belt and threw it down like a gauntlet. Channeling Gong Li and Maggie Q, I stood and whirled, my patented chill-or-be-killed look blazing like lasers from my eyes. Enraged, I faced my tormentor.

She glanced up at me, her blue eyes wide with fear.

I took in Isis's ratty pink sweater, her worn purple princess dress that reached the tops of her lacy ankle socks, and her sparkly red
Wizard of Oz
shoes.

The shoes stopped me.

Isis nervously clicked her feet together. She must have done it a lot, because most of the sparkles had fallen off where the shoes rubbed together. White streaks marred the patent leather. My mind rocketed back to when my parents had picked me up from Sophia's seventh birthday party. Outside her foster parents' house, Mom had tried to take the car key away from Dad, claiming he was too drunk to drive. As their voices rose, the German shepherd across the street had started barking. Sophia pushed open the screen door. My cheeks heated as I remembered her standing on the porch next to a dead hydrangea in a cracked clay pot. The scene played like a black-and-white movie in my brain. The only pop of color was the red Dorothy shoes I had given Sophia for her birthday.

I sat back down.

A while later, the captain turned off the seat belt sign. The flight attendants rattled by with the beverage cart. Pretzels and orange juice kept Isis busy for another fifteen minutes. I gulped Sprite to calm my nerves. After the crew collected the trash, the tray table behind me pressed into my back, and I heard it click into position. I tried to concentrate on
The Scarlet Letter
so I wouldn't think about Mom and Dad.

A small hand grasped the top of my seat and warm breath puffed against my head. The distinct odor of unwashed child cascaded over the seat.

Isis.
Orange cheese puffs or fish crackers had stained her fingers. I scooted as far from her grubby hands as possible. Green snot dripped from her nose.
Doesn't her mother carry baby wipes and tissues?
If I'd had my umbrella I would have raised it, bad luck or not. This was part of why I wanted to be an astrophysicist. Deep space meant silence and no germs. No kids. No warring parents. No snot.

Fortunately, the Fasten Seat Belt sign dinged again, and a crewmember told Isis to sit down. I grabbed an antiseptic wipe from my handbag and tore open its packaging. The college-aged girl in the aisle seat sniffed at the sharp odor and lowered her novel. She scooted away from me as I scrubbed the orange stain where Isis's hands had been. The flight attendant made a final pass with a white garbage bag, and I pitched the wipe into it.

Before we landed, I wriggled into my Athenian Academy hoodie. As soon as we touched down and the Fasten Seat Belt sign disappeared, I hoisted my backpack, cut ahead, and hustled to the front of the plane as quickly as possible. No way was I going to meet my relatives with orange fingerprints or green snot smeared on my back.

A travel website had rated the Palm Springs International Airport as one of the least stressful airports in United States. Good thing, because my heart pounded as though it were backing one of Jazmin's guitar solos. My veins jumped with excess adrenaline, and I was one incident away from a full-blown panic attack.

The baggage claim signs led me outside into the night where a surprisingly cold wind threatened to knock me off my zebra print stilettos. I zipped up my hoodie, skirted the courtyard tables and chairs, and headed for the curved WELCOME TO PALM SPRINGS sign near the escalators.

Isis must have been stuck on the ramp or ducked into the bathroom with her mother.
Good riddance.
A gay couple stopped in front of me and opened their dog carrier, releasing a bright-eyed Bichon Frise. Tail wagging, it bee-lined for a potato chip on the concrete beneath one of the white outdoor tables.

There's nothing to worry about. I can handle this.

My mind blanked. I couldn't remember what Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun looked like. Since Dad held them in such low regard, Mom didn't display their photo on the Steinway or anywhere else. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen my aunt and uncle in the flesh. Which was a little disconcerting, the more I thought about it. Aunt Terra probably resembled an older version of Mom, but without the three-carat diamond, Junior League wardrobe, and frown lines. Maybe she had a visible aura or carried a light saber. I latched onto the one memory I had of Uncle Esmun — his voice. For some reason, I remembered it had made me smile.

One thing I knew for sure, Terra and Esmun didn't have any children. I counted that as a major plus, especially after my encounter with Isis.

I remembered Dad remarking once in the snarky vice-president-of-a-large investment-firm tone he sometimes used, "I can't believe Esmun meditates for an hour. Where I come from, we call that a nap." Maybe I needed to look for a guy dressed in a saffron toga or yoga pants and a turban. I didn't know. The diversity assembly at school had covered a lot of different race, gender, and religious issues, but somehow skipped pagans, shamans, and light warriors.
I'll have to take it up with the dean when I return.

The Bichon, with its, like, six-foot leash, cut me off. I barely caught myself before I tumbled down the escalator. I shot its owners a death glare. The cold wind seeped through my hoodie and scoured my face. I waited for the dog to be wrangled into its owner's arms before I teetered onto the escalator. Maybe I needed to rethink stilettos as travel shoes.

Stepping onto the lower level concourse, I braced for major mortification. Please, I silently prayed,
don't let my relatives look like escapees from a Star Trek convention.
With dread snowboarding my stomach, I summoned my best Junior Cotillion game face and strode into the meet and greet area, which was blissfully indoors. At least I was out of the wind.

None of the women in the ragtag groups waiting for new arrivals bore even a faint resemblance to my mother. No one held a sign with my name on it. An abandonment shockwave shuddered through my body. Maybe Mom had forgotten to tell Aunt Terra my arrival time. I fought back a rush of hot tears by pressing the cuff of my sweatshirt against my eyes. Mocha eyeliner stained the dove-colored fabric.
Great.

The public address system announced we were on high security alert. Remembering Mom had given me Aunt Terra's cell number, I reached for my phone. Reality slammed me and a fresh tsunami of despair constricted my chest and throat. The urge to scrub my hands ricocheted up and down my nerves. I scanned the perimeter walls, searching for a restroom sign, torn between the compulsion to wash and the fear I'd miss my relatives if I disappeared into the bathroom.

"Ainslie?"

I whirled and stared into eyes the same pale blue as my mother's. They were set in a heart-shaped face and framed by bangs and long, windblown raven-and-silver hair. Relief flooded me. "Aunt Terra?"

I was rewarded with a gleeful smile and a tight, lavender-scented embrace.

"So sorry we're late!" she said.

"We always be on Pagan Time," the man beside her said. His melodious accent reminded me of our family vacation in Jamaica two years ago. The noose around my heart loosened. The overhead lights highlighted his nest of short dreadlocks. His black pullover top and faded jeans accentuated his caramel skin and medium build.

"My last client ran late, which made me late, then there was an accident on Vista Chino…" Aunt Terra's voice drifted off as though she had run out of steam.

"But we be here now." Her companion's dark eyes twinkled. "You probably don't remember us."

"Honey, she was three the last time we saw her."

"I be your Uncle Esmun." He flung his arms wide, engulfing me in a quick, incense-cloud hug before he released me. "Let me take your bag."

"Thanks." I shrugged out of my bulging backpack, grateful to unload at least one burden.

"Mercy, girl. What's in here?" He radiated calm and good will. I wished I could bottle it and sprinkle the essence over my parents — and me.

"Textbooks. I have to take makeup finals when I get back." Resentment and self-pity crept into my voice.

"Bummer." He cranked up his invisible Everything-Will-Be-Fine mojo, and the tension seeped out of my shoulders.

"What you be now, a junior?" he asked.

"A sophomore. I'm fifteen."

"Where has the time gone?" Aunt Terra shook her head. Her earrings, alternating clear and purple crystals, swung against her jaw. She appeared perfectly normal, even pretty, dressed in a soft purple blouse and muted floral skirt.

"The important thing is your parents have finally allowed you a visit." Uncle Esmun's eyes rolled heavenward as if his prayers had been answered.

"Thank the Goddess," my aunt added.

I almost forgot Mom and Dad had dumped me on them.

Uncle Esmun shouldered my backpack. Behind him, a blue light flashed and one of the baggage carousels began to move. "Ah, the great beast roars to life. Come, niece, lead us to your luggage!" He raised his arm as if brandishing a sword.

I am so not in Lamorinda anymore.

Chapter Seven

Within seven minutes, we had loaded my designer suitcase into the back seat of an ancient Datsun whose rear bumper was held in place with chicken wire.

"Good thing you're skinny," Aunt Terra said as I squished in beside my luggage. Sand on the floor mats ground beneath my heels. I placed my backpack and handbag on my lap and worked the stained seat belt beneath them.

Seconds later, it seemed, we arrived at the condo, which was so close to the airport I heard jets taking off and landing. Uncle Esmun unlocked a mesh metal door, and we entered a small courtyard. White fairy lights woven through the limbs of a ficus tree cast soft light on the Mexican pavers and four-chair patio set. Water cascaded soothingly over a ceramic urn fountain.
Looks normal enough.

Uncle Esmun unlocked the front door and let us in. Once inside, I could tell the place was smaller than the first floor of my house. There were no stairs. None. Not even a front door step. My legs twitched with confusion.

I searched for any signs of shaman or light warrior weirdness. The bronze dragon perched on a painted Asian chest in the small entry appeared normal enough. Even our interior designer might have approved. A dining room and kitchen smaller than my walk-in closet were off to the right. No rattlesnake wands or light sabers on the counter.

"We went with high vibration colors," Aunt Terra explained when she caught me staring at the bright orchid wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room.

"It's cheery." And a far cry from the subdued palette our designer had chosen for the mansion. I had no idea what she meant by "high vibration," but was tempted to don my sunglasses. "I like it."

Aunt Terra's smile reminded me of Mom's before my mental illness had torn through our lives like a derailed hazardous waste transport train.

The two battered black chairs, a curved sofa the color of a mourning dove, and a gray-and-mauve marble coffee table had a worn, consignment store feel. No television, which was a little worrisome. Instead, I spied another altar, assembled at knee level on a sun-bleached bench made of pitted wood. I drifted toward it, breathing in the cinnamon and sandalwood scents emanating from a bird's nest threaded with bright silk strands. A small brass dragon stood before a large amethyst geode. A green glass bowl brimming with colorful stones drew me closer. Two necklaces with odd charms snaked around the bird's nest.

None of it seemed sinister, but I planned to do an Internet image search on the charms later, just in case.
Crap. No laptop.
A furtive glance about the room revealed no computer. No Christmas tree. No decorations.

"Our bedroom is over there." Aunt Terra gestured toward a bedroom that shared a wall with the living room.

I gave the tall, wooden staff propped beside the doorframe a second glance. A deer and bear had been burned into its peeling bark. Two feathers, one black and one white with spots, had been attached with shiny copper wire. Strange symbols carved into the wood had been rubbed with something red I sure hoped was paint, not blood.

"Here's the guest bath and your room." Aunt Terra led me to a bathroom and bedroom just off the entry. The bedroom had a sliding glass door facing the enclosed entry patio. Wind seeped in along the edges and rattled the screen against the glass. The vertical blinds clattered.

The framed photomontage on the short wall to the left of the sliding glass door caught my eye. "You framed every Christmas card photo of me?"

"Of course we did." Aunt Terra put my suitcase on the nearest twin bed. I glanced at our images reflected in the mirrored closet doors. With my heels, we were the same height, though she appeared more feminine in her long, flowing skirt and crystal bracelets and earrings. I resembled a teen-celebrity-gone-wrong mug shot. Half of my honey-blond hair appeared to have been torn from its scrunchie by rabid raptors. The rest hung in a limp ponytail between my shoulders. Smeared eyeliner gave my gray eyes a drug addict look. And I was pretty sure I stunk of stale airplane air and jet fuel. I hoped Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun didn't think I was a complete loser.

"Are you hungry?" Aunt Terra asked. "Did you eat before your flight?"