Residue (16 page)

Those were the very same words Oscar had used. Once again, the similarities between the families amazed me.

“
You are the one starting it,” hissed Alison.

“
Then I alone will handle it.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds, testing who would admit defeat first. It was Alison, as she spun and marched back. Either because the scene was over now or because they didn’t want to encourage it to continue, the Caldwells quickly went about selecting their tools for the class. Still, I wondered what retaliatory element hex awaited me in the future.

Interestingly, Ms. Boudreaux remained in the corner the entire quarrel, watching with curiosity.

Jameson had taken a stand, countered his family, and he’d done it for a Weatherford. That didn’t go unnoticed. The rest of the class returned to what they were doing but not without shocked, tense expressions or commenting about it in a whisper.

“
So…” He clapped his hands softly. “Which tools should we use first?”

“
Are you sure you’re all right with partnering?” I whispered with a lean forward.

He smiled and leaned in to meet me, whispering in the same manner, “Yes.” He was downplaying what had just happened but I knew he’d face criticism for it from his family. “Maybe we should start with the basics,” he suggested, already skirting me to drop his supplies on the table behind me.

Two students were already using the table, Kendra and Ian. They looked up skeptically first at the Weatherford, me, and then at the Caldwell, him, before going back to assessing their combined supplies. Seeing them react made me wonder if Jameson and I would be ostracized by others, too, and then I deduced they were only concerned about being too close to a fight if one should break out.

“
Mind if we use this table too?” Jameson asked.

“
We promise not to cast on each other,” I added referencing our feuding predicament.

Kendra actually smiled. And Ian retorted with a smile, “Or us, right?”

“
Can’t promise that. Sorry,” I said playfully.

That started a whole banter of teasing insults between the four of us and before long I’d forgotten that the rest of the Caldwells were probably glaring at my back.

By the time our humorous sarcasm dissipated, Jameson and I had laid out our tools across the table, grouping them by type.

“
Incantatio adolebit,” Jameson said under his breath, quickly, as if he didn’t think it would actually work.

My guess turned out to be correct because when one of the candle’s wicks suddenly lit he stood back smugly, gesturing proudly toward it.

“
I’ve been practicing that.” His excited declaration drew laughs from Kendra and Ian, both of whom had advanced far enough in their cast that each of their candles was already lit.

“
Very nice,” I commented, impressed. I certainly couldn’t do that.

“
Now you try,” he insisted.

I shrugged, knowing already that I’d fail since I had no idea what sparked his candle in the first place.

To appear as if I was making a good attempt at it, I bent down and stared at another, unlit, candle. “Incantatio adolebit,” I said quietly.

Nothing happened, of course.

“
You’re worse than me,” Jameson said with a grin.

“
Thanks…”

“
Let’s move on. You might find something that works better for you,” he said hopeful.

We tried simple casts until the class was almost over, laughing at my failed attempts.

At the end, I stood back in a huff. “Jameson, this is the advanced class,” I reminded him. “You all have been practicing for years. You know the tricks.”

He sighed. “They’re not tricks, Jocelyn.”

“
Casts,” I corrected hastily. “Casts, I meant.”

He thought for a moment, his lips curling in and accentuating the scar above his lip. I was temporarily mesmerized by its rugged appeal until he started talking again.

“
Will you try something with me?” he asked tenuously, unsure of my answer.

I shrugged. “What have we got to lose?”

“
Yes, good point,” he said through a laugh before growing serious again. “I’m wondering if we would have any progress if you were to use a skill you have already tapped. Your primary one.” He paused and waited for me to speak. “Which is…” he prompted.

“
Oh, I’m sorry.” I never thought of myself as having a primary skill so I was puzzled for a second. “Uh, my family says it’s healing.”

He blinked at me, surprised. “Really?”

“
Yes. Why?”

“
That’s…That’s a very unique gift.”

It still didn’t mean much to me though.

I had no premonition that my opinion of it would change within the next few minutes.

“
Well, we’ll need something to heal.” He glanced around the room and then leaned in to whisper, “Think anyone will admit to a disease?”

I belted out a laugh, receiving a few looks from the others. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I replied emphatically, “No.”

Containing our amusement, we thought further.

“
We can’t use anything you have,” he muttered.

“
No, I have nothing to cure.”

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t. Healers automatically heal themselves.”

It dawned on me then that this must be the reason why I’ve never been sick, never had a blemish, never suffered any ailments, until the scar. The scar - which I thought had been healed by Nurse Carol’s ointment. If Jameson was correct, she would have given me the ointment as a placebo when it was me healing the scar all along. And I discerned immediately why she would have kept this from me. Because she knew that had she’d told me the truth, I wouldn’t have believed her.

In the recesses of my mind I quickly pieced something together. Glancing at the other Caldwells, I dropped my voice so only Jameson could hear me. “So why do you block your family’s hexes against me than?”

He nodded absentmindedly, only half of his attention on my question and the other half on finding a test case. “Healers aren’t immune to hexes. They’re just capable of healing once they’re afflicted by one.” What he didn’t say specifically, but what I understood through his answer, was that he blocked the hexes because he didn’t want me to suffer for even a second.

He shrugged then, seeming to concede. “I guess it’ll have to be me.”

He pulled up his shirt sleeve, on the same arm where I’d seen his rash, and revealed that the affects of it were still visible. Only now there were fewer spots and they had transformed into pink circles.

“
Jameson,” I breathed. “I’m so sorry.” I didn’t want to bring it up but the rash looked incredibly painful. And it had lasted longer than Charlotte’s hex which told me that Estelle was slightly more powerful - if, of course, it wasn’t just a rash he picked up somewhere.

He shrugged it off. “It’s healing…You’re just going to speed it up.”

“
I am?” I asked, doubtful.

He was undeterred. “The incantation you’ll want to use is - incantatio sana.”

I nodded, feeling miserable already for failing, and I hadn’t even started.

Nonetheless, I closed my eyes and repeated with authority, “Incantatio sana.”

After hearing no sound from Jameson, I repeated it again…and again…and again.

“
Stop,” he said and I opened my eyes to find him shaking his head. “You need to focus. And keep your eyes open. Your energy will direct to wherever it is you’re looking.”

“
Got it.”

I was about to recite the incantation again when he interrupted my concentration.

“
Think…Think of a child who needs surgery. He’s scared. He’s hurting. He’s floating in and out of consciousness because of the pain. He’s sick from the drugs they’ve given him. His body is shaking from the stress. He’s vulnerable, helpless…”

As Jameson continued describing the example, I sensed desperation, a need to help the child, this fictitious child. And then something stirred in me, something deep and powerful, something that had been locked inside, sleeping, but was now rousing.

It was a palpable thing, stretching, expanding, and then suddenly coursing its way up until I felt it in my chest, pressing at my insides. Then it was emitting from my torso, a strong, unstoppable flow of energy releasing outward into the room.

Instinctually, I seized Jameson’s arm, drawing it closer, my eyes locking on his ailment.

I didn’t notice the gasps or the fact that the class was now watching us. I was only aware of the force emanating from within me.

This lasted several seconds until the feeling ran out, like it had run on a tank of gas that was now empty.

Exhausted, I dropped my hand from his to brace it on the table and took in deep breaths, recovering.

The room was silent. No one was working on their castings in hushed whispers. There was no scuffing of tools against the wooden tables. There was nothing.

I looked up and found the remnants of the rash Estelle had cast were gone completely from Jameson’s arm. But something else had happened. The scar above his lip had lessened too. Lifting my head farther, I found Karin’s hair had turned from blonde to brown, her natural shade judging from the color of her eyebrows. Ms. Boudreaux stood straighter. A girl near the door was staring in amazement at her palm muttering, “It’s gone.” The Caldwells no longer had any signs of a rash ever having occurred.

“
What…What just happened?” I asked tentatively.

Jameson, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a rush. “That wasn’t me, Jocelyn. It was you. It came from you.”

“
It was both of you,” Ms. Boudreaux corrected, suddenly standing next to us. “Jameson channeled your core ability, Jocelyn. He enhanced the energy but it was you who produced it.” She was about to turn and head back to her spot in the corner but hesitated. “Thank you.” Then she loosened her limbs and strolled to her seat.

Only then did I understand what had taken place. Jameson and I, together, had healed the entire class.

9 ACCEPTANCE

I’m a witch.

I…am…a…witch. The realization repeated in my head like a constant, blinking light as I lay in bed, unable to sleep.

The house was silent now, Miss Mabelle being the last to make any noise and that had been over an hour ago. Even the soothing blues music someone had been playing in a nearby house had ended.

I was alone with my thoughts now, or just one to be precise.

I am a witch.

Images of pointy hats, black cats, and broomsticks entered my mind but I hadn’t seen a single one of these since arriving in New Orleans, making it more difficult to accept this new found understanding of who I really am. Maybe a cauldron on the stove or a wand stowed away in a drawer would have made it easier on me. There were none of these things here.

The witch world had been hard to swallow because they didn’t appear to be anything other than normal. There was nothing in their clothes or overt behavior that would identify them as having any kind of supernatural ability or sharing a lineage with those who do. As Jameson had told me on the first day I’d arrived, they attempted to hide this secret culture that I unknowingly hailed from.

But it was undeniable to me now. I’d snubbed this fact, the truth about my ability and my ancestry, because there had always been an explanation for the unexplainable. It was an illusion…a hoax…a magic trick.

Tonight had changed all that…

Not only had I seen the results, I’d felt the source of it and it had come from inside me.

And still that rational part in me struggled with its acceptance of this new fate, uttering alternate reasons, contesting the reality of it until I concluded that the truest test, the greatest confirmation, would be to repeat it.

I kicked off the covers and headed downstairs and out to the garden. The moon was full. The crickets chirped a melody broken only by the bellow of a frog. Most importantly, I was alone.

Settling the screen door back in place quietly, I stepped down to the grass and surveyed the backyard. The grass was lush, without a single patch of dryness. The trees were strong and full of leaves. The herb patch was abundant and growing. On the bushes a multitude of fragrant flowers hung, proving their health. There seemed to be only one place that might offer a good test subject…Miss Mabelle’s potting shed.

Crossing the yard left blades of dewy grass on the bottoms of my feet, uncomfortable adhesions that I paid little attention to. There was something of far greater consequence on my mind.

The door was unlocked, thankfully, so I stepped inside and found the light switch. Clay pots, both filled and empty, lined the counter. Gardening tools, all of which were pathetically familiar to me, hung from the walls and were stowed beneath the workbench. But in the back corner, where the light didn’t reach so well, were containers of dying, withered plants.

Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, I moved into the shadow and lifted my hand.

“
Please…” I said under my breath, hoping this worked because it would prove that I wasn’t insane, that my family and those I’d met in this city weren’t completely off their rocker.