I looked to Shayna, who frowned and shook her head, confused. Anger stomped out my remaining patience. “What?”
“Nothing,” Taran snapped. “I told you—”
I held out my hand to silence her. “What happened, Emme?” I asked a little more calmly.
Emme stared down at her small hands. “They were drunk and practically fell out of the stalls. The one with the red hair paused when she caught sight of me. She scowled, like I’d done something to bother her.” Emme sighed. “She staggered toward me and poked me in the arm like I couldn’t possibly be real. ‘What the hell are you?’ she asked. Even in her state she knew I was . . . different. I didn’t answer her and tried to ignore her. She asked me again. When I wouldn’t respond she called me a freak and backed away. Her friend—the witch—was fixing her hair at the mirror. The redhead whispered something to her, and pointed at me. That’s when they both started taunting me.”
“They more than taunted her, Celia.” Taran’s face hardened. “And they called her worse than a freak.”
Emme’s hand cupped Taran’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Taran ripped her hand away. “It’s not okay, Emme.” Her gaze traveled around us. “Everyone recognizes we’re not like them, but those bitches seemed to think they had a free pass to say anything they wanted. When I stepped out of the stall I told them to shut the hell up. They quieted for a moment before they started in on me. I told them to f**k off, and they did. But when I reached for the towel, the redhead snatched it out of my grasp.” Bitter tears leaked out of my tough-as-sin sister. “I won’t put up with the shit we dealt with in school, Ceel. I won’t. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone mistreat Emme.”
Shayna crossed her arms around herself protectively. She leaned back into the seat to stare out at the water, no doubt thinking about the cruelty we’d been forced to endure in our childhood and how it always managed to find its way into our adult lives. Emme had returned to analyzing the creases of her small palms. Taran just fumed, hard enough for a spark of blue and white to sizzle above her dark hair. I paused, taking a moment to settle my beast and the whirlwind of emotions spinning my insides. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe it was all about the damn paper towel?”
“I didn’t think you needed reminding what freaks we all are.” Taran gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “Especially seeing how you’ve had a harder time than the rest of us.”
Harder time? I guess she had a point. I was nine when our parents were killed—too young to take on the parental role suddenly thrust into my arms. And yet I had.
Although we were all born “different,” my sisters’ powers didn’t manifest until puberty. I’d obtained added strength and my first change at age eight. Looking back, it was probably God’s way of assigning me as their protector. After all, the spell our wicked aunt cast upon our mother for marrying outside her race condemned our parents with short lives—a curse which came to fruition the night our home was burglarized. The other part of the curse? The one meant to damn any child conceived from their union with sickness and frailty? That one somehow backfired and made us strong, and so unique; nothing like us existed on earth.
I covered my face with my hands trying to push away the memories of our parent’s deaths . . . and everything that followed their passing.
I’m not sure how many more breaths I took before I could angle the car back onto the road. I barely saw the street, the lake, the wall of thick pines hugging the edge of the road, or the lights of the oncoming cars. All that clouded my vision were the nameless faces of the kids who had been mean to us. With the exception of our parents, then our foster mother, the adults we’d encountered hadn’t been any nicer. Taran was right, we were freaks . . . ones who had never fit in. And having a last name like Wird gave others the pleasure of nicknaming us the “weird girls”. The moniker followed us no matter where we ended up. I hated school, and spent most of my afternoons in detention for fighting those who targeted my sisters. Funny how in some ways I remained that kid in detention, seething and exhausted, knowing another day of trouble lay ahead with no end in sight.
None of us spoke the rest of the way to our new home in Dollar Point. I pulled into the driveway and stared at the beautiful blue custom Colonial. We thought we’d finally found a home where we could be safe. Had we been fools to believe it?
I cut the engine. No one moved or made an effort to get out. In the silence, a multitude of worst-case scenarios played like a movie trailer in my mind. Taran twisted her body to face me. “You would have done the same, Celia,” she said. Her voice grew more and more defensive. “And you damn well know it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But there’s one difference.”
Taran glared. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”
I met Taran’s stare. Although she knew I’d never hurt her, she still feared the power of my beast. She dropped her gaze but not her attitude. I sighed. “Because in high school, the homecoming queen would have retaliated with snide remarks, not magic. You pissed off a witch, Taran. That means her entire coven will come after us.”
Chapter Three
My bare feet padded along the cold driveway. I adjusted my thick white cotton robe before bending over and retrieving the morning paper. Right smack on the front page was a picture highlighting our oh-so-thrilling night. The hellish inferno, a.k.a. Club Ooo-La-La, sat larger than life before my bloodshot eyes. I groaned, convinced the flames resembled one giant middle finger in “F-You” tribute to the Wird girls. My stomach churned as I read on. Patrons credited the neckless bouncer with saving the day. He’d been the last one to leave after ensuring everyone had exited, one party-hopper stated. He’d even admitted to trying to bat out the flames with his shirt. Yeah, right. I guess he had to explain his last-minute appearance and missing shirt.
Rats chewing on gas lines were blamed, leaving us thankfully free of the much anticipated arson charge. I threw out the paper almost immediately, grateful our mug shots hadn’t made the front cover.
Emme handed me a plate of food, piled high with eggs and sausage. I barely ate. Our lack of prison time, while comforting, did little to ease my retaliation worries. The witches would find us. Covens were a lot like tight-knit families. Take on one, take on the entire spell-wielding cheer squad. I could relate. Still, that didn’t mean I looked forward to the showdown.
“Did you notice anything different?” Shayna asked. Four knives the length of chair legs sat tucked into the leather belt fastened around her nightie. She usually slept with a knife under her pillow, but the mercenary-for-hire getup was excessive attire even for her. Thankfully, we’d learned long ago to knock before disturbing her sleep.
“No. Nothing at all.”
Taran sipped her tea. “Well, maybe those wenches realize we’re not going to take their shit.”