A Matter of Fate (2 page)

“Did you see him? In my classroom?” I whisper, pressing myself up against a locker. My long hair feels sticky against my neck. “Was he real? I’ve gone insane, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, I saw him. He was definitely hard to miss.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m so freaked out she puts her hand on my shoulder to calm me down. Thank goodness Cora is such a talented Shaman. Her Magical healing abilities have always been able to soothe me like no pill ever could. She’s also the closest thing I have to a sister, despite the fact we’re only loosely related at best and refer to one another as Cousins.

“Tell me everything,” she demands. Cora’s like that. She’s always demanding one thing or another. “Start with why this is the first I’ve ever heard of this dude.”

I’m not ready yet to share the true beginning. No, those memories are mine. So I began where I can—with the impossibility of the situation. “He’s real!”

She gets the look on her face that means she’s trying not to shake me. “Okay, but just exactly who
is
he?” When I don’t answer, she presses, “Let’s try something simpler. What’s his name?”

I say it out loud, for the first time, in a really long time. “Jonah.”

Jonah is here.

“Alright,” she says, shooting the guy whose locker I’m pressed up against a dirty look and an order to get moving. “Where’s he from?”

I want to laugh at the absurdity of her question. Where’s he
from
? I can just imagine her response if I told her the truth.

“Chloe, how can I help you if you don’t actually tell me anything? So far, all I know is that some guy in your math class triggered two shifts
and
caused you to go into shock. I don’t recognize him, and you’re making things considerably more confusing by repeating things like, ‘Is he real? Did you see him?’ after very clearly showing me memories you have of the two of you together.”

“He’s not real,” I whisper.

She looks at me like I’m insane.

“I always wished he was, but even I couldn’t make him real.”

“Babe, I saw him. He’s real.”

But I shake my head over and over again, forcing my brown hair to go flying. Because Magic is real. Dreams are not.

And I’ve learned that one the hard way.

Cora and I navigate our way past the crowded food lines in the cafeteria to our normal table, finding all of the usual suspects already present. Meg and Lizzie scoot over to make room for us. Alex barely glances up from his book, murmuring, “Ladies,” as if using our names is a chore.

These three are considered Cousins, too, although we share no blood relation. The endearment is more of an honorary one. And the other students at the table aren’t relatives. They’re people we hang out with while hiding from them who we really are. Because what none of the others know is that we
Cousins
are part of a race of people called Magicals. Our kind is responsible for influencing the course of events within our world and beyond. According to legend, Magicals have been around since the beginning of time, charting courses for the civilizations they populated. All of the major events which have occurred over the history of the Earth can be traced back to Magicals. That’s not to say Magicals rule the world, though. We’re merely the
cause
of an event. The
effect
is what society and the people within choose to do with it once it’s begun.

While our existences have been mostly kept secret, there’ve been a number of legends created around us. Early peoples thought of us as gods and built temples to worship us, others called us angels. During other time periods, our kind were targeted as witches, demons, and sorcerers. The need for secrecy only compounded over the millennia, until a few hundred years ago when it became expressly forbidden to reveal our existences to any non-Magical.

Even more guarded is the fact that there is more than one plane of existence. Faerie tales and legends over the years have hinted at what is really truth, but Magicals work hard to keep the nons, or non-Magicals, of the various planes believing the stories are simply byproducts of fantastical imaginations.

I haven’t yet been to any other plane of existence other than my own, which my father taught me early on to know simply as the Human plane, as that’s the species in the majority. There are seven planes in all, filled with nons and Magicals alike—Elvin, Goblin, Dwarven, Gnomish, Faerie, and Human, all linked to a central plane which functions as the Magicals’ home base.

I’ll be going there in the summer, perhaps never to return back here again.

There aren’t a lot of us, fewer every year despite our kind being found in every species from every plane. There are probably 250–300 Magicals currently spread permanently across this plane for work, clustered in different pockets—others come and go thanks to more transient jobs, being based in the aforementioned central plane. Magicals blend in with the nons on their planes—you’d be hard pressed to tell if someone is a Magical or a non without surging or witnessing their craft in motion.

One time, when he’d been feeling particularly generous with his knowledge, my father explained, “Our family is comprised entirely of Magicals. That’s how we manage to survive. We only live with our own kind—and by kind, I do not merely mean Human Magicals. That’s why there are some of the other species here, even if in hiding.”

I’d marveled at this and pressed for more information. My father denied me, thinking he’d perhaps already said too much. As a consolation, he reminded me that someday, when I was eighteen, I’d learn everything.

That’s the age when we fully Ascend into our powers, the time in which all Magicals remove themselves from their current planes of existence in order to hone their crafts. Many return after years of training to their home worlds, to be sent off on missions dictated to them from a faraway Council.

Everything about being a Magical is preordained, set in stone. From the moment of birth, a Magical learns of their craft from a Seer and whether or not they’ll join the governing Council. There’s no room to maneuver, no room to change course. Everything is dictated by the nebulous yet all-important Fate.

I hate this. The idea that I’m not able to choose my own college, pick a major, try to find my own job, or live my life on my own terms chafes against my sensibilities.

Meg’s giggling brings my attention back to the table. She’s super effervescent, always finding the happiness present in every situation and reveling in it. She’s a Joy, the epitome of friendliness, school spirit and peppiness. She’s destined to help foster and maintain hope within society. People can’t help but adore being around her.

Meg, though, adores being around Alex, although he never seems to notice. He’s an Intellectual, and that means any matters worth his attention are normally scholastic in nature. This doesn’t mean he isn’t fun, because he can be, but he’s typically more analytical and self-absorbed than the others. I’m not sure what Alex’s specialty will be; he won’t find out until Ascension. I envy this last bit of freedom he has, that the majority of the Cousins have. They can still dream about the possibilities ahead.

Not me. I’d been told early on about the road I’m to walk on. I’ll never be assigned a specific group of people to influence, nor will I ever be tasked with maintaining certain cultural sectors. I’m a Creator, and that means someday, when I Ascend and learn how to master my craft, I’ll have the power to build up and destroy civilizations at will. Or, at the very least, at the recommendation of the Council.

I’m labeled a Creator, but in reality I’m more like a two-headed monster from ancient legends, both a Creator and a Destroyer. I’m also slated to join the Magicals’ governing Council. Refusal is absolutely forbidden. No one is ever asked to join the Council. You’re told you’re going to be a member, and when the time comes, you simply sit down in a seat that’s been waiting for you.

This is my future. There’s an office waiting for me and a group of people expecting my input and abilities. There is absolutely no way I can say
no thank you
. All my daydreaming about escaping to other parts of this world is just that: daydreams. None will ever come true. No matter where I run, I’ll be found. If necessary, I’d be dragged kicking and screaming back onto my path until I fall in line.

I used to imagine creating my own world and escaping into it, but that sort of power won’t be available to me until it’s too late. A child’s powers are limited—while we can technically carry out a number of our duties, we don’t have the full extent of our range until we Ascend.

So, up until now, I’ve tinkered with creating small objects, drawing energy and resources from the natural world. When I was little, back when I liked being a Creator, I’d create tiny little planets to circle round my ceiling fan, alongside a field of stars I could gaze upon long into the night. I’d even create my own constellations, making up stories to go with them. But mostly, I’d create things I’d want, like dolls or tea sets or even princess dresses.

And this disappointed my mother to no end. “What would people think,” she’d mutter as she’d collect up my supposed contraband to throw away—as if I couldn’t just whip up more in the blink of an eye—”if they knew a Creator was wasting her gifts on dolls?”

But the kicker was, I didn’t know then, and even still don’t know, what exactly it is I’m supposed to be making, and the adults in my life don’t seem to think I warrant an explanation, despite previous lines of questioning. I don’t know if this is because I’m supposed to inherently know what I’m meant for, or if they just think I’m not worth the effort it takes to explain to me. And it’s not like I get to go to a special high school for Magicals to get these answers. I really only have my parents and the other local Magicals to teach me, and that hasn’t gone the way I’d like over the years.

So, I don’t ask many questions anymore.

Lizzie’s sharp elbow jars me out of the pity party I’m throwing myself. She’s a Muse. Someday soon, she’ll manipulate the creative course arts will take in society. She’d been told she’ll be tasked with overseeing a new post-contemporary phase in painting. She’s the only one of the Cousins who’s as locked into her current destiny as I am. But where I resent what lies ahead—and it is unknown to me—Lizzie relishes it—and
knows
it.

I know what she’s silently asking me, what a self-absorbed Alex has failed to address, and what a lovesick Meg is avoiding. Lizzie wants to know about the shifts.

I don’t blame her. I mean, the ground shifted below me, and that’s something that none in the Magical world can take lightly. I never thought it’d happen to me, though. Shifts always seemed to be for important people, for important events. Not for seventeen year-olds, and definitely not in high school.

Oh, stop,
the little voice says.
You know Creators are a big deal, seventeen or one hundred and seventeen.

I dutifully trail after Lizzie when she heads over to the soda machine to get a bottle of water. Refusal of Lizzie is like refusal of the Council. You just don’t do it.

Without bothering to ask permission, Lizzie surges into my mind. Knowing it’s pointless to withhold, I release the same information I did with Cora. She mulls the memories over before grabbing a drink. “Let’s go outside,” she orders, already heading toward the door. I throw a glance over to Cora, pleading for support. She’s busy arguing with Alex, so I take a deep breath and follow Lizzie out.

We sit down on a bench near a shady tree, a quiet place no nons are near. Most everyone is lounging in the sun, reveling in the last few days of semi-warm weather before the chill of autumn hits Northern California.

She pulls no punches. “Tell me about this guy.” But before I can answer, she says, staring across the courtyard, “He’s a twin! Why didn’t you show me that?”

Um . . . WHAT?

I follow Lizzie’s line of vision and find the boy I know as Jonah talking with someone who looks exactly like him. Things shift again, not so momentously this time, but enough that Lizzie reaches out to steady herself on the bench.

I . . . I had no idea he was a twin . . . .

“You two okay?”

We look up to find Graham Parker watching us. Ever since he laid eyes on her in sixth grade, Graham’s been in love with Lizzie. It saddens me to know that there’s no hope for such a reciprocation of feelings. He’s a great guy—athletic, handsome, intelligent and warm-hearted, the sort of boy mothers dream their daughters will find. All mothers, that is, except Lizzie’s, who uttered one small sentence to her daughter a few years back effectively forbidding a match with a non.

Poor Graham. He, of course, has no idea about this. I scoot over to make space for him between me and Lizzie. “We’re fine.”

He sits down. “You two look a little shaken.”

I resist the urge to laugh.

He takes off his letterman jacket and folds it into a neat square. “You girls ready for tonight?” Graham’s captain of the football team and star quarterback of the region. Lizzie and I are both on the cheerleading squad—her voluntarily and me not-so-voluntarily.

My mother had been a cheerleader in high school and insisted on me carrying on the tradition. Lizzie naturally gravitated to such a role, as did Meg, who happens to be the squad’s captain. Cora, smart girl, avoided joining the team. It’s not that I hate cheerleading—I really don’t. It’s just . . . it’s not me. And it’s yet another thing I’m forced to do that I didn’t get to pick. I’d rather be on the tennis team or taking art classes, like Lizzie. Or working on the newspaper, since I like writing and taking pictures. But no—I’m a cheerleader.

Lizzie answers for both of us. “Of course.” I don’t bother attempting to answer. Graham knows how I feel. “Think we’ll win?”

Although he shrugs, his confidence is palpable. In my mind, Graham’s got the world ahead of him—a lock on an athletic scholarship to whatever school he likes, choices of whatever subject he wants to pursue, and the ability to move to any place he fancies.

“You’re too modest,” Lizzie coos. “I’m sure you guys will do great.”