Spellbound (the Spellbound Series Book 1)

Spellbound

By Rene Lanausse

For my mother;

For being the first person

To show me that strength knows

No gender.

Part One: The Awakening

Chapter 1

My eyes fly open as if I’ve been scalded in my sleep, although I’m not in any pain. I take a minute to stare up at the same uneven white ceiling I’ve been waking up to for the past seventeen years, and try to figure out what’s going on. I’m alive, and apparently unharmed, so why is my heart pounding? I’m not scared in the slightest, but even so, I’m shaking, and my breaths are coming in rapid, almost desperate bursts. I close my eyes again, and try to take deep breaths. I can hardly remember it, but I get the feeling that I must have had the dream again.

Though I’ve been having the same exact dream for the past five nights in a row, every morning, the majority of it slips through my fingers like grains of sand. I can only manage to remember fragments of it; every night, a new detail sticks and becomes part of the already confusing collage. Here, the sound of gunfire from a distance. There, a shining serpent gliding through the air. I’m not sure, but I think I can recall blood flowing down my arm. More clearly than anything else, I remember feeling confident, indestructible. Powerful.

Well, that’s a dream that’ll never come true. I’ve been hoping for some time that my life will take a turn for the interesting, preferably without the use of hard drugs. And maybe it will someday, but I can’t possibly foresee how or why. Until then, I’m fully willing to accept the fact that I’m doomed to an average life; reading, writing short stories that no one will ever read, and abusing my internet privileges. In fact, I’m even willing to bet that my tombstone will read Heather Santos: Aggressively Average.

I’m still a little shaky, so I reach above me for a necklace that hangs from the headboard. It’s nothing spectacular, just an emerald studded wing-shaped pendant swinging from a sterling silver chain. The necklace serves as my anchor; ever since I was little, I would grab onto it as tightly as I could whenever I had a nightmare. The weight of the pendant, the grooves on the chain, the cold sting of metal on my skin; these subtle details would be glossed over in a dream state, so when I felt them, I would know I’d returned to the real world, and that would calm me down.

The ironic part, of course, is that the necklace is all I have to remind me of my father, a man I can only ever see in a dream. According to my mom, he was killed by a drunk driver a few nights before I was born. His necklace survived the crash, though, and it was handed down to me, since my mom couldn’t bear to wear it herself.

People ask me if I miss him whenever I tell them what happened, and I say yes. But in reality, I only vaguely wonder what he was like. How can you miss someone that you’ve never known?

While I idly stroke the pendant with my thumb, I glance at the time on my phone, to see that I’ve beaten my alarm by a few minutes. With the precious amount of time left before I absolutely have to show signs of life, I scan my bookshelf for something to read under the desk during class. It is, as anyone who has seen my room can attest, quite possibly the nerdiest bookshelf belonging to someone my age. On each shelf are haphazard stacks of comic books, DVDs of my favorite movies and shows, books that I have either bought for leisure or for school, and collectibles like mugs and toys from all of the above. I’m not in the mood for one of the many fantasy novels I’ve read and reread, so I decide on an old favorite,
Looking for Alaska
. I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes for what feels like a few seconds, but before I know it, my alarm is blasting in my ear, and I fiddle with my phone until I can shut it off.

I throw my blanket aside, and swing my legs off the bed, all while yawning and stretching. Today is gonna be a long day, I can feel it. With some effort, my tired body shuffles its way down the hallway to the kitchen, where I find my mom nursing a steaming mug of coffee. We look so much alike, you would almost think we’re sisters; same black hair, same heart shaped face, same skin that ranges from porcelain white in the winter to nearly tan during the summer. It’s really our eyes that set us apart. Hers are deep brown, and bookended by incoming crow’s feet, while mine are emerald green. Well, our eyes, and the fact that my mom’s frame is slightly thicker than mine. We always joke that my first crime against humanity was ruining her figure.

As I take a seat across from her and reach for the Cocoa Puffs, my mom moans out, “I don’t wanna go to work today.”

“That’s unfortunate. You might be more motivated if Captain Douche had brought you home before one in the morning.” Captain Douche is my mom’s current… guy. (I think it’s creepy to call him a boyfriend now that my mom’s pushing 40.) I don’t actually have a problem with the guy. Captain Douche is just what I’ve called all the men in my mom’s life since I was twelve, and old habits are hard to break.

My mom, however, is clearly not amused. “His name’s Brian, you know that. And last night was definitely worth it.”

My mom and I are close, but there are certain things I just don’t wanna know. I down my Cocoa Puffs in silence, and make a hasty retreat.

I hop in the shower for a while, step out feeling significantly cleaner, and make my way back to my room wrapped in a towel, which I struggle to hold in place while I pull open my closet door. It’s a little cluttered inside, but I find the clothes I’m looking for, and throw them onto my bed. A pair of jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt, and some Converse later, and I’m just about ready to head out the door. I kiss my mom on the cheek as I grab my coat off the rack, then race downstairs and walk out into the brisk January air that I’ve come to know and loathe.

It’s early enough that the sun is just peeking between buildings, the sky slowly shifting from pinkish-orange to its usual blue. The streets are pretty empty, save for the few people eager to make it to work on time. I stand waiting at a bus stop for a while, with only my iPod for company, praying that I don’t have to wait too long in the freezing cold. Miraculously, the bus shows up within minutes of my prayer, and I make it to school with fifteen minutes to spare before the start of my first class. I take out
Looking for Alaska
, flip straight to the opening of the first chapter, and before I know it, I’m entirely lost within its pages.

***

The bell for lunch rings, and for a moment, I’m confused. I only vaguely remember walking from class to class with my book held out in front of me, but I didn’t think so much time would pass so quickly. The class files out quietly, while I hastily shove the book in my backpack and try to blend in with the crowd. I can feel my Calculus teacher’s deadly glare being directed at me, though, and I rush out into the hallway. I should feel worse about not paying attention than I do, but it’s really her fault for teaching the least engaging subject known to man.

There’s exactly one free table left by the time I’ve paid for my food, so I take it before anyone else thinks to. I make myself comfortable against the wall, and wait for my friends to find me before I start eating. I pull out my book so I won’t have to sit here doing nothing, and I’m about to start reading when I notice a pair of eyes trained on me. I look back in their direction, and spot a flash of gold before they quickly flit away. They’re the eyes of a girl I’ve seen a few times before, but never spoken to. She tends to dress in black, and sit alone at a table in the corner, writing in a small, leather bound journal, occasionally watching me from afar. She tucks a few strands of purple hair behind her ear, and resumes writing as if I hadn’t noticed her.

I watch the girl intently for a while, waiting for her to look up at me again, and nearly jump when my friend Jenna waves her hand in front of my face. “You really shouldn’t make it so obvious when you’re checking someone out,” she says as she takes the empty seat across from mine.

I roll my eyes, and mutter, “Shut up, it’s not like that. I just wanna see if her eyes are naturally gold, or if they’re contacts.”

“Uh huh. Right. I’m getting a total lesbo vibe off of you right now.” Jenna pops open her can of soda, and shakes her head at me. “Gotta say, I’m disappointed that I wasn’t your first girl crush, but hey, whatever floats your boat.”

For some reason, it’s a running joke between us that I must be into girls. Well, it’s a running joke to Jenna, and a minor annoyance to me. She doesn’t mean it, though; Jenna is a big believer in the power of shock comedy, so half of what comes out of her mouth is purely to get under someone else’s skin. Usually, I can match her craziness with a witty response, but I’m just not in the mood for it today. I pull my own tray of food closer, and ask, “Where’s Rachel?,” the third member of our inner circle.

“I think she stayed home today… three guesses why.”

“Same reason as usual, I’m guessing. So, what’s new with you?”

“Well, Andrew is taking me out to City Island tonight for our three month anniversary.”

Oh, right. The boyfriend. I’ve never met him in person, so it’s hard to attach a face to the name Andrew, but one of the taller guys on our school’s basketball team comes to mind. To be honest, I’d forgotten they were even dating, even though they both post painfully sweet reminders of it on Facebook. I don’t really care much about Jenna’s relationship, but I don’t want to seem rude, so I offer her my not-so-heartfelt, “Congratulations.”

“Wow, you sound so interested.”

“Yeah, sorry. Boyfriend talk is just something that tends to put me to sleep.”

“You’d feel differently if you had one of your own,” Jenna says as she leans over the table. “You’ve been single for years-“

“By choice,” I interject.

“By choice,” Jenna concedes. “But why? What’s wrong with dating the guys here, Heather?”

“Too immature. You point me in the direction of a high school guy who doesn’t consider the high five a meaningful mode of expression, and we’ll talk.”

“I know what’s wrong… you’re holding out for an Edward.”

Low blow. Jenna knows that A) I’m not exactly Twilight’s biggest fan, and B) that even if I were, I’d be on Team Jacob. “You’re way off,” I reply. “I’m not into the kind of boys that sparkle, and they’re sure as hell not into me.”

“I meant figuratively! Like, you’re just waiting for the perfect guy. Or, whatever your version of the perfect guy is.”

I shrug, and try to think of a way to change the subject. I don’t believe in the concept of a “perfect guy.” I mean, sure, it would be nice to run into someone moderately attractive with a British accent, who doesn’t smoke, loves watching BBC America for their Saturday night lineup, and volunteers at an animal shelter in his free time, but how often does that actually happen? So no, it’s not that I’m holding out for my Edward. But I don’t precisely know what I
am
waiting for.

I glance over to the purple haired girl’s table to see if I can catch another glimpse of her purportedly golden eyes, but she’s already gone. I have to admit, I’m a little curious about who she is, and why she can usually be found looking in my direction. I’m not especially attractive, nor am I particularly hideous… in fact, there isn’t anything special about me at all. So what could it be that makes me so interesting to this girl?

Whatever it is, I hope I find out soon. Maybe if I know what other people see in me, I’ll finally see something worthwhile in myself. And God knows, I’m ready to see something more than the utterly unexciting girl I’ve become.

Chapter 2

Jenna and I don’t have any classes together today, so we go our separate ways as soon as lunch is over. I don’t mind; not having a friend to distract me means more time spent reading. I don’t look up from
Looking for Alaska
again until near the end of Biology, when I become aware of my phone buzzing in my pocket. I pull it out discreetly, and read the text Rachel sent me: “can you come over? I need help with this math hw”. Rachel knows from experience that I’m not the greatest at math, meaning she’s probably just bored and is too polite to say so. I’d been looking forward to a quiet night at home, but I can’t say no to my best friend. I text back “Be right over after class”, and slip my phone back into my pocket.

It’s brutally cold out, even for January, and the wind is only making things worse. A particularly strong gust hits me just as I’m leaving school, and nearly blows me backwards into a pair of freshmen. I’m not suited for this kind of weather, so I’m actually thankful to Rachel for inviting me over. I’d have to wait outside for a bus if I were heading straight home, but thanks to her, I get to ride the subway in relative warmth. I still have to walk to the nearest train station, though, which involves either walking around a deserted-looking building and down the block, or cutting straight through the building itself and hoping I can find the exit on the other side. It looks similar to the building I live in, so I’m confident I can figure out the layout if I need to. Another gust of wind kicks up, and that’s all it takes to drive me towards option two.

I can already feel my nose wrinkling in protest as I venture through the open door. The building looks deserted from the outside for good reason; there are signs everywhere that a fire ravaged this place once upon a time, and the city just hasn’t gotten around to renovating it or tearing it down. The ground is littered with puddles of I-don’t-wanna-know-what that have frozen over, and garbage bags filled to bursting with filth. There are also blankets and bags of tattered clothing strewn on the ground in the lobby, and makeshift signs propped up against solid brick pillars, so the building must be inhabited by
someone
.