The Zodiac Collector Read online

  THE ZODIAC COLLECTOR

  Laura Diamond

  SPENCER HILL PRESS

  Copyright © 2014 by Laura Diamond

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition:July 2014

  Diamond, Laura

  Zodiac Collector: a novel / by Laura Diamond - 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: On the eve of the Faire, Anne, along with her reluctant twin sister, Mary, conjures up a spell that will make their sixteenth birthday party a whirlwind event.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction:

  Alien, Band-Aid, Converse, Formica, Google, Hello Kitty, Junior Mints, Little Orphan Annie, Mickey Mouse, Mountain Dew, Nike, Peter Pan, PS3, Raid, Red Bull, Sauron, Scooby-Doo, Snow White, South Park, Spam, Spider-Man, Thermos, Tupperware, Twizzlers

  Cover design by Lisa Amowitz

  Interior layout by Jennifer Carson and Marie Romero

  ISBN 978-1-937053-63-5 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-937053-71-9 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to all the people who dare to pursue their dreams

  Chapter One

  The Renaissance Faire wrecks my birthday every year. A month before the actors and merchants arrive to transform Hopewell Falls Park into a sixteenth-century towne—yes, with an “e”—Mom stops taking her lithium. Within forty-eight hours she’s higher than a prom queen accepting her crown. As the best seamstress east of the Appalachian Trail, she thinks it’s her duty to stay awake for days, surviving on double espressos and cigarettes, to make the royal court’s costumes. She says mania makes her more productive, but all it does is turn her into a raging beast that puts Sauron, the Basilisk, and the Kraken all to shame.

  Her internet business, Devans’s Dazzling Dresses, caters to the Renaissance crowd and occupies her all year long, but our local faire gives her the most sales.

  “These orders came in months ago. Why wait until the last minute to finish them?” I hover near the doorway to the living room—a.k.a. Mom’s studio—and try not to choke on the stagnant air. A wheeze plays at my lungs. I finger the inhaler that I always carry in case I have to take a puff.

  The room has the best natural lighting in the whole house. A large bay window, stretching from floor to ceiling, is the envy of every do-it-yourself crafter on the block. I dream about curling up on the seat cushion with a book and a cup of hot chocolate, but Mom never lets anybody in there. No. Matter. What.

  I’d need to wear a gas mask, anyway, to prevent an asthma attack.

  Heavy-metal music throttles my eardrums. I resist the urge to clap my palms over my ears. Mom says she can draw energy from the sound waves. She thinks the bands create their music specifically for her. No amount of lithium makes that go away.

  “What else am I supposed to do? This is how I create.” Her blue eyes spark with fury as she takes a drag on her cigarette. Two inches of ash hang on the end. It’s beyond me how it doesn’t fall off and burn the fabric she’s working on. At least the dry cleaner can erase the smoky stench from her masterpiece after it’s done. She throws a pincushion at me and returns to her ironing. “Now get out of here. Don’t you have finals to study for or something?”

  “But Mary’s and my birthday is coming up and I wanted to talk to you—” My voice squeaks and tears burn at my eyes.

  Her head snaps up, sending wild-colored curls swaying with agitation. “I’m. Working.”

  I can’t even get two sentences out and she’s in attack mode. My stomach twists on itself as instinct claws at my chest, begging for clean air. Ask quickly and get out. That’s the plan. I lick my dry lips. “We’re turning sixteen. It’s important.”

  She plucks the cigarette from her mouth and pulverizes it in a nearby ashtray. Her nicotine-stained fingers shake, fumbling to light another one. It takes two flicks for the lighter to ignite. Her cheeks hollow out as she sucks in a long drag. She holds it in for a few seconds, eyes closed in fleeting bliss, and blows it out. The lines of her face—webbing crows’ feet, jagged wrinkles across her forehead, arcs from her nose to the corners of her lips—deepen. Pale gray fog surrounds her like she’s a smoldering dragon working up to the big explosion of fire.

  “Everything’s about you and your sister, isn’t it? Well, did it ever occur to you that the work I do helps pay the bills around here? I don’t see you bringing in a paycheck.”

  “Whatever.” Like a defenseless knight who’s lost his courage, I retreat. I storm upstairs, my ever-ready puffer in one hand while I wave away the haze of smoke with the other. The whole house smells like stale nicotine and my asthma is flaring like Jenny Johnson’s face that time she farted in gym class. I slam the door behind me.

  “You interrupted Mom, didn’t you?” My ever-perceptive twin, Mary, guesses right. She removes her earbuds and sets aside her biology textbook.

  “No.” I take a hit from my inhaler and flop on my paisley bedspread. Doesn’t matter that I stare at the ceiling. Her accusation crashes over me like a tsunami. I roll on my side to face her. “Yes.”

  She runs her hands through her curly espresso-colored hair and glares at me with her jade eyes. “Why?”

  “Why not? We’ve never had a real, disaster-free birthday party because of the Renaissance Faire. Isn’t it about time?” I refuse to surrender to her disapproval. She’d never challenge Mom. At least I try. My Papillon dog, Castor, leaps on the bed. The fringe of his sable ears flutter like streamers as he licks my cheeks.

  Mary averts her gaze and picks up his brother, Pollux. It was Mom’s idea to name them after the Gemini twins. She called it “kitschy.” Pfft. Amazing she didn’t name us after them.

  “Well?” I sit up. Castor’s and Pollux’s dark eyes stare at me with sympathy. The cozy bedroom is their safe haven as much as it is ours.

  “The more you bother her, the less likely it is we’ll get a party. I bet she won’t bake a cake this year, either.” She presses her chin against Pollux’s head.

  “So it’s my fault we won’t get a party?”

  She winces. “I didn’t say that.”

  Regret presses on my shoulders and slides down my spine to nestle in my gut like a snake. It coils in my stomach, tail rattling with agitation. “I don’t mean to make things worse.”

  “I know,” she barely whispers.

  I take a deep breath and imagine the regret snake spontaneously combusting and evaporating into nothingness. Better than having it strike and lodge its fangs into my liver. “What kind of cake would you want?”

  “It would be cool to have a tiered one, with piping and flowers. Maybe even edible pearl candies or something.” The corner of her mouth hitches up.

  Mary likes pretty things. I prefer edgy. “What about one with a knight beheading a dragon on top? Blood-red icing can trail down the sides and pool around the base.”

  She scrunches her nose and scratches behind Pollux’s ear. “Gross. Maybe we can get a Papillon cake. It’d be so cute.”

  It’s not a bad idea.

  Her half-smile fades. “Doesn’t matter. Mom won’t go for any of
it.”

  “It’s so unfair.” Amped on the pain of injustice, I launch myself to my feet and pace our bedroom, from our window overlooking the wooded park across the street, to the desk we share on the other side. The braided rug between our twin beds massages my bare feet.

  “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it? Nothing, that’s what.” Mary cradles Pollux in her arms and carries him to his doggie bed. After gently lowering him to the round cushion, she stares at her closet, gaze scanning every inch, and taps her chin. Sucking on her bottom lip, she falls into an OCD trance, and I’ve lost any chance at wrangling her back into the conversation about Mom.

  She rips all her shirts out and slaps them on the bed, hangers and all. One swift sweep of her arm slides her pants to the left. She goes back to the bed and fishes out every red shirt, top, tank, and sweater. Next, orange. After that, yellow.

  “Mary, please. There are better ways to deal with this.” I try to block her, but she shoves past me to hang up all her green garments. Castor barks at her, then goes to his own bed and gives his best sad-puppy-dog expression.

  “You put a lime cardi at the end, after forest green.” I shouldn’t encourage her compulsions, but if it gets her talking again…

  “And I suppose you getting Mom even more upset is a better way to handle it?” She sighs and moves the cardigan next to a lemon-yellow tank. It reminds me of the yellow roses in Gamma’s yard. As a kid, I couldn’t pronounce “Grandma,” so I called my grandmother, Edith, “Gamma.” It stuck and I call her that to this very day. Mary calls her “Grandmother.” A complete, well-rounded word. Stable. Precise. Makes me roll my eyes every time.

  “What do you do with brown?” I fold my arms and sit in my chair, tapping my foot against the bookcase. My math book mocks me. It’s sitting there, closed on my desk, waiting to scramble my brain with impossible algebra problems. I’m never going to ace the SAT, but I have to if I want to compete with Mary and get into the same college, avoid Mom’s snarky comments about how stupid I am for not keeping up, and land an all-expenses-paid scholarship to a far away, competitive university.

  “It’s neutral. It goes at the end with tan, white, gray, and black. In that order.” She holds up two similarly colored shirts, one a button-down, the other a pullover. “Which one’s darker?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Anne.” Her tone matches her scowl.

  “The button-down.”

  She nods and places them in order, navy after royal blue. “At least I’m organized. Really, you should let me fix your train wreck of a closet.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that bad.”

  “A complete and total mess. Then again, there’s not much to organize since you only own black.”

  “That’s not true,” I pout.

  “Only because you borrow my clothes half the time.” She glances at me over her shoulder, then turns back to stare at her work. The pause is good. She might be done with this round. On the other hand, she could decide to start over. “Anne, why’d you have to bother her?” This time the accusation is gone, but the pain remains.

  Knights would have a lot fewer problems if they let sleeping dragons lie. I shouldn’t have provoked the one downstairs. There has to be another solution. I step between her and the rainbow of clothes. “We could plan our own birthday party.”

  “Duh. We do that every year.” She continues to fidget with a hoodie.

  “No, I mean, we can make our own cake, decorate however we want, and make it all on our terms. Forget Mom. She just ruins everything, anyway.” I ease the garment from her fingers and hang it up.

  Mary smirks. “Yeah, remember last year when she sprayed everyone with the water hose because they didn’t like the cupcakes she made? Like it was their fault she put in salt instead of sugar.”

  “Right.” I blush at the memory. Mom blamed us for the mistake because we dared to disturb her. We got weeks of pity glances and hissing whispers behind our backs at school. Only my best friend, William, stuck it out with us. He has his own parental malfunctions, so he understands what it’s like.

  “Do you think we can get away with it?” She eyes the heaping laundry pile covering the steamer trunk at the base of my bed. If brains had gears and hydraulics, I’d hear them grinding in her skull.

  I leap in front of the leaning stack. I still have her patchwork scarf that I used for a belt two weeks ago. With my luck, it’s sticking out of the pile like a hair in a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Of course we can. She’s so busy, she won’t even notice. And if we have it at Gamma’s or something, she won’t have to know anything about it.”

  “Grandmother’s?”

  “Why not?” I shrug. “It’s as good a place as any. She has a great garden in the backyard. We can turn it into a fairytale land or something. Garlands, lights, butterflies, candles—it’ll be so cool!”

  Her eyes widen. Oh yeah, that’s right. Pretty gets her every time.

  “What do you say?” I bounce on my heels and tuck Castor under my arm. His little tail whacks my back rapidly. Happy doggy. “We can dress the pups up like sprites or something.”

  Her mouth twists to the side.

  I sweep my hands back and forth to erase the idea. “Okay, forget dressing up the dogs.”

  “Let me organize your clothes and I’ll go along with your birthday idea.”

  “Low blow!”

  She grins. “What are sisters for?”

  “Okay, but you have to promise to keep it a secret from Mom.” I hold out my pinky finger. Mary wouldn’t voluntarily let the secret out, but no one withstands Mom’s inquisitions.

  She winces. “Mom’s heinous when she’s in interrogation mode. You won’t be able to keep it from her if she grills you, either.”

  I dropped my hand. “We need something more, then.”

  “Like what?”

  For as long as I can remember, Gamma’s house has been a safe haven for us, like an enchanted garden protected by wish-granting fairies and good witches. It’s been too long since she’s opened her spellbook, lit candles around us for the elements, and chanted a good-luck charm. I miss dreaming about her happily-ever-after stories starring twin girls with dark, curly hair and green eyes.

  I grin at Mary. Maybe it’s time to break out the magick.

  Chapter Two

  “We could dress the dogs up in chain mail, or as unicorns.” I can’t resist jabbing at Mary with corny ideas. It’s better than fighting and it’s better than not talking at all.

  “Unicorns?” She tucks her chin in and purses her lips. It makes her look like a baby mid-poop.

  When Gamma’s house comes into view, Castor and Pollux yip and hop over each other, tangling their leads like foxhounds honing in on a kill. In this case, they get home-baked treats rather than a fox.

  “Release the hounds,” I exclaim, rushing ahead with Castor while Mary hangs back, correcting Pollux for his eagerness.

  Gamma’s front door is open, so I knock on the screen door’s frame. “Gamma? It’s Anne and Mary.”

  The TV is blaring in the living room. Sounds like a Seventies game show. Ick.

  “Gamma!” I glance at Mary. She’s still at the base of the steps, hands gripping Pollux’s lead tight, chewing on her bottom lip. Absolutely no help. With a sigh, I yank open the screen door and slip inside. The door slaps shut behind me. Castor whines, his tiny toenails tapping and skittering on the hardwood floor.

  There’s a scratching at the door. I peek over my shoulder.

  “Pollux!” Mary picks him up and hugs him to her chest. He wiggles in her grasp and licks her face, his tail wagging like a pinwheel in a tornado. She comes inside and sets him down next to Castor. They greet one another like long-lost brothers separated by famine and hardship only to be reunited in the land of plenty.

  I unhook Castor’s leash. Hardships forgotten, he sprints away, heading down the hallway that slices through the center of the cottage. He slides around the corner, colliding with the wall bef
ore catching enough friction to steady himself. In the kitchen, he yips and whines.

  Pollux barks in reply, pained at the immediate abandonment by his brother. We all suffer trials and tribulations, Gamma would say.

  “Shh,” Mary taps his nose.

  “Let him go,” I say.

  “He needs to learn how to behave.”

  “He’s a dog. You can’t expect him to be as perfect as you.”

  “I’m not perfect,” she murmurs. Rushing by me, she sets him down farther into the hallway. He scrambles behind Castor.

  Gamma shuffles out from the living room, carrying a stack of magazines, and pauses. “What’s all this ruckus? Oh, hi, girls. Didn’t hear you come in.”

  “The TV is too loud.” I point to the living room.

  “Eh?” She peers up at me, then turns to Mary. “Mary, love, turn the TV down, will you?”

  Mary tries to suppress a smile. “Okay.”

  I follow Gamma into the den. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with knick-knacks, books, pictures, and drawings that Mary and I did when we were kids. A pair of wingback chairs flanks the window, their pale blue fabric paling on one side from years in the sun. Gamma’s desk is covered with stacks of papers and a tray of candles, some short, some tall.

  We used to call this our conjuring room. It’s where Gamma told us stories while we drank tea and ate cupcakes. The smell of aging paper, leather, and wax ignite memories of chanting rhymes and studying plants with magickal properties. It’s hard to remember when things changed, when I decided it was fake and let go of my faith. I can still have fun imagining, but that’s what it is—fiction, fantasy, a way to avoid reality.

  Avoidance. That’s what Mary does.

  Gamma heads to the corner of the room and bends, head turning left to right, as if she’s taking a mental inventory of the odds and ends littering the floor. Magazines, paperbacks, newspapers, and old mail stuff the bulging woven baskets. Several stacks stand alone, filling the spaces between them.

  We shouldn’t have come here for a solution. Gamma can’t help us with a silly spell or luck charm. She can’t even decide where to store her junk. Wake up to reality, Anne.