The Zodiac Collector Read online

  Gamma hums like she’s serenading her stockpile of useless stuff.

  “Need help?” I ask.

  “I got it, dear.” She files her magazines in a row of baskets. Gardening With Gloves in one, Herbs For Today in another, and Fruits and Veggies in the last. All are addressed to Edith Cripper, my Gamma. She used to subscribe to magick magazines—Fae and Fantasy, Modern Spells, Quick Chants—and read them to me while I colored. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten most of the rules and tricks I’d learned.

  Finished with her chore, she looks me up and down, her brown eyes enlarged by the magnification of her dollar-store glasses. Their fire-engine red frames span from above her eyebrows to beneath her cheekbones. “What brings you by?”

  Mary’s voice echoes down the hallway. She’s trying desperately to tame Castor and Pollux. With her occupied, I have the perfect opportunity to talk to Gamma, but my lips won’t move. Truth is, I’m not a knight fighting a dragon. I’m a little girl pretending to be greater than I am. My mother may rival the rage of mythical beasts, but she’s all too human and there’s no magick trick that’ll cure her. The fragile bubble of hope collapses in my brain like a startled soufflé.

  “What is it, Anne?” Gamma smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear.

  I turn away from her and run a finger along the bookcase shelf. My journey leaves a wobbly trail in the fine layer of dust. “Mary and I turn sixteen this year.”

  She laughs softly and edges in front of me so I can’t avoid her. “When did you grow up? I remember when your mom toted one of you in each arm, wee little babes.” She brings her hands together and holds them a few inches apart.

  “We want a special party.” I wander to the candles and peel some of the melted wax off the tray.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  I wipe my hand on my jeans. “Mom won’t let us.”

  Her mouth puckers in sympathy. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  I blow a raspberry. “She said so. She’s working.” I air-quote the word.

  “It is almost faire time. I don’t know how she does it, making all those dresses every year.” Gamma twirls a bangle on her arm and heads out of the room. “Let’s get a snack.”

  I shuffle behind her to the kitchen, eyeing the flowered wallpaper and wondering who in their right mind would combine mustard yellow, olive green, burnt orange, and candy-apple red. In the kitchen, the black and white checkerboard linoleum tiles are worn in the corners and the cabinets are pale oak, covered in what seems like at least an inch of varnish.

  Mary’s sitting at the chrome and speckled Formica kitchenette table, holding Pollux and leaning over to scratch Castor’s chin. Pollux wiggles out of Mary’s grip and jumps to the floor. He scrambles to Gamma’s feet, sliding like a hockey puck into Castor. Gamma laughs.

  “I suppose you two want a treat?” she teases, sliding her feet inch by inch, herding the twins toward the pantry. She reaches for a Tupperware container on the second-highest shelf and peels open the cover. It gives a soft pop. She hands one bone-shaped peanut-butter crisp to each dog. “One for you and one for you.”

  I slump into the turquoise vinyl chair next to Mary.

  Gamma returns the treat container and selects a package of double-stuffed chocolate cookies. She joins us at the table, tearing at the plastic seal. “Help yourselves, girls.”

  Mary slides out of her chair and collects three glasses from the cupboard. She sets them on the table, then fetches the milk and pours a glass for each of us.

  “Cookies and milk. Nothing like it.” Gamma takes a big gulp of her one percent and chomps on a cookie. Crumbs settle on her chest and the table. Mary eyes them and squirms. I wonder if Gamma will get the whole cookie eaten before Mary’s cleaning the bits left behind with a napkin.

  I separate the chocolate wafers and lick the vanilla-cream filling. “Mmmm.”

  Gamma reaches for a second cookie and Mary’s out of her chair again, dousing a towel in the faucet. She wrings it out and wipes the table down.

  I dip the wafers in the milk and let them soften for a minute. While the cookie soaks, Gamma’s comment digs deeper inside me. She defended Mom. Pretty much blows any chance of planning a secret party with her. Disappointment prickles at the base of my neck, itching and gnawing its way through my body like a nest of termites. My leg jitters in response. We’re here to talk about important stuff, and we’re dipping cookies into milk like kindergarteners.

  Mary gets Gamma a plate. “You can catch the crumbs.”

  Gamma pats her hand. “Thank you, dear.”

  I can’t stand it anymore. “So, about our birthday…”

  “I remember my sixteenth birthday. It was the same night as the school dance. I wore a purple dress with a satin sash. Momma had given me her sapphire hair clip. It was costume jewelry, of course, but it was so beautiful I worried about losing it all night. Well, until Billy Hatchfield asked me to dance. Oh, he was so handsome. Tall, crystal-blue eyes, and the warmest smile. Warm enough to thaw winter snow on the Adirondacks.” Gamma gets this far-off look to her eyes, like she’s traveling in time to that specific moment. She blinks a bunch of times and removes her glasses. Tugging on the hem of her shirt, she wipes the lens clean. “I should’ve married him, but your grandfather asked me first. No one said no to Mitchell Cripper.”

  “A school dance on your birthday.” Mary chews the heck out of a bit of cookie.

  Being on June twentieth, our birthday generally falls after school finals, so there are no convenient school dances to latch onto. Generally, we don’t have homework—awesome!—but this year is different. We’re taking the SAT, the review course falls during the faire days, and the test is on our birthday. A trifecta of pain. I slide deeper into my seat. Mary can only focus on one thing at a time, two tops. One: studying. Two: the faire. Yet another strike against my grand idea of a smash-hit sixteenth bon anniversaire bash.

  “What do you girls want this year?” Gamma slides her glasses on and brushes extra crumbs off her chest. They fling around the room, and Castor and Pollux compete for them. Opportunists.

  My gaze darts to Mary. She swallows loudly.

  I sigh and run my hands through my straightened hair. “A normal mom.”

  “Anne!” Mary gasps.

  “Well, it’s true, and don’t say you wouldn’t wish for the same thing.” I smack my palms on the table. The noise startles the dogs. Their wing-shaped ears perk up.

  Her eyes widen. “She’s not normal and she never will be, so there’s no point in wanting it. Wishes are for kids.”

  “Consider this, love. Giving up on dreams means you’ve abandoned creativity and magick.” Gamma pats Mary’s hand.

  Magick? I sit up straight. She hasn’t mentioned magick in forever.

  “What does that mean?” Mary’s alarm seeps into her voice.

  She shakes her head. “Amazing how everyone forgets at such a young age.”

  “Huh?”

  Gamma sighs. She stands and rushes—kind of a half-walk, half-slide—out of the room.

  Mary and I look at one another. “Do we follow her?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Dunno.”

  A couple minutes later, Gamma ambles back in, carrying a rectangular box and a smaller, square box. She plops the bigger package in front of me, then hands the other one to Mary. After pecking the tops of our heads with kisses, she sits down. “Go on, open them. I’m not getting any younger.”

  “But it’s not our birthday yet,” Mary says.

  I don’t bother hesitating for formalities and tear into the silver metallic wrapping paper. Rainbows shimmer across its surface as I expose the gift beneath.

  A leatherbound book, twice the size of my laptop. The edges are rough to the touch, but the cover is soft. A Zodiac wheel is inlaid on the front. I draw my fingers across the surface. “Gamma.”

  She chuckles. “I take it you like.”

  “I can’t take this.” I clutch the Zodiac spellbook to my chest. It
’s been years since I’ve flipped through the pages and scanned the spells and potions inside. Cold embers of a long-extinguished belief rekindle. I smile.

  “I want you to have it.” The skin around her eyes crinkles with her smile.

  The flattened soufflé of hope lodged in my diaphragm puffs up a bit. My chest swells and tears blur my vision.

  “Thank you.”

  Her smile fades. “I never told you, but this book belonged to my twin, Eneaz.”

  “You have a twin?” I launch to my feet and set the book on the table.

  A shadow crosses Gamma’s face. Her gaze cuts to the floor. “It’s not an easy thing, losing a sister. Be sure to hold onto one another, my dear granddaughters, no matter what. Do not let anger, jealousy, or any outside forces divide you. It’s the bond you share,” she laces her fingers together, “in unity, that will help you overcome whatever adversities you face.”

  Mary fiddles with the ribbon on her gift. “Grandmother, what happened?”

  Gamma’s eyes widen like she’s choking on past regrets. Then she coughs and shakes her head. “She had a mind of her own and wouldn’t settle for a simple life. Her thirst for power became an obsession. It ruined her in the end.”

  “Did she die?” I ask.

  Mary flinches at the word “die.”

  “No. She just…left.” Gamma points a crooked finger in my direction. “I don’t want you trying any spells until we get a chance to review the rules, got it?”

  The blossoming hope stokes the young, tentative fire of belief tickling my belly. “I promise.”

  “This is important, Anne. There’s a lot of good magick in that book, but if done incorrectly, bad things can happen.”

  Her warning threatens to blow out the flames warming my heart. “I swear.” I slash an “X” across my heart with a finger.

  “All right, then.” Gamma directs her attention to Mary. “Open yours.”

  Mary bites her lip and carefully peels the tape holding the edges in place. She unfolds each corner, creating a little paper placemat. The box is white and unmarked, so she untucks the lid and pries it open. A delighted squeal blazes from her. “Grandmother, it’s exactly the one I wanted!”

  Gamma laughs.

  She lifts the mini-digital camera from its tissue-paper bed with both hands and turns it this way and that.

  “I already put a battery in it. The original packaging is in the living room. It has instructions. I wanted to surprise you, so I put it in this old thing.” Gamma picks up the box and closes the lid.

  Mary taps the power button and immediately starts clicking photos of Castor and Pollux. They try to sniff the camera and practically knock each other out of the way to be the first to investigate it.

  She pauses in her photo shoot and fiddles with more buttons. “Whoa. I can do so much more with this camera than my old one. Thanks, Grandmother!” She hooks an arm around Gamma.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She pats Mary’s arm, then turns to me. “Now, I have some things to tell you about that book.”

  I lean forward to listen, still clutching the leathery treasure to my chest.

  “Magick can be tempting. And it’s not a simple thing. There are consequences.”

  “I won’t do any dark stuff, I swear.”

  “That’s not what I mean. All spells can be dark if done wrong. I’m serious when I tell you not to chant any of the spells or make any of the potions until I teach you.”

  “I promise. No spell stuff until you teach me.”

  Gamma wags a finger in the air. “This is different from regular magick. It draws on Zodiac power. Be mindful of your sign. Do not take the Gemini twins’ energy willy-nilly. What you take must be given back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Read the book. Then we’ll talk.” She stands and ushers us to the front door. Castor and Pollux follow obediently.

  We snap on their leads and direct them outside.

  When we get to the sidewalk, Gamma calls to me from the front porch. “And don’t think you can change people with magick, Anne. Your mother is your mother.”

  Her words haunt me all the way home.

  Chapter Three

  Irun the flat iron over my hair what feels like a hundred thousand times. Mary plays with her new camera while she waits. She’s probably filled most of her memory card with snapshots of Castor and Pollux. Knowing her, she’ll spend the next several weeks analyzing each shot, editing and tweaking, before choosing one to add to her wall of art. Her art teacher, Mr. Weaver, loves her “eye for composition.” His favorite shots—a macrophoto of a lily, a black and white photo of Dad’s blacksmith shoppe, a mess of Tarot cards flung over a table—capture a different part of the faire.

  Section, clamp, drag. Repeat. I love the sheen of straight hair. Too bad I was born with the tightest curls since that Orphan Annie kid.

  “You almost finished? We’ll miss the movie.” Mary slides off her bed and into the desk chair.

  I check the clock. Seven. William is meeting us at the theater in a half-hour. “The movie doesn’t start until eight.”

  “Do you have to be late for everything?” She plugs the camera into our laptop. The thing is so old that the letters on the keyboard are all but worn off and there’s a crack in the case. Gamma gave it to us on our thirteenth birthday. Mary—always the organized one—set up a schedule for us to share it. It keeps fighting to a relative minimum.

  “Do you have to be early to everything?” I nestle a sparkly headband into my hair and check for lumps one more time. My T-shirt has a rhinestone flower on the mini breast pocket, playing off the design on my headband. I tuck my feet into silver flats, completing my outfit. Hope is sparkly, and I’m the embodiment of it. “Okay. Ready.”

  Mary finishes downloading her photos and unplugs her camera. She tucks it in her jeans pocket and grabs her purse. The red piping on the purse matches her red polka-dot shirt.

  We kiss Castor and Pollux goodbye. Before leaving the room, I tuck Gamma’s spellbook into my pillowcase. The chances of Mom leaving her gowns to toss our bedroom are slim, but I just can’t leave the thing out. Mary will have to keep her new camera hidden from now on, too. If she ever puts it down, that is.

  Mom hates it when Gamma gives us things. Says it spoils us too much and makes us lazy. Of course, no one can match her energy during a manic episode, so she thinks everybody is lazy. To her, sleeping is a waste of time. So are things like showering regularly, eating ice cream—it’s frivolous—and watching TV.

  Dad drives us to the mall in his pale blue, rusted-out pickup truck. The name of his smithy shop, Devans’s Forgeries, is painted on each door. Mom and Dad slap our surname on everything—T-shirts, business cards, mugs, pens, and tote bags. They send flyers to all our neighbors, take out ads in the high-school yearbook, and buy full-page spreads in the newspaper. They make overkill seem mild.

  Dad’s hands and clothes are all black from smelting. As the faire’s blacksmith, he creates metal sculptures, weapons, horseshoes, gates, light fixtures, even furniture like benches and tables. The faire opens the day after tomorrow—Sunday—and runs for two weeks. Our birthday is smack dab in the middle of it, on the summer solstice and right on the cusp of Gemini.

  “Call me when the movie gets out.” Dad pulls the truck up to the curb.

  Mary hops out first and I follow.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

  Inside, the air conditioning smacks away the early June humidity. The smells of salty, fatty, good things from the food court surround us and set my mouth to watering. Easy-listening music filters through the speakers. I don’t know why the mall gods bother with that. Probably costs a lot and there isn’t one person I’ve met who actually likes the sound of it.

  We find William lingering by the box office. An easy slouch defines his calm style. So do his V-neck T-shirt, low-slung paint-stained jeans, and flip-flops. His dark hair forks in several different directions, carefree and untamed, framing his melt-my-h
eart blue eyes. My heart flutters. How he can make I-don’t-care-how-I-look hot is beyond me.

  I hesitate. I’ve known William since before kindergarten. We used to play in the sandbox together at the park. We shared buckets and mini-shovels and knocked over each other’s sand castles. In first and second grade, we shimmied into the same tractor tire planted in the ground and told stories to one another during recess. In third grade, we shared crayons and colored pencils and created our own faire-based cartoon story. By the time we reached fourth grade, we had a system down for tag-teaming each other in gym, and in fifth we split our money to share snacks from the vending machine. It wasn’t until sixth grade that we begged to have our lunch periods changed so we could eat together. In seventh, we had the same study hall and helped each other with homework. In eighth, we swore to take the same high-school classes and have continued the tradition each year since.

  We’re inseparable. Well, we were, until about six months ago. Right before winter break, William surprised me with a Christmas present—an autographed copy of Watership Down by Richard Adams. My most favorite book ever.

  That moment changed everything. It sparked a war of Operation Fuzzy Confusion and Mission Sharp Excitement in my head. Operation FC would fire a he’s-just-a-friend rocket to blast Mission SE to bits. Mission SE would retaliate by launching a see-that-spark-in-his-eyes-means-he’s-into-you missile at Operation FC. Each camp, entrenched in its own stubborn side, raged on day after day, leaving me dizzy from casualties on both sides.

  Mary hooks her arm around mine and drags me ahead. “Something wrong? William’s over there, by that bench.”

  “Hey.” He waves at us and smiles. Darn his dimples.

  I return the smile on reflex, fully supporting Mission SE. “Hi. Been working at the faire?”

  “Yeah, the jousting arena needed some touching up.” He scratches some yellow paint off his arm and sits, angling his body away from me.

  “Ready to get tickets?” I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets and roll from my heels to my toes. My heart’s pumping faster than usual, carrying me to the Operation FC side.