Spellcaster

I turned to my left, taking a shot of the trees, bright green with new leaves.

I turned west, snapping a pic of the beige stone structure. It looked like a knight should come barreling through those doors instead the group of tourists who emerged, cameras in hand as they piled into their tour bus.

I continued walking, into an area more densely packed with trees, trying to play with the nature settings on my camera. There were too many shadows.

“Like I know what white balance even is,” I muttered aloud, playing with the buttons. I looked at the digital screen again—there was a bigger shadow.

I put the camera down and squinted my eyes in the distance.

There’s no way I was mistaken. A person—at least, I think it was a person—in all black with a black hood covering the face—was standing amidst the trees, the figure obscured by the shade.

And then the figure started running toward me.

Chapter 3

At first, my feet were frozen to the ground. My brain screamed to my body to run, but I couldn’t force my limbs to move. It was like they were locked—immobile from the fear that this was happening to me. Again.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered, my brain reeling as the hooded figure swerved around the trees, coming my way.

“Run.”

I heard the disembodied voice from somewhere. The rough sound of it was enough to jolt me out of my shock until I realized it was mine. I spun around and started running through the trees, back to the path, the panic building as I stumbled through the unfamiliar terrain. The last time I had to run for my life, it was right after the winter formal, when Anthony chased me through Central Park. But then, I knew the area. I knew the park. This time, I was racing through Fort Tryon blind.

I sprinted back toward where I thought the path to the Cloisters were, weaving my way through the landscape. I had no idea how close the hooded figure was. I just knew I had to get away.

My shoes skidded on the rain-dampened blades of grass. I pitched forward, my palms outstretched as I stumbled into the trunk of a nearby tree, the slick soles of my Mary Janes slipping on the wet ground. I whipped my head around, looking for the hooded figure. I didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean anything. He could be anywhere. He could be behind me.

He could be Anthony.

The thought was like an injection of ice water into my heart, pumping the chilling fear through my body as I pushed myself off the mossy tree trunk. I whirled around, seeing nothing but trees.

I heard a car horn in the distance and headed off after it. The West Side Highway—the Cloisters sat high above the busy thoroughfare. I could flag someone down—someone would see me.

I pumped my arms, trying to force momentum as I slammed each foot into the ground. I weaved through the trees, skidding a few more times on the slick grass until I stumbled forward. My left knee plowed into a splintered tree branch, a casualty from last night’s storm. I cried aloud at the sharp jolt in my knee, as the broken-off wood ripped into my skin, stinging my jagged, torn skin. I shook it off, forcing my hands to push myself off the muddy ground.

Then a different kind of pain—blunt, dull pain against my shoulder blades, as I was shoved. I stumbled forward, my hands outstretched and taking the brunt of the blow, protecting me as someone tried to slam my face into the trunk of a tree. My head jerked back as he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking Ashley’s clip and some of my hair out. I instinctively jabbed my right elbow behind me, catching my assailant in the ribs.

I heard a muffled grunt and his grip disappeared altogether.

I whirled around and, crouching slightly, put my fists up in the self-defense pose Brendan and kickboxing had taught me.

Standing a few feet away from me was the hooded figure, his right hand resting slightly on his abdomen, his shoulders rising as he panted from the struggle. He—or she, it was hard to tell—was shorter than I had first noticed. Definitely wasn’t Anthony, whose massive size eclipsed Brendan’s six-foot frame. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t behind this.

The thin figure had some kind of black silk mask covering his face underneath a nondescript, bulky black pullover hoodie. A silver pentagram and another charm I didn’t recognize peeked from under the blackout mask, hanging from a thin, roped band. Baggy black jeans and black leather lace-up boots completed the look. I almost expected cloven hooves. The normal attire—and the fact that his hand hovered over his abdomen, where I had elbowed him—were almost comforting; at least I knew this monster was human. That I could hurt him. That I did hurt him.

“What do you want?” I growled, trying to make my voice sound menacing in spite of my terror. I searched the black figure for some kind of identifying mark. Some telltale sign. Hell, even just knowing what gender would have been helpful.

“What do you want?” I shouted again, taking a threatening step forward as I cocked my right fist back, searching the black hole where a face should be for a target. As I advanced, he stepped back a little, and I felt emboldened.

I reared my fist back and slammed it into what I assumed was the right side of the face. The head snapped back and black-gloved hands flew up as he—I assume a he—staggered back a few steps. I took a step forward—push him, Emma. Just knock him down and then run—but he reached his right hand behind him to quickly pull something from the back of his belt.

The hooded figure shook his head back and forth, slowly, like he was shaming me. He raised his shaky right hand high, and the sun glinted on what he held through the dappled light.

I knew how to throw a punch. I knew how to dodge a punch.

But I had no idea what to do with the silver blade that the shadowy figure held above his head. His shoulders raised up and down with exertion as his black-gloved hand flipped the handle so the blade now faced downward. The better to stab you with, my dear.

“This doesn’t have to be so hard,” a muffled voice said, and I gasped at how, well, human it sounded. And oddly false, like it was deliberately brought down a pitch. Almost…female? No…

“Just let me cut you once, Emma.”

I fought my body’s urge to lock in fear that this psycho knew my name. And said it with such disgust. Instead I screamed loudly, trying to attract attention as I shuffled a few paces back, but my hooded assailant mirrored my movements.

“Don’t make it worse for yourself, bitch,” the voice said, more a growl this time than anything. It’s got more hate…

My eyes quickly searched the ground around me, looking for a rock or some other weapon. And then I realized something.

I could be a weapon. And it might be the only thing to save me.

I took a deep breath, letting my rage and fear saturate into every pore as I kept my fists up in defense. My palms got hot, and that burning heat raced up my skin, taking over my body as the edges of my vision seemed to get a little sharper. Just as the hooded psycho pulled back the knife, charging forward, I lifted my knee, extending my leg with all the force I could muster. As the bottom of my foot smashed into his stomach, I extended my palm, screaming out, “Emoveo!”

It was the spell Angelique had managed to make work—but had always failed for me. Until now. The figure blasted back several yards—farther than ever would have been possible by the force of my kick alone. He flew backward, feet kicking uselessly in the air, his body emitting a heat-wave-style ripple around him until he crashed into a tree about eight feet off the ground. My attacker slid down the length of the trunk, shredded fragments of bark falling around him as he collapsed at the base.

The hooded head jerked up, a blank black hole facing me. I didn’t need to see his face to know that we both wore matching expressions of shock. He jumped up—my muddy footprint front-and-center on the black sweatshirt—and raced away, deeper into the park, limping slightly.

At first, I was too in awe to move from where I stood, my fists still held up in their defensive pose. I didn’t know whether to cry or cheer or yell, “Yeah, I thought so!” after my attacker. I briefly entertained the thought of chasing him down—but disappearing farther into the park didn’t seem like such a bright idea. I pulled my backpack from my shoulders, digging in it until my fingers closed on the small pump of pepper spray Brendan had given me. I slipped it in my sweatshirt pocket—I didn’t know if it would work against someone in a mask, but better to have it—right as I noticed something glinting in the grass near where the hooded psycho had fallen. It had to be Ashley’s hair clip…about twenty feet away. Impressive. I looked down at the foot that kicked him, expecting it to glow or shoot lasers out of the toes. Instead my shoe was just a little muddy.

I bent down at the spot where the figure had landed to examine the shiny piece of metal. It wasn’t the hair clip. What it was set my stomach to churning again, as I squatted in the wet grass, staring at the very intricate, very fancy, very demonic- and evil-looking knife. This wasn’t just some kitchen knife, conveniently grabbed to mug unsuspecting teenage girls by a psycho in a cheap Halloween mask. This knife was special. Of course, the handle just had to be carved with a bunch of grinning skulls. I would never be so lucky as to be attacked with a boring old wooden-handled steak knife, would I? Noo…I get the skull monsters.

As if the psycho knowing my name didn’t clue me in, the creepy knife confirmed it for me. This was the evil Angelique’s spell had warned of. A sickly chill washed over me. Obviously, what Brendan was going through at school was just a nasty prank, one that would blow over—the real danger was after me all along.

I pulled my sleeves down around my hands and used my fabric-covered fingers to pick up the knife, willing myself not to retch as I touched it. I just hoped Angelique knew what this knife was—maybe the skulls were famous skulls, what did I know? She was the one who had recognized my medallion as being significant, after all. I had just slid the knife into my bag when I heard footsteps behind me.

I jumped up and whirled around, grabbing the pepper spray from my sweatshirt pocket. I shot a stream of the toxic liquid in the grass, right at Cisco’s feet.

“Whoa!” he shouted, putting his palms up and backing away from me, his eyes wide as he took in my appearance. “What happened to you?”

“I just—um,” I stammered as I held on to the silver pump. You just what, Emma? You just somehow used magic to disarm your demonically dressed attacker? And used your own unmagic fists of fury to punch his face?

I slid the canister back into my pocket.

“I fell down—you just scared me,” I said, trying to sound sheepish. I couldn’t exactly explain what had just happened. “I thought you guys went into the café?”

“We did, and then you were nowhere to be found, so I went to find you before McNelly had a conniption,” Cisco explained, looking at me curiously. “And then I heard screams and some kind of commotion.”

“I must have screamed when I tripped…and fell.” I shrugged, running my hand through my hair in an effort to look nonchalant. More likely, he heard you scream, heard your spell—then heard your attacker go smashing into a tree trunk.

“Whoa, your leg is bleeding—like, gushing blood,” Cisco blurted. Now that he reminded me about my sliced-open leg, it burned like I’d just set it on fire.