Old Magic(20)

Jillian returns about ten minutes later with a steaming, strong-smelling drink. It’s a mix of herbs mostly: basil for mental fatigue, bergamot for stress, clary sage for muscle strength, lavender for anxiety and head pain. There’s something else but I can’t distinguish the aroma. Between the two of us we get most of the stuff down his throat. He falls back to the bed and while he rests I explain about the cafe, Pecs’s sick display, Jarrod’s trance, and the violent earth tremor.

Jillian listens intently, sometimes shaking her head like she can’t believe it. ‘He doesn’t know how to handle the gift,’ she explains. ‘His brain is triggering the trance as a coping mechanism. He has a lot to learn before he can control it.’

‘That’s the problem, Jillian. He won’t learn while he’s in denial. And there’s another thing, I think he’s cursed, or his family at least.’

I explain about the accidents and bad luck that Jarrod’s family’s had over the years, right down to the clumsy things Jarrod can’t seem to help doing.

Jillian looks thoughtful. ‘It could explain the reason his gift has been released. Perhaps it’s meant for him to use as a tool – a subconscious attempt to counter the curse. But, of course, there’s no way of figuring it out without Jarrod’s help. His acceptance is vital. And by the sounds of things, Kate, time is essential. As Jarrod’s powers grow, so could the powers of the curse. These things are probably linked.’





Jarrod



I feel so strange. There’s a heat inside my body, a burning sensation. It’s as if I can actually feel every muscle, every tendon, every nerve cell.

‘He’s waking.’

Kate! Please don’t tell me she’s in my head again. I open my eyes and she’s standing in front of me, her head and shoulders slightly stooped. I’m lying on a firm but comfortable bed. Looking about, other than Kate and her grandmother, I can’t recognise anything. There’s a softly glowing amber light beside the bed, an antique-looking dresser and stool, crystal wind chimes hanging in front of a closed lead-light window. There’s a wooden bowl on the dresser, in which Kate is running a finger around the inside rim. It appears to be filled with water and fresh flower petals. Beside this is a ceramic oil burner that isn’t being used. The room smells clean and woody, like the forest.

‘How are you feeling, Jarrod?’

I lift myself up on one elbow to answer Kate’s grandmother and wonder how to address her. ‘Better, thank you …?’

‘Just call me Jillian,’ she suggests. Her smile is warm. At least this time she isn’t screaming and ranting about snakes.

‘Is this your room?’ I ask Kate. She nods and helps me sit up. I swing my legs to the floor, resting my elbows on my knees. That inner burning, that strange awareness of my insides, is easing. My head starts clearing. ‘What happened? How did I get here?’

‘What do you remember?’

I have to think. ‘I was at the Icehouse. You were there with Hannah. The waitress broke a glass, it spilled all over Pete.’ I also recall Pecs’s slack comments. I look up to see if she’s remembering too. But her eyes, and Jillian’s, are busy elsewhere. The crystal chimes have started spinning, filling the room with flickering pastel colours and little tinkling noises.

When they stop Kate glances at Jillian; a knowing look passes between them. ‘Is that all?’

What does she want? An instant replay? My thoughts spin back to the moment. When Pecs grabbed Kate’s elbow and started mauling her throat I wanted to do damage. And I’ve never been a violent person. If anything, I usually run at the first sign of trouble. I haven’t got the stomach for blood, let alone spilled blood, especially mine. But Kate is waiting for my answer as if she wants to hear all the gory details. ‘Pecs spewed some very descriptive stuff about you, then slobbered all over your neck.’

There’s an awkward silence. I’ve probably hurt her feelings. Whatever Kate is – strange, weird, whacky, even psychotic – at this moment I don’t care. Her unusual blue-grey eyes lock with mine and I can’t look away. I take in everything about her. Long silky black hair, pale – almost translucent – skin, the exotic shape of her eyes; and I know no girl could look more … I dunno. Striking.

‘Thank you, Jarrod,’ she says softly, and I wonder about this.

‘Why are you thanking me?’

‘For what you did tonight. In your own way, even though it ended disastrously, you did what you did because … Well, at least at the time, you cared. Pecs insulted me, and you got angry.’