An Heir-Raising Experience E-Book

Julie Steimle

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The moon is full. And none other than the famous (or infamous) Howard Richard Deacon III has returned to Middleton Village.

The Holy Seven senses magic at work. Wolves have returned to the woods. Creepy hunters are in town. And the heir is acting peculiar. Is it the witches up to their old tricks again? Or is it an old unresolved curse come back to town?

As the former best friend of 'Howie' Deacon, it is up to Andrew Cartwright (the leader of the Holy Seven) to deal with it.

Leseprobe

Julie Steimle

An Heir-Raising Experience

Hallowedspell Book Six

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Meeting

Chapter One

“Ok, Zombie King, is there anything else we need to discuss before the first hour bell rings?” asked Evan Eckelson, Middleton High’s Medieval Club High Chancellor.

King Peter sighed with a terse look to Evan as the other leaders of the club watched him. Early Monday morning, and Peter was still trying to shake out the grogginess from his brown eyes as they sat in Ms. Swaddon’s Home Ec. room before class. He rubbed his dark head of hair. He had been up late the night before, as usual, so this took a moment.

Evan waited, feigning patience. Evan was a charismatic senior with lots of friends around campus who had joined the club for the girls. Most of the club members looked to Evan when they got tired of petitioning Peter for club favors. He enjoyed the attention. Besides, Peter was a kooky sophomore famous for his skill at soccer and ice hockey. His predilection for fake voodoo dolls and shrunken heads freaked a lot of people out. In most circumstances, all this would have given Evan some status over Peter.

It would have, but Medieval Club’s founders were Peter’s close friends. And they watched silently, each one just as tired as Peter was.

 “No,” Peter said. “I think that covers it.” He looked to their club ‘herald’, a freshman named Aaron White who usually sat off to the side with his pals. “You’ll get the posters up before the end of the week, right?”

Aaron nodded, glancing to his other two freshmen buddies who worked with him on getting the news of the club spread all around campus.

With a final look to the rest of the leaders of the club sitting around the table, Peter rose. “Then we’re done. Meeting adjourned. We’ll announce everything this afternoon at the large meeting.”

They were currently in the small meeting. Club leaders only. The ‘large meeting’ was the meeting that all the members attended. And they always held that inside the theater room. Medieval Club, which had started back in January of that year, had become the most popular school club at Middleton High. Its members were now swelling into the hundreds. They held the small meeting at need in Ms. Swaddon’s Home Ec. Room, usually before school most days.

Once the leaders dispersed, Peter turned to his pals, all six of them, and sighed. They each had a part in the club’s infrastructure, but at most meetings they did not talk unless necessary.

Semour Dawson, for example, was the club’s grandmaster who went by the knight name of Sir Cooly. In charge of training the ‘knights’ in swordplay, he was also a skinny bespeckled freshman with fair hair. Wiry, really. And whenever Semour did talk, he sounded like an old man who lived well into his eighties. Semour said, rising, “So, are these kids going to remember their assignments, or are we going to end up taking up the slack again?”

Edward White who looked like a boy who seemed more comfortable in front of a computer than contemplating knights and swords and renaissance fairs, replied, getting to his feet also, “They did their part during the mock war in March, didn’t they?”

“They picked up your slack, you mean.” Daniel Smith snickered. A skinny pimple-faced boy, he sat next to his best friend James Peterson who was a thickset stocky sort of kid. They looked like a salt and pepper shaker set. In fact they were almost never seen apart, complimenting each other almost perfectly.

James chuckled.

Eddie reached out to slap Daniel on the back of his head, but Daniel ducked. Daniel was always quicker than everybody else. So it was natural he went by the nickname Swift. He was always sharpest on the uptake as well.

James snorted, but had ducked less quickly. He got the brunt of the hit.

“I had no control over what happened last time!” Eddie snapped.

Yet James only ducked lower, still snickering. Most of his pals called him Sir Iron Fist, but he really wasn’t someone who jumped into a fight unless necessary.

“What about sword training?” Andrew Cartwright, their most formidable pal—a tall, strapping redhead whom no one would ever dare call ‘ginger’ if he valued his life—asked. “This is why we formed the club.”

The redhead glanced back at his girlfriend, Jessica Mason, who had been grinning at her boyfriend with her arms folded. Those days they were never seen apart either. She wore fashionably sleek glasses and smiled affectionately at the bantering between friends.

Her eyes met Peter’s with a knowing look. Both she and he were to train in the use of a sword—something the other five boys had plenty of skill in already. It was indeed the reason for the club. The original one.

How did it blow up so big? Jessica asked herself as her group of friends huddled over the plans for the renaissance fair. The club had become giant. At first, the school-wide interest had been amusing. With everyone scrambling to be a part of, then try to take over, the club set up by the collection of ‘geeks’ at Middleton High, all seven of them had almost been overwhelmed.

Thank heaven for club rules.

“Hey!” Aaron White jogged back into the room with the sketch of the flier. “What’s the date for the fair again?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Spring break!”

Aaron lifted up his hands in surrender. “Alright. Gosh! Just checking.”

He hurried off again.

“Are you feeling all right?” Jessica asked, peering into Peter’s face.

Shaking his head, Peter clenched the ridge of his nose. “No. Not awful. But I have a headache. Sorry.”

He also clenched his hand. Stinging pain in his right palm surged up.

Daniel rubbed his own palm, asking, “Not sleeping well?”

Peter shook his head. “Just thinking too much.”

Eddie nodded and sat back into his chair. “Oh. That.”

That indeed. They all had a lot to think about. The town witches most specifically. Middleton Village was, and had been for generations, an epicenter of witchcraft. The witches practically ran the town under the guise of the Ladies Aid Society and the Men’s Club.

“They haven’t done anything yet,” James murmured.

“Retaliation is going to come eventually,” Semour said. He then rubbed his palm where he felt a hot twinge. Then he blinked at it and held his hand up. “Maybe now.”

In the center of his palm, where a sun shaped scar rested, a flicker of hot white electricity surged along the reddening mark.

“I knew it,” Daniel murmured, lifting his hand also. “I knew they wouldn’t wait forever.”

All of them held up their palms, like a secret handshake. Out of the many secrets the seven of them shared, the detection of magic in their mutual scars was the one they counted on the most. Ms. Swaddon hadn’t noticed the sparks or light coming from their palms, or rather she was so preoccupied with class preparation that she didn’t even bother to look over. Medieval Club’s presence in her classroom had bolstered Cooking Club enrollment. That was all she cared about.

“Do you think it is a spell?” Andy asked, looking to Jessica.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel like a spell. They’re usually quick.”

“Maybe it is a slow spell,” James suggested with a shrug.

She shook her head more. “No…. I don’t think so. Those witches would not want to draw things out. Not when we have the fire stones handy.”

Each one of them glanced to the red crystals they individually wore. Peculiarly warm precious stones, Peter’s dangled along a beaded necklace full of fake bear claws and sharks teeth. Eddie’s hung from a leather fob on his neck. James kept his on a bolo tie, used wrong. Semour kept his on a chain in his pocket. Daniel wore his on a silver chain, and Andy kept his on a key chain. Jessica clenched hers in her hand. It dangled from a long gold chain with a few other jewelry pieces so it would not look out of place. Each crystal had the capacity to conjure a fire instantaneously. It was their only defense at school from the town witches—especially since they weren’t allowed to carry their swords on campus. Well… not outside Medieval Club anyway.

“So then what is it?” Peter asked the group, though really just thinking out loud.

Andy shrugged. Then he winced. “I don’t know, but it is getting stronger.”

Daniel drew in a breath. He lifted his head then wandered to the far window that overlooked the street by three stories. He peered down, the group migrating after him.

“What is it?” James asked, gazing at the traffic on the curb still dropping off students. Some were coming out of cars at a run with toast in their mouths.  

Murmuring low, Daniel said, “Remember the last time our hands burned like this? Hot and steady?”

They all pulled their arms closer to their bodies with a shudder. Each one of them definitely remembered. But the recollection was one they had hoped to forget.

“Some…magical entity is here,” Daniel said just above a whisper.

“Or just someone from another world,” Eddie cut in.

They looked to him.

“Do you think another portal has opened up?” Andy asked, gazing with searching eyes to the trees across the street. Invading elves had once hid in those trees.

“Did the witches open up the one at the stone pond?” Semour groaned, clenching his teeth.

All of them moaned. They had hope that chapter in their lives had been finished. Over. It had been, after all, one of the most trying experiences of their lives. Getting kidnapped, sucked into another world where they each grew up way too fast. Jessica just swayed there at the thought.

“I don’t want another battle in Middleton Village,” James said.

“I don’t want to end up in another world again,” Eddie groaned.

Andy growled and stormed towards the door. “Then we stop it here. It is not going to happen again. We are the Seven, aren’t we?”

The Seven.

The other six sighed then followed Andrew resolutely, yet also resignedly. It was a burden thrust upon them, the reason the witches of Middleton Village hated them so much. They were members of the Holy Seven—chosen by God, or so Mr. Carlton Jones said when he met them that last winter break. Mr. Jones was the last of the former Seven, passing along the responsibility. But at that very moment, each one of the Seven just wanted to have an ordinary day without meddlesome witches to deal with…or curses…or freaky other-world beings that had decided to invade their town.

And the magic was growing stronger, even as they descended the stairs. Andy hurried, grabbing his fire stone. He clenched it tight in his hand.

They passed members of Junior League—witches in training—at a jog, heading to the front of the school. The witches cast them curious, yet unconcerned looks as the Seven went by. No worry, not even real interest. And that bothered Andy even more.

Daniel rushed up to Andy’s side when they reached the main floor. “Red, something is off. None of them are gloating.”

“They usually gloat,” Semour added, trying to keep up.

The group of seven hurried faster, going through the main doors. But they skidded to a stop when they reached the outside.

On the curb, parked in front of the school, was a familiar black Rolls-Royce Phantom. Only one family in Middleton Village was rich enough to own such a car. That same family owned the factory that kept the town financially stable. And that company provided most of the jobs in town when all other work had dried up two generations ago. The chauffer, a man Andy knew as Henry, stepped out then walked straight to the back passenger side door, opening it.

Everyone on the curb peered into the shadowy compartment.

Sitting on the plush seat, sunglasses over his eyes, earbuds stuffed in his ears, and an iPod in his hands, sat a sixteen-year-old boy in a grayish hoodie, jeans, and old-style sneakers.

“Howie Deacon,” someone said.

Andy drew in a breath.

“What is it?” Jessica whispered into his boyfriend’s ear.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” Daniel murmured. “I thought he’d never come back.”

Others around them shared similar sentiments, peering at the boy who seemed reluctant to leave the limousine.

“Come on out, young master,” Henry said. He tugged the earbuds from young Mr. Howard Richard Deacon the III’s ears, then plucked off his sunglasses. “Now is the time.”

Moaning, the boy snatched the cords to his earbuds from his chauffer’s hands. He climbed out of the car with an abrupt stand. “Fine.”

He was tall. Not super tall. Not as tall as Andy at least, but he was built well for a boy of sixteen. The girls watching drew in breaths.

His eyes were also an intriguing shade of steel gray. And his hair, in the light, the reddish brown hue had a stunning effect. It stuck out like it was either well moussed or was a thick pelt of fur. With his dense eyebrows and solid sideburns, he could have played the Wolverine’s son. His mouth crooked up to one side in a nervous smile, his eyes taking in the scene before him.

“Howie!” several boys from the basketball team cried, raising their arms in a greeting. They mobbed him.

The returned boy staggered back, grinning more widely now. And crowded.

“No way,” Andy murmured. But he did not move. His friends had expected him to run up with team. They stared at Andy, growing uncomfortable as he hung back. After all, Andy was, or had been at least, Howie Deacon’s best friend since grade school.

“I didn’t think he’d ever come back after his parents’ divorce,” Eddie said, watching with a cautious glance to Andy.

“This is not good,” Andy murmured again.

The other six stared at him more intensely.

“Why?” Jessica voiced their confusion for them all.

Andy closed his eyes, shaking his head. He held out his burning hand. “He is the source of the magic.”

Something Stinks

Chapter Two

The Seven ducked into the shadows of the hallway, watching the crowd walk Howie Deacon up the steps like a conquering hero. The crowd’s questions almost overwhelmed the returned boy’s answers, but they heard him chuckle with embarrassment and say, “…Yeah, New York was awesome. And I would have stayed but…”

They passed by.

Andy and the other six crept out from the shadow, watching the cluster rush past with hardly an eye on them.

“Howie Deacon,” Peter murmured, shaking his head. Dumbfounded.

“It is coming from him, isn’t it?” Eddie said.

Semour nodded, clenching his burning palm and frowning.

Andy cringed, nodding also.

“I wonder what happened?” Daniel said.

“Happened?” Andy looked to him, meeting the gaze of the only other one closely related to a witch. Daniel’s half-sister, Sylvia Lewis, was a witch. So was Sylvia’s mother, Daniel’s ex-stepmother. Daniel’s father had been married three times, his second wife being the big mistake.

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Something must have happened. Think about it. Why do you think his parents got divorced in the first place? They had an idyllic marriage.”

Jessica listened, watching Andy’s face contort in thought. She had only heard stories about Howie Deacon. His parents had divorced when he was thirteen. It was unexpected and earthshattering for all involved. So devastating, in fact, that Howie Deacon had gotten into an enormous argument with his best pal, Andy, and then went off to a New York private school. Since then, he had been the stuff of legends. Everyone had a story about Howie Deacon—the biggest ones being about what little hellions he and Andy had both been before the Deacons’ divorce. 

Of course now everything was different.

Andy set a hand to his forehead. “So, what are you saying? That the witches cursed his family, and that’s why they got divorced?”

With a shrug, Daniel walked in after the end of the crowd. “One way to find out.”

The others followed him. Daniel usually had the best plans of action, though he also was the quickest to get into trouble.

On the edge of the crowd, they overheard David Yates ask, “So, Howie, are you going to stay to the end of the year?”

Howie chuckled. “Ok, first off, it’s Rick. And, I don’t know.”

The crowd murmured.

“Rick?” someone from the basketball team said.

“What do you mean Rick? Your name is Howard.”

That got several laughs.

Scratching the back of his neck, Howie-who-wanted-to-be-called-Rick said, “Yeah…but my middle name is Richard, and I have been going by Rick for the past three years.”

Andy inched closer to Daniel, ducking down so he would not be seen. Daniel shared a glance with him, stepping towards the shadows.

“But what’s wrong with Howie?” someone asked.

“It’s a kid’s name,” replied Howie-who-insisted-on-being-called-Rick, tossing up his hands as if that was enough reason.

Andy chuckled, nodding. He had also lost his old kid nickname three years ago. ABC.[1] Embarrassing kid names had to die a quick death.

“So, Rick,” said Milton Coombe, Peter’s cousin and a guy who liked to be king of the mountain whenever he could, “What brought you back?”

Rick Deacon looked to him, meeting Milton’s gaze the way he always had when they were kids—dryly. Lifting his chin with a glance to a few others in the hall, he—

The chorus of Werewolves in London went off in his pocket.

Rick swore under his breath. “—bloody jerk!” He whipped his cell phone out and flipped it open, shouting. “Tom!”

They could hear cackling through the phone. It was loud enough. Rick punched the volume button so it was at a more sensible decibel. Several of their classmates snickered, leaning closer to hear.

“You messed with my ringtone, you jerk!” Rick snapped into it. He met the gaze of several girls in Junior League who had weaved their way into the crowd, inching closer. Their eyes widened with surprise and pleasure upon seeing the heir to Deacon Enterprises, especially listening to the conversation. They smirked at him.

“Not right now. Ok? Class is just—Ok. Fine. Thanks. I’m here safe. Are you done checking in on me?” Rick listened. “Fine. Fine. Ok. I miss you too. Love and kisses and all that, you ridiculous imp.”

He closed the cellphone then blinked at his smirking audience. A blush rose on his cheeks, but Rick just chuckled it off, putting his phone on mute then tucking it away.

“Old girlfriend?” one of his old pals asked, snickering.

Rick shook his head. “Nah. Old roommate.”

That got more stares. Several people laughed.

“Yeah,” Rick said, nodding with a roll of his eyes. “The kind of guy who steals your wallet and orders Chinese takeout for everybody.” He then pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, opening it. “Now I’ve gotta—”

The first hour bell rang.

“—get to class.” He looked up at the door numbers, most of his watching crowd dispersing.

“I’ll help you.” Amy Paige, a pretty blonde with spiral curls linked her arm into Rick’s, grinning at him. Jessica watched her, knowing the game Amy was playing. Not long ago Amy had tried to make Andy her boyfriend. Of course Howie—no—Rick was the next best thing.

He certainly was the newest thing. And not an outsider. A returning hero. And the most troubling thing for the Seven as they had no idea what the source of the magic they were feeling was.

But they also had to get to class.

The question on all their minds remained: Was Howie Deacon coming back a new ploy from the witches? Or was this an old trouble come back home to roost? The Seven shared a look, knowing they would have to be the ones to solve it.

When James strolled into his first hour Health and Safety class, he saw Rick sitting at a desk in the center of the room. Eager classmates surrounded him, waiting to hear everything he had to say about New York City. And Rick looked like he was enjoying the attention. The boy had this embarrassed smile on his face, the kind of smile of someone pleasantly surprised. He hardly looked up when James walked in and took his seat. But then Howie had never really noticed him before he had gone to New York.

Then their teacher came in. Mr. Howe looked up, blinked twice upon seeing Rick then sighed.

“Back from the big city, huh?” Mr. Howe said much like clearing his throat.

The in-class clamor quieted down. Rick ducked just slightly.

“Well, we don’t give preferential treatment here, Mr. Deacon,” Mr. Howe said. “So be prepared to keep up.”

Rick nodded good-naturedly.

“Oh my gosh,” Terah Davis said as she walked in and found an open desk, cupping her hand over her nose. “Who just cut a fart?”

The boys broke into snickers.

Two more of the girls covered their noses, cringing. One boy did also.

The others in class stared at them, blinking.

Then Terah looked straight at Rick. “It was you! Wasn’t it?”

Rick shook his head. “Hey, I don’t smell anything. He who smelt it dealt it.”

More snickers broke across the room.

James sniffed the air. No stink. Well, not more than the usual morning smells. Mr. Howe reeked of smoked nicotine and coffee. Mishelle Shipley’s perfume suffused through the room as usual, giving off a ginger-spice odor. But nothing out of the ordinary reeked in the classroom.

Terah ducked low in her seat, her face going red. Yet she kept her hand over her nose. “I didn’t!”

Mr. Howe rolled his eyes. “Miss Davis, if you please—”

The tardy bell rang. Class had to start.

And Mr. Howe called roll.

Then he went into the lesson.

James noticed as Mr. Howe went over their chapter on hygiene and the various ways to contract viruses and bacteria, that those same four people never removed their hands from their noses. In fact one girl, in the middle of the class, begged Mr. Howe for a hall pass to run to the lavatory. James sniffed the air again then shrugged. Nope. Still no reek.

The other thing James noticed was that the burn in his palm remained steady, but no longer stung painfully.

Though James loved the company of Daniel, he sometimes did not like how quickly Daniel jumped to conclusions. The most recent one went over and over in his head. Had the witches truly cursed the Deacon family? It was all conjecture at this point. None of them truly knew for certain the source of the magic they were feeling. What James did observe, however, was that Rick carried on his person a few odd things that he hadn’t before. His cell phone, for one. Howie had never been ostentatious about the wealth he had. But he had that phone in his pocket like a kid held a security blanket.

Rick’s hoodie also had the peculiar insignia of that New York private school silkscreened on the front. One big G on a shield with fancy filigree, wheat sheaves and a crown. Typical really, but it hadn’t been Howie’s style before. Howie Deacon had been, as James remembered him, the kind of kid who wore short-sleeved tee shirts with nothing on them. He used to say he saw no point in being someone else’s advertisement. Of course, a school uniform would be different.

But Rick also carried a hot pink rabbit’s foot, and dangling next to it was this oily, grubby brownish bag the size of a cell phone, like something dug out of a trash can. That, James had decided, was probably what Terah and the others were smelling. The question was, why could only those four smell it?

But that question did not get answered before the bell rang. Rick didn’t even look at James when he left the classroom. At least that was normal.

And Rick strolled onto his next class without so much as an acknowledgement. And since he had seen nothing to alarm him, James marched onto his next class with a shrug.

Peter sat in Mr. West’s History class with his textbook propped up, finishing the last of his homework assignment when he felt the burn surge up in his palm. He looked up, and sure enough the guy now calling himself Rick strode into the room. Rick met his gaze briefly, smirked then walked over to the teacher to hand him his schedule. Mr. West tilted his head back as he accepted the piece of paper, marveling over Rick’s return the same as everybody.

“So, how long are you going to stay?” Mr. West asked. Everyone listened in.

Plenty of them had not been in the hall when Rick had answered the question earlier, and Rick chuckled with a sigh, clearly prepared to answer it multiple times that day.

“I don’t know. It depends on a lot of things,” Rick said.

Mr. West gestured to the rows of desks. “Take a seat. If you don’t have a textbook yet, you can share with someone.”

Several of the girls nearby eagerly watched, hefting up their books for the chance.

And Rick sat down without further ado in the aisle next to Peter, one seat ahead.

Peter watched him silently, taking in the same thing James, had. But when his eyes fixed on the oily bag, they widened and blinked in a stare at it.

“What?” Rick whispered, turning to look at Peter the moment Mr. West’s back had turned to write on the board.

Hunching over, Peter pointed to the grubby thing dangling from Rick’s hip. “Is that—?”

“Peter McCabe,” Mr. West said, arching his head back around and eyeing Peter tersely.

Peter straightened up. “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” Mr. West said. “You should be asking that, as you should be reading—silently.” He then looked to Rick. “Both of you.”

Rick straightened up then sunk in his chair.

The teacher went back to writing.

“Mr. West?” Robin Talbot raised her hand, cupping a hand over her nose. “Can we open a window? Something stinks in here.”

“Like a dead rat,” chimed in another girl.

Rick looked back at them, puzzled, and even surprised.

“A dead rat?” Mr. West sniffed the air. Then he sniffed harder. “I don’t smell anything.”

Peter sniffed. Then he sniffed again. Nothing. He looked back to the girls.

Rick sniffed as well, and so did others in class. No one else could detect what they were smelling.

Mr. West shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t smell anything.”

He went back to writing on the chalkboard.

And the two girls clenched their hands over their noses tighter. Peter noticed, though, their eyes fixing sharply on Rick who was staring into the space in front of him with the vague expression of wonder, like someone adding up details that Peter was not aware of. Rick chuckled.

And class passed almost entirely without incident. Mr. West had assigned more homework, and their final research paper—which got him a heap of groans. But no magic.

When the class bell rang, and Rick got up, his classmates swarmed him. Peter didn’t get a chance to ask about the oily sachet Rick was carrying with him. But Peter was sure he had seen such a thing before. He just had to make absolutely sure. And if he was right, well…that solved everything. No more worries about magic.

But Rick went to Science next, and Peter had to run off to Geometry. Mrs. Cooper was already at the front of the room writing up chemical formulas. Daniel and Eddie came in after Rick did.

Taking their seats before the bell, their eyes settling on Rick as he sat in the center of yet another cluster of sophomores avidly asking what New York City was like, Daniel made sure he could hear the answers. Eddie pretended to be finishing off his homework, listening a little less attentively.

“…parade. I had to sneak out, of course. But to see the Macey’s Parade on the street is so much better than what you get on TV.”

“No commentary though,” one of the boys said with a chuckle.

Rick shrugged. “It depends upon where you are standing.”

They stared at him.

But then Rick laughed. “Actually, I missed a ton of the parade. A bunch of my friends found out I had snuck out, and they chased me down. Then my roomie Tom had to jump the barrier and climb up the Santa float—”

“What is that stink?”

Rick lifted up his head. His eyes set on Megan Delane, a girl with a pixie cut whom people knew as Twitchy Megan. She was also a witch. Megan turned her gaze over the room, clapping a hand over her nose. Then she saw Rick.

Megan let out a high pitched shriek and flattened herself against the wall. Then, tripping over her heels, she clawed her way out of the room, yowling into the school halls. Everyone stared after her. But Rick, he broke into a chuckle and shook his head.

He almost seemed pleased.

“What was…” one of Megan’s friends strolled into the room then lurched to a halt, staring at Rick. “Howie Deacon.”

Then she clamped a hand over her nose.

“You stink!”

Everyone stared to look at Rick. He shrugged, then sniffed under his arms. “I used deodorant this morning.”

Several of the boys chuckled, looking back to Megan’s friend, a witch Daniel knew as Tessa and was rumored to be related to Mrs. Kidby—the English teacher who had nosed her way into Medieval Club and consequently was also was a witch.

Mrs. Cooper, who had been staring since Megan ran out of the room, sniffed the air then cast Tessa cold glance. “If you are going to talk that way, Miss Kidby, then I might have to send you to the vice principal for a talk—about bullying.”

Tessa blanched. She hastily found a seat, just as the tardy bell rang, and slid into it. But the girl continued to glare at Rick Deacon. She kept her hand over her nose the entire class hour.

Daniel and Eddie both shared a look. Their hands continued to be warm, but Daniel noticed that he was becoming comfortable with it—the same way he had become accustomed to the burn he felt when they first started wearing the firestones. Apparently this magical thing was going to stay, and somehow, was not yet a threat. When Middleton Village had been invaded last October by elves, trolls, and dwarves, the scar stung violently, like a warning of pain.

And class ended without so much as a hiccup. Just the usual mayhem from his classmates. Nothing more. And when Daniel and Eddie left with three pages of notes on chemical reactions and the periodic table of elements, Rick departed without so much as an acknowledgement of either of them. Not that they had expected him to pay them any attention. But Daniel did leave with a theory concerning the nature of the magic about Rick Deacon, one that settled more comfortably with him than the one he had that morning.

Rick had French after that. Though none of the Seven were in the class with him to witness the repeat of the unknown smelly phenomenon, his teacher opened the windows after several complaints.

So, when Rick Deacon showed up the fifth hour at PE, dressed in the white, yellow, and black of the Middleton High Timberwolves gym clothes searching for the sophomore class lineup on the blacktop, Jessica and Peter stared along with the rest of their classmates. The guy had scars on his bare legs, like he had been literally henpecked, and one suspicious mark not unlike a bullet wound.

Coach Cluff and Ms. Lewis headed the group on the blacktop, Coach Cluff beckoning the new arrival towards them with pleased smiles. Ms. Lewis cupped a hand over her nose, wrinkling up her face in a trying-to-be-pleasant grimace. Rick blinked at her one, raised his eyebrows in surprise then took his place in row C – D in their mixed grade PE course. He sat next to Traylor Davis…and Megan Delane who jumped up like a toy on a spring.

“Noooo!”

Rick smiled and waved at her as she fled. “Hi, Megan.”

“Yeep!” Megan ran desperately to Ms. Lewis’s side, clutching at her sleeve. “Please! I can’t take it!”

Rick pressed his lips together, smothering the outright laugh that swelled inside him. Mischief was in his eyes.

Jessica blinked at him, wondering what was going on, as did many others. Twitchy Megan Delane had always been jumpy at the mere mention of Howie Deacon. Jessica had never been able to find out the real reason why. Maybe now was her chance.

Peter leaned near to Jessica, whispering, “Look at the witches.”

Blinking again, Jessica did, counting them. Each one brought their hands to their noses, covering them and making faces like something rank was on the air.

“It’s only them that can smell it,” Peter said.

“Smell what?” Jessica asked.

Shrugging, Peter pointed to the dirty little bag just barely sticking out of Rick’s shorts pocket. “The sachet.”

“Sachet?”

“Alright! Everyone, thirty sit-ups! Ready?” Coach Cluff marched in front of the class on the black top, waiting for them to get into position. The asphalt had been marked with numbers, everyone in their space except for Rick who had been directed to the end of the line of people whose names started with letters like C, D, and E after Megan ran off. The coach made Megan go back to her spot, much against her many weeping protests. Ms. Lewis eyed Rick hard.

Jessica and Peter got into position on the ground.

“One!” The kids in fifth hour PE began their sit-ups.

“Two!”

“Three!”

“Four!” And they sat up and down, not daring to lag with the count. “Five….”

As they strained their stomach muscles, Jessica turned her head to look towards Rick. Most people were. They all wanted to see how fit, or how hot, the returned boy was. All lean muscle, that boy. Even with those scars. And he smiled. 

Rick had a nice smile. Friendly. His eyes sparkled much in the way her sly father’s did when he was thinking up something sneaky, or just witty. It was the look of a person who did a lot of thinking. Not the kind of dry thinking such as philosophizing or musing on economics and law. Not pretentious. It was the kind of thinking that got a person in trouble. Clever thinking. No wonder people were drawn to him. He had charisma.

“Twenty-nine! Thirty!” Coach Cluff trotted in front of them with self-satisfied pleasure. “Now, push-ups!”

Everyone groaned, shifting positions.

After push-ups, they covered jumping jacks and stretches. Then the coach sent them to run around the track twice before directing them to the sport they had scheduled for the day. It was softball.

Teams divided by which rows they sat in. They never had a choice.

Megan pretended to have a migraine and sat on the sidelines most of the class hour while Rick manned second base. Otherwise, they’d have to be on the same team.

And he wasn’t half-bad at softball either—for a guy who was rumored as a die-hard basketball fanatic. The games played out.

Peter had hit a pop-fly and had gotten out. Jessica struck a grounder and ran to first base before getting stuck there. Their teammate, Teddy Lindon hit far right field and Jessica ran to second base. But someone caught the ball, getting Teddy out. Jessica reached second before the ball met Rick’s glove. She grinned at him then looked to third.

“So, you’re the new girl,” Rick said, tossing the ball back to the pitcher. The pitcher wrinkled his nose, struggling not to sneeze on the foul reek only he and a few could smell.

Jessica turned her head in an amused blink at Rick. “And you’re the returned hero.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Funny. No.”

“That’s the way they’re treating you,” she said, then glanced at Megan. “Except for those guys.”

Rick’s smile slid off a bit, his gray eyes fixing keenly on her.

“What does Junior League have against you?” Jessica asked, being cautious. She couldn’t outright call them witches, yet. She had to make sure he knew about them first. Not everyone in Middleton Village knew that those in Junior League, the Ladies Aid Society, and the Men’s Club were witches.

Chuckling more painfully, Rick’s eyes watched the pitch. He said, “Long story.”

Jessica’s heart jumped.

Lucas Michaels, a junior, hit the ball their way. Rick scrambled to pick up the ball three feet away from the base. Jessica didn’t dare run. He was too close.

He threw it to first. But Lucas made it safely to the plate.

Jogging back to his plate, Rick looked to her almost fondly and said, “So, how do you like living in Middleton Village? Small town?”

With a snort, Jessica shook her head. Her eyes fixed on third plate. She had to run this time. The hitter was this guy who usually hit them well, some junior she did not know much except that he played well.

“Aren’t you from LA?” Rick asked.

She looked over at Rick. “How’d you know?”

He gazed at her with eyes that said Are you stupid? “Your mom works for my dad. You’re Jessica Mason, right?”

She nodded.

With a smirk back in his eyes, he said, “I’m supposed to invite you to dinner tonight. Dad said to look out for you.”

Jessica blushed.

The junior hit the ball, and it flew right over her head.

Those in outfield ran for it.

She sprinted to third base, then on to home.

Jessica didn’t get a chance to speak with Rick until everyone jogged in to shower (or pretend to shower) and change clothes. He caught her elbow just before she reached the girl’s locker room doors.

“Hey. I didn’t get an answer. Are you coming to dinner tonight?” He was smiling, almost blushing.

Jessica ducked her head in a faint blush. He was cute. “I think if your dad invites my mom, I’m sure we’ll be coming.”

He smiled more.

Traylor jogged by just then, whispering in Rick’s ear as she passed, “She’s got a boyfriend, Howie.” And looking at Jessica, she added, “Cheater. I’m telling Andy.”

Rolling her eyes with a shoulder-hang, Jessica moaned.

But Rick blinked at Jessica, a flicker of dismay in his eyes. Yet a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “A boyfriend? Who?”

Shrugging, Jessica sighed, and patted Rick on the shoulder before going through the locker room doors herself. “Your old pal, Andrew Cartwright.”

Stunned was not the word to describe Rick’s posture after that. More like freeze-dried with shock. Peter jogged up to him, wrapped an arm around Rick’s stiffened shoulder and tried to steer him towards the boys’ locker entrance.

“They started dating in October. Come on, we go this way.”

Rick turned in a look to Peter. He registered the boy’s face then thawed with a sway as though he was just finding his knees again.

“Sorry, I—” Rick then blinked out the thought. “I haven’t even seen him around. They’re dating?”

Peter nodded. “Seriously.”

Rick’s expression dropped directly into a disappointed sulk. It only lasted a couple seconds before he shrugged and rolled his eyes, shaking Peter off to stand on his own. Looking to Peter again as Peter smothered a chuckle, Rick met his gaze with a frown. “So, what’s up with you?”

As they walked, Peter pointed to the oily-looking sachet in Rick’s pocket.  “Can I see that?”

Automatically, Rick snickered deep and shook his head. “No way. I promised Bo Bo I’d never take it off.”

“Who’s Bo Bo?” Peter asked.

Rick marched into the locker room quicker, like he wanted to shake Peter off. Peter kept on his heels though.

“Old classmate,” Rick said. Then he stopped. “Look, I know you are into freaky voodoo-like things. But this isn’t a toy.”

Peter pulled back a step.

Turning, Rick said, drawing the sachet out of his pocket. “I don’t even know what this thing does.” He then set it in the open locker in front of him, fiddling with the combination to the lock on the locker next to it. “And I really don’t want to find out what will happen if I take it off.”

Snorting, Peter glanced about the locker room at the boys from the Men’s Club. They were cupping their hands over their noses. Taking another step back, deciding he ought to go change, he said, “Isn’t it obvious?  It’s a witch detector.”

And he walked off.

Rick watched him, eyes widening in a stare.

Lunch hour and everyone in the school was now abuzz over the return of Howard Richard Deacon the III. Everyone now knew he was there. And everyone waited for his entrance into the cafeteria.

The moment he stepped through the doors, there was a cheer. Most of the basketball team (varsity and junior varsity) stampeded to his side. And against popular odds, they did not raise him on their shoulders as many expected them to do. Rick’s eyes scanned the lunch room, searching, the girls hoped, for someone special he wanted to spend lunch with. But really, he only stopped searching when he saw Andy.

And Andy was watching him from his regular lunch table in the center of the room, surrounded by a cluster of people of all grades. Most were members of Medieval Club asking King Peter for favors regarding the upcoming renaissance fair.

Rick took one step from his old basketball pals then stopped.

“Red!” Semour jogged into the cafeteria, holding out an envelope with the Medieval Club’s official seal. He handed it to Andy. “I was entrusted to hand you this challenge, from—can you believe it—Timothy.” He peeked over at Rick, feeling his presence in the room.

Daniel and James stood up from their seats, peering at it.

“Wow,” Daniel murmured as Andy took the envelope without taking his eyes off Rick, “He’s actually read the rules.”

“And followed them,” James said. He peeked back at Rick also.

Darryl steered Rick back into their crowd with a word in his ear. Rick frowned and nodded. Then he sighed and went in farther, engulfed by those seeking his attention.

Andy finally took his eyes off of Rick, sliding his finger through the top of the envelope, opening it. Then he pulled out the letter, reading it silently. He nodded, peeking up once more at his old friend. Then he handed it to Peter. “It’s official. Timothy wants to duel me at the big meeting this afternoon.”

“What for?” Eddie asked, silently watching the exchange between Rick and Andy up until that moment. Since Rick turned away, the interesting part was over.

Shrugging, Andy looked towards Rick once more. “Who knows? It isn’t like he can beat me in a sword fight. And it isn’t like he’ll win anything.”

Jessica strode into the room, raising one hand to the others with a smile, and waved. She hurried up to the group. Then she looked towards the largest cluster in the room, smirking more. “Let me guess. That’s where Rick is at.”

All the boys nodded. Andy frowned.

“Did he say anything to you yet?” Jessica asked, leaning near him.

Andy shook his head. “The room is too crowded.”

Pulling back, Jessica made a face. “He’s your best friend—”