Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
They aren’t wannabe terrorists. No, these invaders are professional killers.
It’s not even been an hour since the explosions, and it must only be around fifteen minutes or so since the Pied Piper spell almost walked me off the roof.
They’re already organised, already clearing houses and killing people.
My entire body trembles. I pin my hands to my sides and push my thighs into the rough tarmac so my limbs don’t flop around as my imagination runs riot. Different scenarios run across my mind like an old movie reel, and I see another team of invaders kicking my parents’ front door down.
Fear is a horrible thing.
I’ve never felt genuine fear before today, never felt horror on this scale, and it’s frying my brain. How do other people cope with this? My nerves are on fire and my heart is pounding.
I need to get a grip on myself.
I slam my eyes closed. If I can just block the world out, perhaps I’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal, and all this will be a bad dream.
That’s not going to happen, right? I’m stuck.
This is hell and we are all stuck here. I need to grab hold of waning sanity, shove it down inside myself, and somehow use the fear.
The invaders are too close for me to continue to panic, to make a mistake, and if I get myself killed, it will only be a matter of time before my mum and dad come searching for me and they’ll die too.
This is hard. I worry I’m breathing loudly as I can’t hear myself with the headphones on. I force myself to breathe in a natural rhythm as much as possible.
Dad said he used one of my charms. The only comfort I have is my confidence in my magic. The ward will keep them safe—it has to. Yet I worry that they are already dead.
I have an idea. It’s as if a bolt of lightning strikes my brain. I know what I need to do. I have all this power locked inside me, and I’ve used my magic secretly. But now is the time to use it. To let go of my tight control.
With my eyes still closed, I wait until my heart rate calms. It sounds daft, but I use the power of my mind.
Cautiously, I touch the magic within me with metaphysical fingers.
The power is tucked behind my breastbone, swirling in my chest. With the precision of a surgeon, I tug out a thin strand of magic, and like threading a needle, I use the strand to reach out into the world.
It pulses. I’m careful to skirt around and not brush against anyone else’s senses. I don’t know how other people perceive magic. I’ve always presumed I’m extra sensitive and don’t know the strengths of these creatures. It would be silly to make a mistake by sounding an alarm.
I push more, and the magic eagerly responds. It crests into a wave. The wave spreads and then returns. Instantly, I feel it. As if tugging on seaweed, it drags information of all the magic I have put into the world. It connects me to all my charms. I see them. They are like dots in a vast ocean.
Whoa, that’s cool. I search and find the right pulse, the right little dot.
The ward my parents are using is fine. I can feel it hum happily in my head, and on a whim, I tie the ward magic off, wrapping it around my little finger and connecting it to me so it will give a tug of warning if anything happens.
Okay, the ward is there. They are safe. Come on now, Kricket. You can’t lie here blocking the world out all day. Yeah, I need to see when the kill team leave so I can go.
I open my eyes and carefully turn my head; the bulky headphones dig into my temple and ear just as the spicy invader magic dissipates. It seems the team has completed its nefarious task. I hold my breath as their bloodstained boots march past the car, heading down the street.
Away from me.
I force myself to wait another painful five minutes, counting the seconds in my head until I deem it safe enough to move.
Still under the car, I twist and roll, sliding my phone out.
The network is dead. No, no, no, this is bad.
I want to warn them about the doors, but now I can’t.
I want to say screw going to my place as I need to get to them now.
But the ward wrapped around my little finger gives me confidence; it will warn me if the house is attacked, and if the worst should happen, I’ll need magic to fight them.
Fight or die trying, right?
I don’t want to die.
I stuff the useless phone away, dig my heels into the tarmac, and shimmy out from under the car and back onto the street.
I drop the hood of my coat and adjust the headphones.
I no longer have the luxury of ignoring the world—I never did.
Stupid, Kricket. It’s so stupid to hide behind my coat like a little kid.
I kick at a shard of glass. I didn’t want to see the spelled, but obstructing my vision could have been a deadly mistake, a mistake I can’t make.
I double-check that the coast is clear before patting the car bonnet in thanks. This time, as I jump over the debris, most of my attention is on the smoke, which is an invaluable early warning system for baddies.
With no more interruptions, it isn’t long before my feet hit the correct road. I slow my strides, and behind the towel, my breaths are an unhealthy rasp.
The large white converted house looms out of the smoke. It’s split into a dozen small flats, all single occupancy. I’m the youngest resident, and I’ve been here for around three years.
Mum and Dad didn’t chuck me out of their house or anything. I left without a fuss ’cause of my magic dabbling. Also, a stupid council rule says if you aren’t in full-time education as soon as you turn sixteen, you’re encouraged to move to allocated accommodations subsidised by your assigned job.
Full-time education. I roll my eyes and huff under the wet tea towel.
It’s a cruel joke. There is no full-time education.
They just want us to learn enough to be busy worker bees.
Kids aren’t being born, and we don’t even have a full-time school anymore.
There are not enough children to sustain one.
Babies are rare and only come to town when poor sods are dragged here from the outside world.
It’s a ridiculous way of controlling the populace, unbalancing entire families.
Sixteen. Most teenagers are still babies at that age.
I cringe when I think about my thirteen-year-old brothers.
I can’t imagine them being out on their own in three short years.
They’ll never shower again. I felt guilty for moving out, and my mum was so upset.
But that’s what you do; rules are rules.
I ignore the wide, sad, flapping front door and hurry around the back of the building.
We aren’t allowed to own homes, and accommodations are allocated for the size of the family.
Nan moved in and took my bedroom so my parents didn’t lose the house.
Once someone reaches a certain age, they are encouraged to live with family, and Nan pretends she needs extra help.
The woman is a marvel and still works part-time at the library. Librarians are the smartest people in the world, and I wish I’d inherited her patience and grace.
The stairs to my place have rusty black railings leading into the ground and a small square concrete surround with a black flowerpot—my crappy attempt at gardening—full of stinky, dark brown, stagnant water.
I’m in the basement, which is excellent as I have my own private entrance and a window.
My mum hates this place. I can admit it’s creepy, hidden out of sight around the back of the house.
Dad replaced the rickety wooden door that was here when I moved in, and he got George, the welder, to install bars on the only window.
He also got me a motion security light. Usually, the beam is so bright that when it turns on, it lights up the entire street and the street behind.
You can bet my neighbours love that. I smile as I carefully traverse the stairs and open the door.