Chapter 14: Pound of Flesh

When I walked back into the gym, the expected happened immediately: a pig snort sound. Thanks, Monica.

There was scattered laughter. I curtsied in their general direction.

"You said four more, Coach," I said, trying to be cheerful. She let me try them on my own this time, for which I was quietly thankful.

Monica was visibly watching me, her dark eyes intent, her heavy brows furrowed.

I couldn't think what the next attack might be. At the end of the day, my pet followed me to school. Big whoop.

Right?

Spaghetti day was my favorite lunch day. The line snaked around the cafeteria, smelling of overcooked pasta and Italian spices. I avoided the meat sauce—of course, paid extra for garlic bread, and took a double helping of salad. I nodded to Michael, seeing the laden tray of a fellow garlic-bread enthusiast, and set my tray down at an empty table.

I’d forgotten milk.

Toby, seeing my tray, slid into the seat across from me, his usual constellation of friends gravitating in his wake. As I got back in line, she acted. A foot shot out. I stumbled, my arms pinwheeling, and Monica ‘accidentally’ tipped a double portion of just spaghetti sauce directly onto my silver silk button-up. Tomato paste slid down the front in a torrent of murdered moo cow, spattering my stone-washed jeans. My Converse, too.

“Eat up, piggy,” Monica said, and followed it with her best oink.

I had the irrational thought that at least I hadn’t lost the garlic bread.

The cafeteria noise dimmed, then erupted in scattered laughter. My fists clenched. A hot, white rage sang under my skin, and for a half-second, I was going to punch her. Then I remembered. I had other methods of vengeance available now.

I committed, in that instant, to doing something horrible in response.

I went to the bathroom to wash up. Of course, Monica followed, her two friends trailing her partway. She took her time, washing her hands with exaggerated care, refreshing her lipstick in the mirror. I got what I could off my shirt, the cheap fabric already staining a pale orange. I studiously ignored her.

I tried to pass her on the way out, but the bigger girl blocked my way, then socked me hard in the stomach. The air left my lungs in a pained whoosh. She grabbed my backpack.

"Let's see what the little freak has in here."

She dumped it. Textbooks, pens, and my folder—my ‘grimoire’—skittered across the grimy tile. It was just a plastic folder with photocopied pages, but it was precious. It was mine.

Monica picked up the folder. Her eyes scanned the strange symbols. “This looked like it took a lot of work,” she said with mock appreciation.

She started to tear the first page. A girl who had just entered the bathroom took one look at the scene, turned, and fled. That’s probably why Mrs. Humphrey showed up later. That, or Monica’s screams.

I’d remembered something. A coping mechanism, from when I was younger. A dark memory from a darker time. I pictured a tear, an impossibly thin red line blooming behind the point of separation.

As Monica ripped the paper, a matching tear bloomed on her forearm.

Blood, dark and startling, welled up and began to drip onto the floor. Monica stared at it, confused. As she tore another page, smaller slices, like cuts from invisible razors, began to crosshatch the surface of the wound, spreading it wider. She could see muscle fibers now, and gleaming, yellow-white globules of fat. Why wouldn’t she stop tearing? She was screeching, now, but grabbing handfuls of paper and ripping at them with frantic, crazed speed. I pictured the blue-white of her bone beneath. I locked every detail into my mind and shoved the illusion into hers with every ounce of power I could manage.

Monica’s face went momentarily slack, and she finally dropped the folder. She clutched her forearm, a choked sound in her throat. “No… no, no, no…” It devolved into a pure, panicked scream. She backed away, tripped over my backpack, and scuttled backward until she hit the wall, her eyes locked on her own ever-more-mangled arm.

I started in on the other one. It’s just an illusion, right? I thought.

I’m not proud.

The door burst open. Mrs. Humphrey ran in, her face already a mask of concern from the screams. She stepped sharply back to preserve her shoes as she saw the blood pooling on the floor, my first clue there was any there. She saw Monica, catatonic with terror. She saw me, standing over my ruined papers, my face contorted with fury, rapidly turning into confused panic.

I'd dropped the spell, but for a horrifying second it kept going anyway. And when it faded, the blood...didn't.

Mrs. Humphrey's aura went crystalline, and I knew she was looking at what I had done. Her face went pale with anger.

“She took your things and destroyed them.” Her voice was quiet.

I felt the irrational urge to defend myself. I knew better.

I pulled up my shirt, showing her the ribs that were already turning a blotchy red from the sucker punch. "And she attacked me."

"And you lost your temper and tortured her," she finished. She knelt, her hands shaking slightly as she gathered the pages, or the whole ones anyway. “These can be replaced. I will talk to Elsie. I do not know how many of these will be replaced. You've misused your power today.”

Her tone was final, severe. I deserved it. But I was out of control.

“My agency only matters when I’m the victim?” I shot back. My anger overrode the other facets of my mind, the ones demanding to know what just happened.

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Mrs. Humphrey’s hands clenched, but she controlled her voice. "You do not understand the depth of what you have done to that foolish little girl. Take a week off studying. Pet your pig. We need to think about this." She headed for the door, then stopped. “It took you just two days to go off the rails, Maxine,” she said, her voice heavy with disappointment. “Think about that. If that's who you want to become.”

I saw the gleam of paper in the toilet stall. I stepped forward and away from it, redirecting her attention like the carnies had told me.

“This is my life!” I said, gesturing around at the mess, the ruined shirt, the whole miserable scene. Not toward the toilet, though.

“This isn’t new! Why does everyone only care now that I’m getting some of my own back?”

I wasn’t being exactly fair, but as I spoke, my voice hardened with genuine hurt. I wasn’t being exactly unfair either.

Besides, I wasn’t giving up whatever little magic I had left. I wouldn’t.

“Maxine,” she said, and for the first time, she just sounded tired. “I can't talk to you about this now. Come by my office after school. No, around back, sorry. We'll get your pig, and I'll…tell you our next steps.”

She paused. "Honestly, girl, there's nothing to suspend you for. You'll graduate. And you'll have me in your corner—you will. But you think about what you did."

She left.

I felt betrayed and resentful. I carefully hadn’t drawn attention to the full page of grimoire that had slid into a toilet stall, or the other fragments scattered under the sink. Instead, as Mrs. Humphrey gathered the main pile, and the action made me feel dirtied. A final, desperate grab for the last bit of agency I had left, at the expense of the respect of someone I genuinely liked, mostly.

After she was gone, I retrieved the spell pages. One was the pyromancy candle exercise. The other was seven of the eight pieces of a guide for re-opening the second sight. It looked complete, for opening it. The missing part was probably background info, I thought. I’d get it out of Elsie later, maybe.

At least I won't be blind, I thought. And maybe… just maybe…

I went into the stall and locked the door. I promised her I'd think about the dangers. I would keep that promise. Not open flames, because fire can be catching. But I was going to try the candle exercise again. I was not going to risk having this taken away from me, too. There were two sides to pyromancy.

It didn’t work the first time. I was frustrated, and a furious, bubbling rage was building in my chest. They take everything. They always take everything.

The restroom door creaked open. “Are you coming out?” It was my teacher.

“Just a minute, please!” I hissed.

A sigh. The door closed.

I was bubbling mad. This time, when I focused on the lighter, the flame didn't just flicker. It leaned towards me. It expanded, growing hungry. That’s not what I promised. I shifted my focus. Give me your heat, I demanded of the flame, and my lighter snuffed out, its fuel consumed in an instant.

Cold slammed down within the bathroom stall, my breath going white as I blew a long exhale. I’d done it.

One down, one to go. I turned to the tattered page fragments for the second sight. I brute-forced it, staying in the bathroom through all of Chemistry and half of Biology. I was going to commit these pages to memory. They couldn't take what was in my head.

When I finally emerged, the world looked different. Desaturated, mostly. Colors were more intense for things people were using or cared about, or for people themselves. There weren't as many shadows.

French class was a blur—I was people watching, not speaking up, or partaking. Colors were more saturated around the living, less on their things, and least on things nobody cared about—ceiling tiles, for example.

The bell took an age of the earth to ring.

When I got outside, it was to find that someone had poured a slushy on my bike seat. I wasn’t surprised.

I wheeled the bike around back, where the loading bay looked sinister and abandoned, and the woods were dark and deep. I smirked slightly at the one spot of color—the back entrance, where Toby smoked between classes. Dumbass. He actually cared about that spot.

I heard a crashing in the wooded strip running parallel to the school. For a second, I saw movement under the trees… a flicker of something that didn't belong. Spidery, and gleaming.

It was looking back. I didn’t know how I could tell, just… I was sure of it.

The hairs on my arms went up, and were still standing on end when I reached the witches.

Elsie straightened up as I walked up, Mrs. Scarlett Humphrey already standing stock upright with discomfort. Mr. Oinkers looked happy to see me, at least.

They both glowed to my new eyes, silver and copper respectively.

“Shut that off, Maxine,” Elsie instructed gently. “You’ll get a migraine.”

“I don’t have that part,” I admitted, my voice flat. “Don't know how to turn it off. Someone took my grimoire.”

Mrs. Humphrey sighed, a heavy, weary sound.

“Cough it up,” Elsie said, holding out a hand. “Pages. I know what’s missing already, you know.”

I gave her the pages. She folded them into the main folder, then put the folder in my backpack.

“I didn’t have the authority to take those,” Scarlett admitted quietly. “It isn’t done.”

“I do,” said Elsie. Her voice was strangely tender. “You’re right about one thing, Maxine: I’m making up for my mistake by helping you. I don’t make your choices.” She looked me dead in the eye, and her voice hardened. "But when you have the bare minimum you need to live safely? We will renegotiate the terms of my help. Minimum ethical standards."

I nodded stiffly, fighting down tears.

“If I get my way,” Elsie said, her voice softening. “There won’t be any reason for such a tragic face. Now, let’s start with closing that Sight.”

Elsie walked me home. She’d jog down in the morning for her car, she said. "Good for the heart." Her attempt at cheerfulness fell flat in the quiet evening air.

We walked in silence for a block before she spoke again, her voice soft. "I know what you were going through today, Maxine. Not the... specifics. But the feeling. I’ve been helpless. I’ve felt the rage. I've been there. And I've gone too far, before."

I glanced at her. At her power level, I reflected with a sudden, cold horror, ‘going too far’ had probably left splatter marks.

Elsie seemed to read my mind. "To make an illusion like that stick—to make it that real to someone else—you had to immerse yourself in it. You had to pull up those horrible memories, those sensations, or they wouldn't have taken root in Monica's mind." She took a deep breath. "The pollution in your vis is worse than I'd thought. The injuries...they were partially real. Her flesh is weak there now. The skin is spiderwebbed, like stretch marks... or like old, healed cuts. The blood on the floor was real. She’s been prescribed an iron infusion to help make up the difference."

She looked pointedly at my arms, and I knew she’d seen them. The pale, silvery lines that I kept hidden under long sleeves. The wounds on Monica looked like mine.

"And you know what?" Elsie continued, her voice hardening slightly. "You could have done worse. I specifically taught you how to blind people. Blinding her and then hitting her with a heavy textbook repeatedly could have killed her. It isn't that you couldn't have been more monstrous. I see that. You were acting on impulse, not premeditation. Still—you carved her arm into hamburger.”

“I decided that I’d give her one cut per tear in my … my pages. And she wouldn’t stop! No matter how much she was hurting, she wouldn’t stop until she thought she saw her bones!”

“You made a threat, even if only in your head, and then you followed through.”

Maxine nodded.

Elsie stopped walking and turned to face me, her eyes serious. "Acting like that can become a habit."

She let the silence hang there for a moment before delivering the final blow.

"And, one day," Elsie finished, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth, "If you make enough bad habits? Witch hunters will put a sniper round in your skull."

That night I cried myself to sleep.