The Problem With Black Magic
By Karen Mead
Copyright 2012 Karen Mead
Books in The Familiar Series
Book One: The Problem With Black Magic
Book Two: Succession of Witches
Book Three: Random Acts of Sorcery
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Dedication:
To Adam
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
About Karen Mead
Chapter One
Cassie gave up hope of getting into her book about two chapters in. The 800-page fantasy tome kept mentioning "spells", and that kept making her shiver, despite the fact that she was positively toasty in her pink hoodie.
She tossed the book on the coffee table next to her haphazardly, where it made a dangerous sounding thump, and stretched out on the leather couch. Maybe she would have to switch genres for a little while; her mom seemed to be fond of mystery novels lately. Cassie had never really cared about "who done it," but reading about magic— even fanciful, old-fashioned stuff with castles and unicorns— was a little too close to home right now.
Across the room, her father was watching a local news discussion show while he went through the mail, his typical weeknight routine. Cassie had been trying to ignore the voices coming from the TV for the past ten minutes, with little success.
“It’s been almost a week, and still we’ve heard nothing substantial,” said a commentator with brassy blonde hair in a dark red power suit. “Washington wants to pretend the situation doesn’t exist, Greenwich is MIA, and who does that leave? CERN? MIT? They’re mystified.”
"What can they say? We lost time— it ain't coming back," said Cassie's father, looking up from the bills he was sorting. He seemed to be talking to the commentator, but he spoke loud enough that his wife in the next room could hear.
"Enough with that, we did not "lose time," that's ridiculous and you know it," said Cassie's mother, almost yelling to be heard over the roar of the dishwasher. "It was a computer error, that's what they're going to find."
Cassie's father threw the business-folded letterhead into his lap, annoyed. "Yes Annette, it was a computer error— every computer and watch in the city at the same time! For no reason! That makes perfect sense!"
Cassie rolled her eyes when her mother barked a reply, shivering again and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her parents had been having this argument nonstop since the aberration was discovered, going back and forth on whether the fact that the city had become 17 and a half minutes behind the rest of the world was a glitch, a prank, or some grand conspiracy. Cassie knew, but she wasn't sharing.
"The fact of the matter is, time stopped here: for almost 18 minutes," said a scholarly looking man with a grey beard on the discussion panel. "If you don't believe what the computers and every analogue clock within a 10-mile radius tells us, there's all those phone conversations that mysteriously stopped on our end. The fact that we don't know why, or the fact that some keep saying it should be impossible, doesn't change the fact that that's the simplest, most logical explanation."
The smiling moderator began to explain that the bearded man taught physics at the university, accompanied by some unnecessary footage of the sunny Sterling College campus, when the TV was switched off by Cassie's mother. Her father rolled his eyes and went back to sorting the bills on his lap. Annette bent her ample frame to put the remote in its holder and looked over at her daughter. "Are you okay, honey? You look a little pale."
Cassie felt the heat rush into her face, and hated herself for it. Why was she even nervous? Even if she did tell them why the news had made her jumpy, it's not like they would believe her. "I dunno, it's just...this whole time-skip thing. It's weird. I wish they would stop talking about it already."
"Not until we get an answer, they won't," said her father, half under his breath. Of course, Annette still heard.
"There may not be an answer, Jon! Can't you just accept that? Can't you just, for once in your life—"
"But what about the people on the phone! Dozens of people, conversations just stopped— Cassie?"
Cassie had jumped to her feet, siding past her mother. She stomped down the hall in her socks, slamming the door to her room behind her. For once, she was happy she and her mother didn't always get along; slamming the door was shorthand for "let me cool off," and her mother would respect their unwritten codes, developed over many years of heightened screaming matches over Cassie's clothes, her friends, the status of her homework— basically, her entire life. Annette could be trusted not to barge into her room for at least an hour.
Cassie dropped face-down on her bed, hooking her arms under her pillow for comfort. The mild buzzing between her shoulder blades that had started last Sunday was annoying, but she could ignore it. She smirked to herself: at least she'd changed the topic of conversation between her parents from the stupid time-skip to what they'd done to piss off their "sensitive" daughter now.
At least sensitive is what her parents’ marriage counselor had called her, though Cassie herself wasn't so sure. A bit of a tomboy when she was younger, still more comfortable around boys than girls, she was anything but a shrinking violet. She had enough of her mother in her to usually speak her mind, although she could only hope that she didn't sound anywhere near as annoying while doing so. The whole "sensitive" angle only came about when she hit puberty faster than everyone else, and suddenly felt like the whole world was calling her fat.
Unable to get comfortable, Cassie got out of bed and walked to the mirror. She knew she wasn't fat— in fact, it was debatable whether or not she was even overweight— but a size twelve was hardly considered the ideal teenaged girl's body, and she knew it. She had been told she was pretty enough times to believe it, and she was a little vain about her eyes, unusually large and dark blue in color. Her glossy jet-black hair, which she always kept short for convenience, was also something she took pride in. It was her shape that was the problem, or so she thought.
Still, looking in the mirror, Cassie saw a normal, and not unattractive, 16-year-old girl; one that could maybe stand to lose ten pounds, sure, but not a big deal. She had obsessed over her appearance a few years ago, but she was more accepting of it now; so she would never be a supermodel. Big freakin' deal, most people weren't and they seemed to get over it. She could too.
Besides, if anything, she was losing weight. One benefit of being so worked up over the past week was that her stomach was in a constant clench, when it wasn't churning with nerves. It made eating seem unappetizing, and she'd only picked at her food lately. Cassie turned to the side, noticing that she had some wiggle
room in this pair of jeans for the first time she could remember.
A few weeks ago, Cassie wouldn't have believed that she'd turn down the opportunity to lose weight effortlessly, but now, she'd gladly trade in her old appetite for some peace of mind. For going back to the belief that magic wasn't real, and that it wasn't scary as hell.
Cassie stepped back from the mirror and rubbed her temples; she hadn't been responsible for the time skip, but she knew who was. She had seen him stop time, so that people on the street in front of the shop were paused mid-stride. She had seen a building, leaning sickening to one side and about to collapse and crush dozens of people, if not hundreds, paused at an impossible angle, pulled out of time before it could fall.
It barely took any time after the earthquake before people realized that a circular area, approximately 10 miles in radius, was out of synch with the rest of time. At first, people dismissed the incorrect times as slow watches and computer errors, only to realize that everyone around them was also resetting their clocks. Wristwatches, MP3 players, game consoles- anything with a time function was exactly seventeen minutes, thirty four seconds behind. The banks had discovered it first, and then somehow it went viral- social media networks were ablaze with "Are you in downtown Sterling? CHECK YOUR WATCH!" in a matter of minutes.
Of course, some people found out instantly; anyone who was on the phone with someone in Sterling and heard the other end of the line suddenly go deathly silent knew something was up.
Cassie sat down at her computer, feeling tired even though she'd done nothing but laze around ever since she'd gotten home from school. If she had seen this alone, she could convince herself she was crazy, and that would be that. As it was, she couldn't go five minutes without hearing about the stupid time skip.
Worst of all, the one person who could possibly explain this to her was gone, and probably wasn't ever coming back. Cassie tried to distract herself with an online game, but gave up after only thirty seconds, logging out. She pushed the keyboard out angrily, and rested her head in her arms. Unbidden, thoughts of that Sunday morning began to take over. Mostly, it was the image of Sam reaching out to take her hand that her mind kept repeating.
Leaning back in her chair, Cassie decided then and there that she was going to return to work the next day. It was unlikely going back to the coffee shop after school would clear anything up, but it was better than stewing in her room indefinitely.
Sam. The guy at the shop who always seemed to hate her. Where did he go?