Magical Influence Book One

  Chapter 8

  As I entered my room, diligently closing the door and locking it behind me, my hands were actually shaking.

  Sometimes I forgot about this side of magic. Ever since I’d moved in with my grandmother, I'd been lulled into a false sense of security. I'd almost forgotten why it was that I had come to live with her in the first place.

  Suddenly all those threats, those letters, the shadows of people following me down the street... they all flooded back into my mind.

  Magic was a dangerous business to be involved in. Help the wrong person, gain the wrong enemy.

  I ran over to the window closest to my bed, unlocked it, then locked it again firmly. I glanced out at the yard as I did.

  It was dark.

  Impossibly, stupidly, unreasonably dark. It was only 5 o'clock in the afternoon. We should have at least two more hours of sunlight, and yet as I stared out, I could hardly see anything more than the dark shapes of the remaining trees swaying in the gale.

  Taking several steps backwards, I rushed over to the other window, unlocked it, then locked it again. Then I scampered to the chest by the side of my bed, grabbed at my sacred books, and stacked them at every point of entry or exit.

  When I was done, I backed off, eventually sitting on the edge of my bed, bringing my hands down and locking them over my knees. The sound of the wind outside felt like it was hammering its way into my heart, one vicious blow at a time. Bringing a hand up, I unbuttoned my blouse and shifted my fingers past the fabric until I rubbed the skin underneath.

  Calm down, I tried to tell myself. It didn't work.

  After an uncomfortable 10 minutes, I heard a soft knock on my door. I wasn't so far gone to think it was an angry wizard here to settle debts or some creature from the underworld taking the opportunity to feast upon a frightened witch.

  “It's just me,” my grandmother assured me. Before I could go over to the door, unlock it, and shift the books, she walked through.

  Yes, she walked. Right through the solid wood door.

  I had only seen her display magic of that kind of forcefulness on one or two occasions before. We were both influence witches, after all, and our skills didn’t lie in those areas. Yet my grandmother, when pressed, seemed to be capable of the most incredible feats.

  Shifting back, my eyes started to fill with tears. For her to display such power reinforced one fact; the situation was perilously dangerous. Something that had started off as a pest of a day had grown into a beast, a wild and frantic one baying for my blood.

  “What's going on?” I kept on rubbing at my skin, trying to warm it up, but no matter how hard I tried, it was frigid to my touch.

  My grandmother didn't answer at once; she looked outside through the window by my bed, her eyes darting around keenly, no hint of the demented old bat I usually had to deal with. “We have lost one of our guards, our house is no longer safe,” she concluded as she tapped her hand on the windowsill, running her fingers over the badly painted wood.

  I took a shuddering, loud, alarmed breath. She turned to me quickly. “Keep hold of yourself. In times of chaos, call upon the calm within and the calm without will manifest,” she chided me.

  I nodded my head and then sniffed loudly. Reaching for a tissue, I clutched it into a ball, forcing one of my fingernails against my teeth as I'd chewed it nervously. “You don't think anyone is after us, right? I mean... it's just the storm, isn't it?”

  They were very stupid and naive questions, but for some reason I had to ask them.

  My grandmother shook her head. “You understand magic,” she said simply.

  I did. It was often confusing, but sometimes it was clear as crystal.

  “This storm has weakened us, it has weakened you,” she nodded her head my way. “And far more importantly, you have weakened you. You have spent the past several months, almost a year in fact, complaining of your existence. Every single detail, from my behavior to your job, to your persistent lack of romance. You have undermined everything you have, making it far easier for others to take what is left.”

  I didn't reply, just kept on chewing my fingernails, swapping over to the next one when the jagged mess I had left was too short for my teeth to gain any purchase.

  She was right, wasn't she? Dammit, she was right.

  What had I done to myself?

  While it's easy to understand the negative consequences of complaining after the fact, it is far harder to stop it when you are in full swing.

  “You have opened yourself up for attack.”

  I nodded again, the move deadened, slow, cold. I suddenly reached behind me, grabbed at my doona, and pulled it around my shoulders, huddling inside, even drawing it over my head like a hood.

  “You are right to hide,” she assured me as she sat down on my bed, ferreted her hand underneath the covers, and placed it tenderly over my own. “However, I do not think anyone is after us... yet.”

  I blinked my previously tightly closed eyes open. “But you said?” I began.

  She shook her head. “People will be after you. The storm, and your own behavior, have opened you up for attack. When something is open for attack, an attack is a logical response. You are like a goat chained and tied down in a savannah full of lions and hyenas. You are easy, inviting, and obvious prey.”

  Though she still had her hand over mine, she was no longer offering any comfort. The picture she was painting was vivid and frankly terrifying.

  “You have made enemies in your time, and they no doubt now sense your weakness,” she continued.

  I had made enemies. I'd never denied that fact. But could it be... as bad as she was trying to make me believe? Okay, I understood the portent of one of our oak trees splitting in two, and I could see objectively that my life was certainly falling apart, making me more vulnerable than I'd ever been. Yet was I exactly like an animal chained up for the slaughter?

  I knew that darkness existed in this magical world of ours. I knew that there were enemies out there that could pluck my flesh from my bones in an instant. The kind of bad guys I'd met along the way were... well, small time. Petty criminals, witches and wizards that I had rubbed up the wrong way, magicians that worked for the dark side of the law. Nobody as epic as my grandmother was trying to suggest.

  Maybe she understood what I was thinking, because she bent her head down until she stared into my eyes, even pulling the cover back to get a clearer look at my face. “You are my granddaughter. You are my son's child. You are correct, in your short life so far you have not made too many enemies, and the ones you have made cannot be classed as anything more than small. I, however, have made my fair share.”

  I shuddered.

  “They would think nothing of going through you to get to me,” she clutched my hand harder.

  I shuddered back, suddenly feeling freezing, as if someone had dumped ice-cold water over my head.

  “I have made enemies, I have lived a long time, but I have learnt much. I have helped many. But in helping one, my witch, you always disadvantage another. Such is the balance of life. My enemies are numerous as they are powerful. They will think nothing of going through you to get to me,” she repeated.

  Tears started to streak down my face.

  I understood what my grandmother was saying; I'd heard her arguments before. In fact, she had been the one that had been instrumental in getting me to move back into the house with her. For a while there I’d been happy and willing to ignore the threats and try to make my way in life as an independent witch.

  But she’d sat me down, with a cup of tea in her hand, and she’d casually told me of the people she had angered in her life. From mob bosses to wizards in control of cartels. At some point it had seemed that my grandmother had picked a fight with every evil force she could find.

  Over the past five years I had kind of forgotten that though. Living with my grandmother, watching her go slowly insane, had reinforced that I wasn't here because she was protecting me, but that I was simply s
haring her house, looking after her, and benefiting from the natural protection of having two witches under the same roof.

  That little fantasy came crumbling down as she stared right into my eyes.

  “I warned you,” she said softly.

  I yanked my hand back, crumpling it underneath my arms as I tugged the covers over my head further. It was churlish, it was childish, but I couldn't help it.

  “You must stay in here tonight. I will deal with the branch, and I will ensure this house cannot be broken into. Tomorrow we will work hard. We will prepare the defenses of this property. We will find you a job, we will buy you a car, we will fix what is broken. We will take the pieces of the life that just crumbled, and we will build you a new one. We will do it quickly. Before anyone can sense your wound, before anyone can take advantage of you.” She stood up. “There is nothing to worry about.”

  There was a fantastic amount of things to worry about, but I understood what she was implying.

  Worry would not lead to anything but danger. I was an influence witch; I understood the ability of my own thoughts and behavior to affect the world around me. If I wanted lasting change, if I wanted magic, I had to control myself first of all.

  “Sleep tight, dream of sweet dreams, and tomorrow we will rebuild your identity.”

  With that she left the room. Though I had my head firmly tucked under the covers, I swear that I never heard her shift the books from the door and open it.

  She would have walked straight through. It underlined the fact that she had a power I did not. That she was strong and I was vulnerable.