CHAPTER I: EX NIHILO
The autumn breeze swept down the peaceful streets of Sunnydale, California, conjuring faint swirls of leaves and trash across cracked pavement and mended tarmac. The sun, half obscured by silver clouds, hung low in the pinkening sky. It was getting darker earlier. It was barely four o'clock now, and I doubted there were more than few hours of daylight left. Winter was on the horizon.
My legs burned. Home wasn't far from school, but it was up an incline that refused to agree with me. Just another block, though, and I could kick my feet up and relax.
113 Greenwich Drive was a Craftsman-style home, like many others in town. Horizontal lines, exposed beams, and low-pitched roofs tiled with an ashen grey. It was old but well maintained. You couldn't even notice the scratches in the wood or the chips in the paint unless you were really looking. It was also big. Spacious. Two-stories tall and with a full basement.
A colourful assortment of flowers and shrubbery sprouted about the front yard, cast in shadows by an old oak. Dad's personal Eden, guarded by weather worn thatch fencing.
A cobblestone path cut from sidewalk to the dark wood porch. The door was a wide piece. Hard wood. Solid. Locked, as I soon realised. I wrestled with my bag, pulling my keys from a side pocket. But, before I could unlock the door, it swung wide open.
"Ah, Kaity-dear!" said Dad, dressed to the nines in a fitted suit and—was that lilac? A new perfume, I guessed. "How was school?"
Dad was a bit shorter at me, with my few-inches-off-six-foot frame. Had a bit more muscle than me, though. Strong was a good word to describe him. Strong, hard features, yet immeasurably soft. Good for hugs. A high contrast to his gangly daughter with the awkward posture.
I eyed him cautiously as I entered the house. He was happy. Exuberant. Why? "Um. Good," I replied, glancing around, suspicious that something had been planned without my knowing. "What's up? You look just about ready for a wedding."
If I were to describe my parents' taste in interior decorating, it would be 'homey.' Cluttered, others might say, but that was unfair. It was just decorated. Like, really decorated. Tapestries, paintings, posters, and woven pieces hung from the walls. Photos, statuettes, and models of all sorts stood proud on old shelves, side by side with piles of books, old and new, all well-loved. Potted plants and flowers hung from the ceiling or sat in corners, vibrantly green and blooming.
Most of the furniture was wood. Actual wood. Not plywood or some kind of composite. Many were second hand, too. Antiques, diamonds in the rough scavenged from thrift stores.
It was the antithesis to minimalism, filled with love and history.
Dad shook his head, his glittery blue eyeshadow sparkling in the light. "Nah. Me and Mom are going on a date tonight. Do I look good?"
I was terrible with fashion. Just ask Cordelia Chase: fellow classmate and world-class bitch. "Grunge's redheaded step-child," was her assessment, not that I could blame her. I was a redhead. Auburn, really. And I couldn't coordinate colour nor style to save a life.
But Dad was nervous. Grin twitching, fighting between an eager glow and an insecure grimace. I sighed, adjusted my glasses, and gave him a once over.
The suit was a nice touch if a bit much for a date. His hair, like mine, was curly, but cut short and styled so perfectly I couldn't help but be jealous. His make-up, too. Subtle, yet present. Foundation. Eyeliner. Lip gloss. Though, the eyeshadow was kinda gaudy, if entirely Dad. I told him as much. "—but you look good. Maybe just a tad less formal?"
"Yeah, you're right." He mussed my hair and his grin looked a bit more sincere. "Thanks, darling. Now, Mom won't be home for a bit — she's gettin' her nails done — but we'll be heading off once she gets back, okay?"
"Alright," I replied. "When'll you be getting back?"
"Around ten. Eleven at the latest."
I grunted in acknowledgement and spared a moment for some admittedly stilted small talk. How was your day? Get up to much? Funny little anecdote. The usual. But my legs were aching, and I had homework, so I bid him adieu (or, in my case, adiós), and started the hike up the stairs to my bedroom.
My name is Kaitlyn Nienna Sinclair, but most called me Kaity. And, yes, you heard right. Nienna, the Valar of Mercy and Grief, as written in J.R.R. Tolkien's Silmarillion. Mom was a fan; Dad had to deal. I'm in junior year of the illustrious Sunnydale High: the only high school where cheerleaders spontaneously combust; principals get eaten by rabid dogs; and the student newspaper had its own obituary section.
Of course, that wasn't the worst of it (I say, with all due sarcasm). Classes were a slog; the textbooks weighed a ton; and Principal Snyder — replacement for the late, great Flutie — was, politely, a dickhead.
Maybe I was being a bit harsh. There were some positive qualities about that hellhole, but I wasn't feeling charitable lately. Not, especially, after the rather eventful Halloween night a week ago. I still remember the sickening dread of waking up in the school library, alone, in the middle of the night. One second, the cutest witch in town. The next?
I spent two hours in the library, huddled up in the corner and sobbing my eyes out. People were shouting. Screaming! Distant. I was terrified. Almost threw up. "Don't go out alone at night," was my parent's number one rule. Number two was: "Don't investigate strange noises." It was fair, of course. On par with: "Don't talk to strangers." Only, there was an intensity to my parents which elevated these rules above simple street smarts.
And now, I would be left alone again. First time since Halloween. Yippy. If I was being honest, I wasn't too fond of the idea. Worms wriggled in my guts. Prickling anxiety I couldn't quite ignore. Still, the week had numbed the trauma. So long as I kept distracted, everything would be fine. Hopefully.
By the time Mom got home, I was in the zone. Burnt through three chapters of The Great Gatsby, and half of my Spanish homework. There was more, of course. Always more. Essays. Projects. Etcetera. Etcetera. A case study of Byzantine mosaics sat on my bed — a drawn fresco of a made-up saint sketched in my artbook — amongst the scattered textbooks and notes.
Still, Mom was home. Good enough excuse for a break, if I did say so myself.
I peeled myself from my desk and tiptoed my way downstairs. Dad was there. Gushing. Compliments flowed from his lips.
Mom preened, a peacock, both figuratively and somewhat literally. She was tall and graceful, with a plump figure and a wide smile, with a style somewhat esoteric. Colours and patterns; an abstract tapestry transformed into a beautiful dress with a floral shawl hanging from her shoulders — all handmade. Her hair was up, tied in an elaborate French braid, and a pair of star earrings hung from her ears.
Then there was Dad. He'd lost the suit and went full lumberjack with some decent jeans and a flannel shirt. Casual, sure, but Dad had the uncanny ability to make anything he wore runway worthy.
When Mom saw me, she smiled. She was practically buzzing in excitement. "Oh — oh! Dear, did you wanna see my nails?"
I did, in fact.
She held out her hands and I took a look. "Oh, those are pretty." Far better than the chipped, purple mess I had. Hers looked like a piece of art in comparison. Gorgeous pastel rainbow melting together with a glossy finish. "Where'd you get these done?"
"New shop on Maple Court. They opened late last month. Honestly, dear, they were so nice. Loved my dress, too, so I think I've hooked myself a few new customers." Mom worked in retail. A small dress shop, locally owned. Her passion, however, was dressmaking. "I can take you down someday, if you want."
"Yes please." I was usually too practical to do anything but basic colours, but even I liked to splurge a bit. Once in a while.
We made our way to the kitchen; Mom set her handbag down on the table and poured herself a glass of water. "So, how was school?"
"Good, good," I said, fetching an apple from the fridge. "More of the same, really. But we did start reading The Great Gatsby."
Mom's eyes widened, deep brown eyes alight with interest. "Oh, really?" She looked just about ready to quit the date just to talk books. Dad pantomimed anguish. "That was one of my favourite books back in school. What do you think? Are you enjoying it so far? What chapter are you up to?"
"We only just started. I'm up to chapter four, but it's alright." Not really my style, though. Older books were annoying to read and this one was no exception. I much preferred modern fantasy or sci-fi.
"Before you pounce on our daughter," Dad said warningly to his belovéd wife, "We do have reservations tonight."
"Sorry, honey." She would've looked thoroughly chastised, were she not still grinning ear to ear. "We better head off, then. But, when you're finished, you'll have to tell me all about it."
That was a promise Mom wouldn't forget, and suddenly I wished the book was a tad longer. Maybe twice as long. It wasn't that I didn't like our little chats, it's just that Mom could be rather . . . verbose when it came to things she was rather passionate about.
Mom and Dad set about getting ready, checking their bags and making sure they had everything they needed. Keys. Wallet. Money. And not before long, they were off.
"There's leftovers in the fridge," said Mom, half out the door. "Just heat it up."
Pasta bake. That's what Mom meant. Maybe even some Spaghetti if Dad hadn't eaten it yet. Neither were particularly appetising — I wasn't a leftovers fan — but I'd eat what I had to.
"We'll be home around ten!"
Or eleven.
"And you know the rules," added Dad.
I rolled my eyes. Every time they left it was the same old thing. "Yeah, yeah. No friends. Don't leave the house. Don't spend all night on the phone. Yada-yada."
"I'm serious, Kaity," Dad gave me a pointed look.
"I know, Dad. Stay safe."
"You, too! Don't burn down the house." And with that, they left.
The low and muffled rumble of their car coming to life sounded a moment later, then faded out as they drove off. I locked the door shut and then began closing the curtains. It'd be dark soon and I didn't want anyone peeking in.
I finished the apple, turned on the TV, collected my homework, and set up shop in the lounge with a bag of salt & vinegar. My parents didn't much like the idea of me doing homework in front of the television. "Too much of a distraction," they said. Of course, their opinion only mattered when they were home. Which they weren't. And, when they got home, there wouldn't be any homework left.
For the time being, I switched to one of the Spanish-language networks. Helped with learning. Retaining. I could even understand them half the time. I wasn't really paying attention though. The TV was just white static to fill the void. I wanted to get my homework done, to enjoy the rest of my weekend. Hopefully, I'd even get done by the time Sabrina: The Teenage Witch aired.
The blackout came without warning.
Sabrina was on, but I was headfirst into my Byzantine case study. Adding lines, erasing lines, throwing my hands up in defeat, before doing it all over again. I still wasn't sure if the Greek inscription was right, either, but I didn't wanna go down that rabbit hole again.
Then, the darkness came.
At first, I wasn't even sure what was going on. My brain trudged along at a snail's pace, wondering where all the light went. Then it hit me.
The power was out. No lights. No TV. Not even the faint hum of the fridge I had all but gotten used to. Silence. My chest tightened, and ugly fear skittering across my skin. Every slasher film I'd seen played out in my mind. Someone had cut the power. A murderer. A serial killer. Gangs on PCP. They were going to break in and I'd wind up on the school newspaper: the latest of many students who had died or otherwise disappeared.
I hoped they used a good picture of me. Hoped my body wouldn't be too gruesome. They usually were, though. Pale. Lifeless. Eyes empty, staring up at the ceiling, begging. "Why me?" I could still remember the smell of blood. The crimson smears across the wall — a throat ripped out. The acrid scent that got stuck in my throat until I was choking.
It didn't matter how long it took, nobody got through the Sunnydale school system without seeing a dead body.
Seconds passed, an eternity, as I sat frozen — fear twisting my insides as I imagined every possible way I could die. My cheeks felt wet. I was crying. Snot dribbling. Shaking. What should I do? What could I do? I couldn't see anything. If I tried running somewhere safe, I'd trip, crack my head open. But if I sat still. If I waited . . .
A minute passed. Two, then three. Nothing happened.
No murder pounced through my windows. No gang crashing through my front door. Nothing. I took a deep, shuddering breath and chanced a peek out of the window.
Darkness. Pitch-black for as far as I could see. Even the streetlights were out. It was a normal blackout. Just a normal blackout. An accident. Someone using too much power. A branch falling onto some wires. I wasn't going to die. I wasn't.
"God, I'm so stupid . . ." I wiped my cheeks, sniffled, and shut the curtains.
Still. Light. I needed a light. Needed something to feel safe. A flashlight. Anything. I knew we kept one somewhere in the house, but I had no idea where. Candles were another option. Dad collected them, and I knew we kept one on the TV stand. Left side, beside some framed photos.
I shut the curtains and fumbled over to the TV stand; hand stretched, creeping toward where I knew the TV was. It didn't take long and soon I was knocking over picture frames, searching for the candle. Nothing shattered — thank God for that — and I was soon in possession of a thick candle, half-burnt and smelling vaguely of tropical fruit.
Next stop, kitchen.
Getting there was easier. Just follow the wall. Sure, there were potted plants and bookshelves to watch out for. The occasional painting or wall-hanger. But once I was in the kitchen, there'd be less clutter to deal with. The counters acted like an excellent barrier, and soon I was where I needed to be. The top draw was mainly reserved for cutlery. Knives and forks, spoons and sporks. To the left, big knives: steak knives and bread knives, spares and everything that wasn't stuck into the antique knife block on the counter. To the right, wooden spoons and, more importantly, the lighter. A cheap hand-held one. Suitable for lighting the stove — even if I wish we had a longer one — but perfect for a candle.
Chk. Chk. I flicked the lighter, small sparks flashing to life for all but a second. Chk. Chk. Chk. Nothing. No flame. Chk. Chk. "Oh, come on!" I shook the lighter to my ear but heard nothing. No swish of lighter fluid. "Seriously? Ugh. Damn it!"
Frustration burned, and I had half a mind to just throw the lighter away. I didn't, though. I was more mature than that. Instead, I slammed it against the table and huffed.
My skin prickled, cold and distant. The world seemed to fade out of focus as I glared down at the candle. Then warmth. A fire burning in my gut, a furious blaze. I snapped my fingers. "Átendra!" The heat vanished and light bloomed, filling the room with a warm, dim light.
The candle was lit.
I sagged, tired, but pleased. "There." I plucked the candle from the counter and set about returning to the lounge. I was about halfway to the couch when I stopped. Blink. The candle burned. A little wisp of flame bobbing and weaving, wavering ever so faintly.
Alight.
Burning.
On fire.
"What." The gears in my head stalled, jammed by a single mote of plasma.
Now, admittedly, I was a bit tired. Maybe the lighter worked. Except — no. I wasn't that tired. I knew how I lit the candle. A thought. A snap of my fingers. A muttered phrase, then: light.
Magic.
Magic, but magic didn't exist. Magic, but no? How—?
Oh, sure. I dreamed of magic. Attempted it, even. I mean, who hadn't stretched out their hands, trying to summon the remote from across the room? It never worked, of course. Never expected it to. When it came down to it — magic was fiction. Makebelieve.
Except, now I was holding a candle that, somehow, burst into flames.
Somehow.
I had to check. I shouldn't check. I had to. It was ridiculous. Why am I even doing this? I cleared the coffee table of homework, setting the candle down, centre stage. "You're being stupid," I said, aloud. "Magic isn't real." It isn't. I probably just—
Just what? The lighter didn't work. It was empty.
But then, how did I—? My palms were clammy. Legs bounced furiously. Heart pounding. If I did magic . . . ? No, I couldn't have. "God, am I really—? Okay. Okay."
I blew out the candle and slapped myself in the face. "Oh, I'm an idiot."
The room, predictably, was bathed in darkness once more. I couldn't see shit and I had nobody to blame but myself. Well, at least I now had more of a reason to pull magic out of my ass.
But magic isn't real.
I focused on the candle. Imagined it lit in my head. Wide. Half-burnt. Tropical scented. The wick still glowed in the dark — an orange luminescence that faded quickly. Fire. Fire. I thought of fire and — Átendra. My brain stalled again, and I could feel the beginning of a headache coming on. Átendra. I knew the word, but where? It wasn't English. It wasn't Spanish. It wasn't anything I recognised, yet I knew it. Átendra. To light. To kindle.
I shook my head, furious. "No, no, no. Focus. Focus. One thing at a time."
The candle. Fire. I took a deep breath and snapped my fingers. "Átendra!"
The foreign word left my lips, a barking command.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I felt stupid. Absolutely stupid. Magic? Am I insane? But . . . I knew what I saw. I didn't light the candle with a lighter. It was empty. it barely sparked. I knew what I felt. The prickling energy that buzzed at my fingertips. I don't know how I did it, but I did it. And if I did it once, I should be able to do it again.
I can do it again.
Focus.
Will.
Power.
I breathed deep, thought back to that absent-minded moment minutes ago. Energy welled in my gut— a strange buzzing filled the air. Fire. Fire. I thought of fire. How it burns. Oxygen. Fuel. Heat. I knew how heat worked. Knew it was just the vibrations of molecules until combustion was achieved.
I snapped my fingers. "Átendra!"
And then there was light.