Page 13 of That Ain’t Witchcraft

When I was a kid reading comic books with Sarah and Artie, I never imagined myself as Gwen Stacy. I was much more into the idea of being Peter Parker, or better yet, Jessica Drew, someone who was badass and awesome in my own right. Not that Gwen wasn’t cool, it’s just that Gwen had a nasty tendency to wind up dead, regardless of the timeline, and that isn’t my scene. Since hooking up with Sam, though, I was starting to understand the appeal.

As a human, the trapeze is as close as I can reasonably come to flying. My sister is into free running, which is mostly about falling with style, and she does what she can within the limits of her human anatomy, flinging herself off the side of buildings and using a combination of momentum and acrobatic training to translate meaning into motion. I may not like her much, but I’ll be among the first to admit that what she does is impressive as hell.

Sam takes all that and throws it out the window. Take a monkey’s strength, speed, and grace, and scale it up for a human frame. Then combine it with a lifetime of intensive training, and what you’ll get is the closest thing I’m ever likely to meet to the real-world Spider-Man. He kept one arm wrapped around my waist, tight enough that I didn’t worry about falling, and hurled himself through the trees with the casual fluidity of a man who had absolutely no concerns about falling. I put a hand over my mouth to keep my laughter inside. People don’t usually look up. It’s one of the weirder facts about people. Even if they did, we were moving quickly enough that it was incredibly unlikely we’d be seen. Someone laughing overhead would be a lot harder to explain.

Sam shot me a concerned look when I moved my hand. I lowered it just enough for him to see me smiling. He flashed a quick, understanding smile of his own and kept going, the woods whipping past all around us, the world turned green and magical.

Then we were dropping out of the trees at the edge of the artificial clearing containing our new home. Sam let me go as soon as I had my footing. He stepped into the shadow of the woods for a beat, and then swore softly as he moved to stand next to me, human and barefoot in the autumn chill.

“You need to carry a pair of flip-flops if you’re going to do stuff like this,” I said.

“Normally I do. I was just so excited by the idea of actually stretching out some of the kinks in my back that I forgot.” He shrugged, expression wry. “Next time.”

“Every rock you step on will be a reminder of that promise.”

“Gee, you’re sweet. How did I ever find a girlfriend as sweet as you?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” I leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go see if Cylia is back from the store.”

We walked together across the open field, him hopping and swearing every time he stepped on a rock, me trying not to laugh at him, and it had been a long time since I’d felt that hopeful or that genuinely at peace. It was a nice change.

It was really a pity that I already knew it was never going to last.

Four

“Sometimes it’s important to stop and breathe. It’ll improve your mood. It’ll also improve your aim. Nothing fixes most problems like shooting them in the head.”

–Alice Healy

Entering a slightly less unfamiliar house in New Gravesend, Maine

CYLIA’S CAR WAS BACK in the driveway. Everyone was safe: everyone was home. I took Sam’s hand as we walked around the corner of the house, heading for the kitchen door, which was propped open to let the afternoon air inside. As we got closer, we could hear Cylia telling Fern where to put the groceries. I grinned and sped up, pulling Sam with me, until I was finally able to stick my head inside. Then I stopped, blinking.

Fern was balancing on a chair, loading staples—sugar and salt and rice and dried beans—into the cupboard above the pantry. Cylia stood a safe distance away. If Fern fell, she could bleed off enough of her density that she’d bounce off the floor like a big, really weird balloon. If Cylia fell, we’d wind up at the local emergency room.

The amount of care Cylia was taking to stay clear, though … “How much bad luck does the universe owe you?” I blurted.

Cylia turned to offer me a twisted smile. “Hello to you, too,” she said. “Enough that it’s going to hurt when it hits me—and it should only hit me. I told the luck to find this place for my use. I’m expecting a twisted ankle, or for the car to blow all four wheels at the same time, or for my wallet to get lifted. That doesn’t mean I need to give things a chance to swing in the other direction. I’d rather be neutral than lucky.”

“Raise your hand if you like your personal weirdness better than the idea of constantly doing bookkeeping for reality,” said Sam dryly.

“I can’t raise my hand, or I’ll hit myself in the face with the pancake mix,” said Fern.

“Did you buy the whole grocery store, or only the parts that looked interesting?” I asked.

“One of the possible expressions of my current luck deficit could involve my credit cards getting turned off for a week,” said Cylia. “Fern has her cards, and I know you have cash, Annie, but Sam’s broke—”

“Sorry our carnival caught fire,” he said.

“—and it’s not like any of us are working. I wanted to make sure we could eat without resorting to petty larceny.”

“Or hunting,” I said. “This looks like the kind of place where I could find deer.” The thought of a nice piece of venison made my mouth water. Hunting with Dad—and occasionally Grandma Alice, when she was in the right dimension during deer season—had been one of my favorite parts of childhood. It had been recreation, a way to contribute to the household, and training for a future that would almost inevitably involve needing to shoot people, all at the same time.

Most people go their whole lives without needing to point a gun at another intelligent being and pull the trigger, and sometimes I envy them. That also means most people, confronted with a situation where they need to point a gun at somebody and pull the trigger, will freeze up. It’s not a failing. It’s a trait I’ve sometimes wished I could share. But there was no way my siblings or I were getting out of this fight. Even if we’d wanted to go off and be “normal,” to become accountants or dentists or whatever, we would always have known too much, and we would always have needed to be able to defend ourselves.

“Is it the kind of place where you can find a shotgun and a hunting license?” asked Cylia. “I really don’t want us messing with the local law until the bad luck hits.”

“Give me a few days, I’ll figure it out.” I moved to investigate the contents of a brown paper bag. “Who’s making dinner?”