Free Old Magic by Marianne Curley Page A

doesn’t get to talk about supernatural stuff with friends very often, except per-haps for Hannah. Most people already believe Jillian is a witch. How would they treat Kate if they knew just how deep she is into this stuff herself?
    “And you think,” I begin, leaning forward with what I hope is a mild amount of interest in my voice, “this snake stuff relates to a curse or something.”
    Her smile transforms her face into a picture of relief and excitement. It very nearly blows me away. I experi-ence a moment of instant regret, and hope my humoring hasn’t accidentally misled her. Her eyes sparkle. “Look here,” she says, holding the heavy book up high for me. Why? I wonder. I can’t read this ancient script anyway. So I focus on the diagram, sketchy but still clear, a bit like a 3-D drawing. I peer closer and see that it has incredible detail—a half-man, half-bird creature. I think it’s a crow. The half that is human grips a smoothly polished wooden staff with a serpent’s head. His—its—eyes are eerie, crowlike and tilting sharply upward at the outer ends, yet oddly human. I swear the creature is looking straight at me.
    “A shapeshifter,” Kate explains with a shiver. “Only the most powerful sorcerers can do this. They’re rare, and even reading about them gives me the creeps.”
    It’s an admission I’m relieved to hear. At least some-thing gives her the creeps. Just looking at the figure on paper is enough for me. I take the book she’s got prac-tically in my face, and find my hands shaking. This doesn’t surprise me as I hate the unknown, things beyond my control or understanding, especially the paranormal. I like the simple things that follow the rules, like the sun rising every morning from the east, and that annoying family of kookaburras that insist on cracking their jokes outside my window every dawn, or the way I can look in the mirror and know my own reflection will be looking back, whether I like it or not.
    My life is complicated enough; this book I simply don’t need. It even has a smell about it, musty, old, remarkably authentic. I want to hurl it back to her and get the hell out of her bedroom. That sudden urge to run returns, hitting me hard in the stomach, making my adrenalin surge. But Kate is smiling excitedly, pointing to the undecipherable words, quoting bits here and there.
    “‘Once a curse is placed it can take several forms. The most powerful can linger through generations to eternity. . . .’”
    Her finger trails the words across the page. My head tilts to the same slight angle the book is held, and I can’t stop my eyes from following. They’re foreign words. I try to relax, try to make my mind wander, but nothing’s working.
    Suddenly I find myself gulping for air. I feel naus-eous and need this extra oxygen. I wonder fleetingly if I’m about to pass out. My vision blurs and a sinking feeling kicks into my stomach. My eyes are still riveted to the page where Kate’s finger is passing across the foreign words. I jerk with a start as the ancient script disappears. But it’s only for an instant, and I relax a little when my vision clears and I see the fancy writing again. Yet somehow I sense it is different now. I adjust my glasses in a gesture that is more habitual than necessary. It’s really strange, but suddenly I find I can read the ancient script too, as if the words are present-day English. “‘. . . legend has it that the most powerful sorcerers can enfold a curse that spontaneously recurs through future true-born inheritors of such curse . . . True-born inheritors in the form of the magical number seven. Every seventh-born son of succeeding generations shall carry the curse in its entirety, and for as long as the curse is left to fester unborn, it shall grow in strength and enormity until it is released. . . .’”
    A sudden crash breaks my concentration and the words become undecipherable again. It’s Jillian at the door. I peer up at her through