Hex
Chapter 1

In the beginning, I wasn’t even sure I was a witch. I just knew I was the weird kid. Beyond that, I was pretty clueless, and mostly just thought coincidence was real and fate was a hoax. After living through a few events though, I’m pretty dang sure coincidence is the hoax and fate is real, and it’ll get you in the end.

I don’t think even my parents knew that witches were real; at least, I don’t know if they did or not. If they did, they did a good job of hiding it from my little sister Tory and I. I was barely eighteen before I even started having funny things happen to me, and Tory wasn’t even fifteen by then. Neither one of us ever really had a true belief in the supernatural: parapsychologists were just forty year old men living in their mother’s basements, psychics were trembling ladies making a quick buck, and visions of the future were nonsense. I was pretty ignorant back then, less than a year ago.

Of course, I also thought my life was perfect. I thought I’d be the one to graduate high school with decent grades, go to college, get a good job, have a cute husband and a few cute kids, and settle down happy with a family, and maybe even a dog and cat. I didn’t think my life would shatter. I thought my parents would live forever. I didn’t expect the car crash.

Since that night, my life was pretty hellish. I was only eighteen, and just by two weeks. It was the summer before my senior year of high school. But suddenly everything – everything – was dumped on my shoulders. Taking care of Tory, selling our old house, finding an apartment in decent shape, etc, etc. Mom and Dad were both lawyers that worked for the state when they died; we weren’t dirt poor, but we couldn’t afford much.

The night Mom and Dad died was normal, up until the police called with that dreadful news. Tory and I were lying around the house with all the fans going full blast against the June humidity that sweltered around the house. Our Calico cat, Daisy, was sitting at the base of the freezer in the kitchen, where occasional cool air gushed out. She kept getting mad whenever Tory or I would try to open the fridge, because we would have to move her out of the way and that was just too much for Daisy!

I admit I’d had a bad feeling about Mom and Dad leaving that night. Nothing serious, but I just didn’t like that they were leaving that night. It had rained about half an hour before they left to go out to dinner with the Foxes, some old family acquaintances that I had never met before. They were going out to The Faded Rose, a relatively classy Cajun restaurant about a mile away from our house. The roads were slick from the humidity, and the sky was foggy and gray with no starlight or moonlight poking through the clouds. The air outside smelled muggy and damp, and the humidity made me feel sweaty even after I’d just showered, so I turned up the fans to try and rotate the air around a little.

Mom and Dad left around six thirty, promising not to be out long since Mrs. Fox was apparently dreadful with small talk and dinner parties, so they would try and leave early. If the Foxes weren’t such good old friends with my late grandparents, I doubt that Mom would have talked Dad into going at all.

They made it to dinner alright. They both had gumbo, Dad’s favorite, and the fastest thing Mom thought she could eat so she could (in her words, over her cell phone in the restroom) ‘get the hell outta there.’ Apparently Mrs. Fox really was a boring, snobby old lady and Mr. Fox looked half asleep most of the time. Mom promised to be home within the hour. I gave her a quick “I love you,” and went back to watching a relatively new horror flick with Tory (Stay Alive, I think).

Around two hours later, they still weren’t home.

I was edgy, and Tory could tell. I’d called Mom and Dad’s separate cell phones six or seven times apiece but had only received busy signals, and was already considering getting into my own car and driving down Kavanaugh, the road that The Faded Rose was on. If it hadn’t been pouring down rain and I hadn’t needed such a tough face for Tory, I would have left before the police called.

“Hello?” The crisp female voice asked, sounding thick with static thanks to the storm brewing outside, “I’m looking for a, um, Genevieve or Victoria Lucien?”

“This is Gen Lucien.” I said, expecting it to be one of Mom or Dad’s numerous clients. We didn’t have our names listed in the phonebook, but clients were always calling, night and day. I didn’t have a landline telephone in my room because of it, only my cell, which I turned off at night. “Look, this is kind of a bad time. I’m trying to keep this line open so—“

The woman on the other end of the line cleared her voice, “Miss Lucien, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but I need you to come to UAMS right away.”

I blinked, not really getting it. “UAMS?” I repeated, then I shook my head, “No, no, look, I can’t. I’m here with my sister and I’m trying to get a hold of my parents and –“ At the time, it didn’t register to me that someone in my family had to be hurt.

“Miss Lucien?” The female voice said, sounding bemused, “I—I started wrong. This is Officer Luanne Mayfield of the Little Rock Police Department. There’s been an accident.”

They were dead. Instantly killed. The car had crashed. They were dead. I stared blankly into the receiver, my mouth quivering, unable to make a sound.

“Miss Lucien? Miss Lucien?” Officer Mayfield asked, her voice growing louder above the static, “Are you there?”

Swallowing hard, I raised the receiver to my ear, “I—I’m here.” The tears were already in my eyes, threatening to waterfall.

“Miss Lucien, we are sending two officers to your house now, alright?”

“I—my sister,” I began stupidly, instantly thinking of Tory, and then it hit me harder and I barely held in a strangled sob, “Oh my God, Tory…”

“Miss Lucien, I can’t understand you. I need you to speak more clearly.”

“I—I—fine!” I bit my lip and stared at the ceiling to ward off the crying, “Send them. We live at number 221 of Shady Lane. It’s in the Heights, and um…” I started thinking, what else should I say.

“We know, we know, Genevieve.” Said Officer Mayfield soothingly.

I sniffed, “It’s Gen.” She said goodbye, and I said hurry. We hung up.

Tory went into a blank, shocked stare for weeks after I was forced to tell her why I was sobbing in the kitchen, staring at the blank telephone. I wasn’t much better, except I didn’t hear Tory crying most nights in her bedroom, whereas I did almost every night.

Mom and Dad were dead. They were gone forever. They were never coming back. They had been killed in a car accident, when they ran off road and slid down a rocky slope off Kavanaugh road. From then on, everything went by in a hazy blur.

Their double funeral was only a few days later. Mom and Dad had wanted to be cremated, and we respected their wishes. Monsignor Allen, the same priest that had baptized Tory and I when we were babies, did the funeral at St. Sebastian Catholic Church. Over a hundred people came, and I didn’t remember calling so many about the funeral. I didn’t remember telling anyone except myself, over and over again…

The day after tomorrow is the funeral.

Tomorrow is the day of the funeral.

Today is the funeral.

It’s over.

After the funeral, I went into a severe meltdown. I’d always been a little bit anxious and emotional when I was younger, but that was nothing compared to the breakdown I went through after we got home from the cemetery, where Mom and Dad’s ashes were left inside a mausoleum with Mom’s parents, Grandma Marie and Grandpa Joseph. The doors were shut, and I never set foot inside again. I didn’t have much time to grieve, though. Within about twenty-four hours, the word ‘hell’ gained a whole new meaning.

Enter in Ms. Angelica Davies, better known as the official from Social Services that would soon make my life even more difficult, came banging on our front door the very morning after the funeral, around eight thirty in the morning, on a Saturday. I mean, come on! Who goes to work on Saturday morning and bugs people after their parents die?

I answered the door in shorts and a baggy T-shirt, with my hair a mess and my mascara smudged down my face. Not exactly a good first impression, but nonetheless I think it was the one that stuck with Ms. Davies the most, unfortunately.

Ms. Davies was a round woman that might have once been pretty, but now she was rotund and pink in the face. Her short, mousy dark brown hair was curled tightly around her round head, and her smallish blue eyes peered at everything inside the house behind me. She came wearing a serious gray coat and white blouse, with a knee-length, iron gray pencil skirt that revealed her cottage cheese calves, her feet squeezed into a pair of knockoff designer heels.

I opened the door warily, expecting it to be another one of Mom or Dad’s clients come with ‘condolences’ and tuna-noodle casserole, but instead, the moment I opened the door, she stuck out her hand and said, “My name is Angelica Davies. I come from Social Services to speak to Genevieve and Victoria Lucien.”

I blinked, not quite getting it at first. No one had mentioned anyone from any government office coming to see me.

“Social Services?” I repeated dumbly, shaking my head once or twice, “What do I need Social Services for?”

Davies pulled back her hand, which I had not grasped yet. She seemed mildly grateful for this, but I wasn’t sure why. I had showered the day before, and it wasn’t as though the house was destroyed. It was actually still in good shape considering everyone that came to the house after the funeral yesterday. I’d spent hours pasting a tiny, sick smile on my face, pretending to remember all those good times with Mom and Dad while these strangers laughed and ate and drank some expensive champagne I had set out at the last second.

“Can I come inside, Miss Lucien?” Davies asked primly, checking the collar of her crisp white blouse, “There are several things we need to talk about, and I have many things I need to say.”

“Um,” I opened the door a little, “Sure, I guess…” I never should have let her inside.

Davies hefted herself up over the threshold, grunting a little to get her weight up that last step. Our house was at the top of a hill in the Heights, a prominent neighborhood in central Little Rock, Arkansas. I glanced down at the street several feet below to see Davies’s sleek black BMW. Dad had had one just like it, before it was totaled in the accident.

I heard Davies grunt at she got inside, and I slapped the door shut again.

“Um, in here, I guess,” I said awkwardly as I stepped back into the house. Our house is large, two stories, with plenty of room for Mom, Dad, Tory and I. We moved in about fifteen years ago, just after Tory was born, from Salem, Oregon, where we used to live until Dad wanted to move to Arkansas for some crazy reason. We moved in, and I’ve never lived in another house since.

Mom decorated our house herself during Tory’s rare naps or when we were playing with Daisy, who was then just a baby kitten and not a lazy cat that preferred sitting around and sleeping all day.

The interior of our house was made up with relatively modern décor—long, stained, rich brown cabinetry, with bronze knobs and pulleys. The walls were painted a deep mahogany red, with shining hardwood floors underneath artistic rugs and fine coffee tables, and plush brown couches with golden threads. Everything in the house had been chosen specifically for a special purpose, and everything fit in. It flowed, as Mom used to say.

Davies didn’t give a crap about our fine interior design. She just flopped her fat butt on the nearest armchair, dropped her leather purse heavily on the carpet, narrowly missing Daisy’s tail, and let out a loud sigh.

“So, Genevieve,” She said, waving me over as if it was her house. She gestured at the couch in front of her, and I sat down with a skeptical look on my face, leaning back against the pillows and giving her my best-pointed glare.

“It’s Gen,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Mmm, of course it is,” Davies said with that nonchalant wave again, “So, we have a lot to talk about.”

“Like what?” I was really beginning to not like Davies. What did she have to do with my life? I was already stressed out enough—I had to get everything sorted out, and Davies wasn’t in the early draft I had drawn up in my mind.

Davies cleared her throat, “Well, you and Victoria’s futures, of course.”

“Her name is Tory.”

“Well, yes,” Davies said, not caring again, “But anyway, this meeting is mostly about Tory.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Tory.” I repeated, tilting my head slightly, and I put on a skeptical face. “Tory is dealing with some pretty serious crap right now, Davies.”

“That’s Ms. Davies, Genevieve.”

“If you get to be Ms. Davies, can I be Ms. Gen then?” I asked innocently.

Davies glared at me, “Gen,” She said, putting extreme emphasis on my name as though it was an exceptional apology, “This is a serious matter. Victoria’s—“

“Tory’s.” I corrected.

Davies rolled her eyes, “Alright, Tory’s future is a stake, here.”

“How so?” I asked, “It’s just June, Ms. Davies. She’s not missing any school now.”

“Well, what school is she attending?” Davies asked.

That my first strike. To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought much about where Tory and I would be going to school. I just guessed we would stay at the same school we were at. I was all set for my senior year of high school, and Tory was getting ready to start her sophomore year, but we both currently attended a rather expensive private school less than a half-mile away from our house. St. Anne’s Academy was an expensive, private Catholic school I’d been in for over three years, but as I’ve said a few times already, it’s very expensive at five hundred dollars a month. Per child.

“Er…” I said, biting my lip.

“And what about living conditions?” Davies reached into her oversized purse and pulled out a rather fat manila envelope, and began sorting through papers with her chubby fingers, clad in several tarnished silver rings. “Surely you can’t afford this house, can you?”

“Um…” Again, I wasn’t sure. Living in the Heights is, like St. Anne’s, expensive. I’d already known Tory and I would be cutting back, but still, could we really afford the Heights? “Well,” I began steadily, “I’ve been thinking maybe we could move into an apartment…”

Davies blinked, cocking her head, “So you do want to stay with Tory?”

“Well, of course.” I said, taken aback, “What, did you think I was shipping her off to an orphanage in Guatemala? Tory and I are sticking together.”

“Really.” Now Davies sounded mildly interested, and now she presented to me a few crisp sheets of paper from the manila envelope, “Gen, you do realize you’re only eighteen years old, right?”

“Well, if not I guess I didn’t schedule my sweet sixteen right.” I said sarcastically, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Davies pushed the papers at me, which I skimmed bemusedly, not really understanding all the legal mumbo-jumbo that had been typed up.

“Since you’re only eighteen, Gen, Social Services is considering whether or not Tory would be better with a family member, perhaps even you could stay with one.” She cleared her throat, “We were wondering whether or not if it is in Tory’s best interest to stay with someone who is just barely old enough to be a legal adult.”

“Tory and I don’t have any family,” I explained, “Mom was an only child, and Dad had a sister, but she lives abroad and I’ve never even met her. She and Dad haven’t spoken in more than twenty years. She could be dead or taken hostage by little green men for all I know.”

“And your grandparents?”

“Mom was raised by her grandparents,” I said, “And my dad’s parents, Grandma Marie and Grandpa Joseph, died when I was little, right after Tory was born. Their house caught on fire and they suffocated. They were buried here in Arkansas, though. In a mausoleum about an hour away from here.”

“So there is not even a family friend that you or Tory could stay with?”

“Most of Mom and Dad’s friends were clients,” I said, “So that’d be a no.”

“Alright.” Davies shuffled her papers together, “Well, then, we need to go through the other options.”

I frowned, “Excuse me, but, um, what other options? Tory and I’ll find an apartment or something in town, no big deal, and we can easily switch into another high school or something. We aren’t helpless here.”

“The state thinks otherwise, Gen.”

“Well, the state can shove it.” I said obstinately, my temper flaring up. I’d been waiting all week for someone to scream at, and Davies was suddenly the perfect, blubbering target for the job. I stood up, “What else could you do, if we have no family?”

Davies tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair, trying to look a little smaller, which was very hard for a three hundred and fifty pound woman.

“Well?”

“Well,” Davies began, “Well, the state thinks that Tory might benefit from a foster program…”

“A what?” I stared at her, face twisting into a confused expression without my consent, “You aren’t serious.”

“Actually,” Davies straightened up, feeding off my confusion like a dementor from Harry Potter does on sadness, and I was suddenly given a sick impression of an oversized tick, sucking the life out of everything, “The state is already trying to arrange for a place for Tory. You would be able to gain full visitation rights, of course, once you have stable housing and employment. If you obtain those quickly enough, she might even be able to move back in with you in the future…”

“No.”

Davies frowned, blinking and taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I said, no. N-O. Spells no. Tory and I are not being separated.”

“You don’t exactly have much of a say in this, Gen.” Davies said primly, and now she stood up, snatching the papers out of my fist, which I had crumpled out without realizing. My palm had little dents in the skin where the paper had stuck in. “You are not in any shape to provide for a fifteen-year-old.”

“I’m her sister.”

“Exactly. So what’s best for Tory, hmm Gen? A halfway home with not enough money, or a good, decent familial feel that can provide for her?”

I got up in Davies face, which wasn’t hard since I was a full five seven and she was barely five four. I stared down at her, teeth clenched in anger, “Number one: Don’t try the whole ‘what’s best for Tory’ crap. It’s just a psych trick you guys use to make me give up my sister. And two: there’s a major emphasis on feel on that whole ‘familial feel’ crap you’re pedaling. Tory is my sister. That’s the real deal. You are not moving us apart. Not after this.” My fists were clenching and my heart was pounding hard inside my chest. This lady had just invaded my house and, within five minutes, was threatening to tear the family I had left apart. She wasn’t doing that.

“You have no right to yell at me this way!” Davies squawked suddenly, waving her flabby fist at me, and I blinked, slightly taken aback she had reacted, “I’m here trying to help!” Her double chins trembled precariously, and she was getting even redder in the face. I was so close I could see the way her mascara had clumped her eyelashes together.

“Well take the help back down to hell!” I screamed. At that exact moment, there was a loud bang, and Davies squealed loudly, struggling to get her short arms over her round head. I heard glass shatter, and backed up blindly, the lights in the room all flaring to their highest potential. I counted silently in my head, barely able to breathe: one…two…three…and then the lights went out completely as Daisy let out a horrible screeching yowl.

Davies was making funny little noises, whimpers, when she looked back up, terrified as I took in the damage, waving through the smoke emitting from the light bulbs in the ceiling and lamps placed strategically around the room. They had all shattered, one hundred percent of them.

Davies seemed to take this all in slowly, her arms held flat over her chubby side, her mouth open and her eyes wide as she stared around the room, her small, beady eyes looking at the mess all around the house when her senses seemed to catch up with her.

“This is exactly what I was talking about!” She cried suddenly, waving her arms around frantically, “Tory is in complete danger living in this house!”

“Oh I’ll tell you dangerous—“ I growled, taking a step forward, just as I heard footsteps clattering down the stairs. My eyes adjusted a little more to the dark, which wasn’t so bad thanks to the light coming in through the many windows.

“Gen?” Tory came down the stairs in the foyer, clutching the collar of her oversized hoodie closed with her fist, her long brown hair falling in soft ringlets at her waist, “Gen, the lights flipped out. What’s—“ She stopped suddenly at the landing, staring at Davies. “Who’s that?”

“No one.” I said menacingly, glaring towards Davies. “She was just leaving.”

“I was not!” Davies squawked, “We have much, much more to go over.”

“Call my lawyer.” I said firmly, already shoving her purse at her without bothering to dust off the glass from the lamp that had stood overhead. “Mrs. Jillian Smith. Don’t bother looking her up in the Yellow Pages; she had her name taken out when so many Social Services people kept calling with pointless cases.”

Davies took her purse, giving me a beady look as she trembled in her Prada heels.

“You do realize things just got much more complicated than they had to be, Genevieve, for both us?”

I gave her a sweet smile, “It’s been nice talking to you.” Then I literally shoved her out the front door at the very end of my very first witching experience.

That is the first official chapter of Hex, and I really hope you guys like it. Again, I'm searching for a REGISTERED beta to look over this stuff for me. If you have any questions just ask in a review. Critique and reviews are appreciated. Thanks for reading,
A.W.

PS. If I catch any plagerizers I will personally hunt them down. Seriously.