Poltergeeks Read Free Page A

together, again?"
      "Number one, you're going to get me an A in physics," I said, giving him a slight nudge. "And number two, you're the voice of reason when I decide to go and do something risky and dangerous."
      He grunted. "Ah, glad we've got that sorted out then."
      Marcus isn't exactly suitable material for the cover of a romantic novel. He stands about five foot nine and has just enough of a mischievous streak programmed into his DNA that you wonder half the time whether he's a genius or a shit-stirrer. His clothes hang off his spindly body like bed sheets on a laundry line, but he has a kind face and a quirky smile that reveals itself when he's completely intrigued by stuff like math and science – my natural enemies.
      He's known me since kindergarten and he's grown up realizing that I'm, well, not exactly like other girls. Marcus first learned about my being a witch back in grade four when I stupidly boasted that inanimate objects could defy gravity. He called bullshit so I levitated a pair of winter boots in my basement and my spell went haywire somehow. I'd just managed to raise the boots about a foot off the ground when one of them went rogue. It flew out of my magic circle and smacked him in the side of the head leaving a bump the size of a grapefruit.
      He took it in his stride, of course. After my mother grounded me for three days, she realized that our secret was out; at least when it came to my best friend. So Marcus became a fixture in my magical life. Mom has established one basic rule when it comes to my best friend; namely, don't try to teach him witchcraft. Naturally I broke that rule about two weeks after the "flying boots of doom" incident. I decided to teach Marcus a simple feat of magic because in my eight year-old mind, it just wasn't fair that I was a witch and Marcus wasn't. All he had to do was to draw on his spirit and move a paper clip two inches across a smooth surface. So I drilled him for a week on how to tap into his spirit and the poor guy wound up concentrating so much that he gave himself a nose bleed every single time we tried the spell.
      Marcus was heartbroken, but over time he's learned that witchcraft isn't just something you decide to take up one day as a hobby, it's basically imprinted in your DNA or something. First off, there are witches like me and then there are Wiccans. They're kind of like… How about the difference between a paramedic and a surgeon? Wiccans are a breakaway sect of witchcraft. Like us, they have covens, but they're more into pagan rituals and practicing ceremonial magic. A true witch is someone born into a family of witches who can trace their lineage back for hundreds of years. We are gatekeepers to the human world. We have a long history of doing battle with supernatural threats and we keep close watch over the compacts: agreements with the non-humans that dwell in the mortal world. All of this is done through formal witches covens and a centralized Grand Council that meets twice a year during the summer and winter solstice. You can leave a coven and go it alone as my mother and I have done, but you still fall under the authority of the Grand Council. If you break the rules, someone from your local coven comes knocking at your door. If your offence is serious enough, well… use your imagination.
      The smell of horseradish seared my sinuses and brought a flood of tears to my eyes as soon as we walked through the front door. In the kitchen, Mom was hovering over a huge stock pot with a gas mask over her face, stirring a vile-smelling concoction with a wooden spoon. She's self-employed. If you Google "Calgary" and "Naturalists" you'll find Mom's web page, "Donna Richardson – Earth Healing – Herbology". There's a really bad picture of my mother's head photoshopped onto a cheesy sunset background that she uses for a web banner. She charges a hundred bucks an hour to concoct everything from healing balms to stress-reducing teas that