Young Writers Society

Mr. Vaughn’s absence from the shop made Finnley realize just how young Henry was. With the older man leaving with such a purpose, Finnley now looked to the younger magician to tell them what to do, to bring order to his scattered world. Instead, Henry looked back at him with almost as much bewilderment as he himself felt.

“Why… why don’t you two go upstairs?” he suggested, as if trying to get himself under control. “I’ll see if I can find something to eat.” Finnley didn’t object to eating, but he certainly objected to walking up the stairs. He was fairly certain he’d left his legs behind on that motorcycle. He looked back at Henry with blank eyes, but the young magician didn’t repeat his proposal.

Still, Monica squeezed Finnley’s hand, pulling him forward, and together they walked up the stairs. His feet felt almost numb, and his legs were shaking. It was as if he could feel the adrenaline pumping through him, triggering the wild “fight or flight” thoughts that seemed so out of place in the quiet clutter of the antique shop.

Beneath them, Henry sighed and practically caved inwards over the wooden desk Mr. Vaughn usually occupied. Finnley hadn’t realized he was watching until he had a sudden prick of discomfort, as if he was watching something personal. He turned away before he could trip on the next stair.

Upstairs, things were arranged just like they always were: the off-color couch and mismatched armchairs clustered around the table as if in conference. The sight brought a strange sort of comfort to Finnley, and he sank down onto the end of the couch, staring out at nothing as Monica curled up next to him, light as a feather.

“My mom,” he said. In his mind’s eye, she was lifting Mia up, ducking back in between the burned out trees. Like some strange sort of refugees in a world where burning horses terrorized the countryside. He saw the bottom of the ravine, the unsurety of that moment, and the knowledge that the creature was still out there made him quiver again. It had gone after Mia before, and now she was with his mother. He hadn’t left them with anything. He had left them alone.

His head dropped into his hands and started to cry. His hands — his clothes — everything smelled of smoke. He disintegrated into a combination of a cough and a sob and Monica laid a hand on his back. “My mom,” he croaked, tasting the next words on his tongue. He didn’t want to say them. What if she’s not okay?

“She’s a strong woman,” Monica said in a quiet voice. “She’ll make it out of there.” He felt her hand curl back, felt her hesitation in the air, and lifted his head slightly, looking at her between the gaps in his fingers before pulling his hands down from his tear-streaked face. He sniffed as he eyed Monica’s shining face. She looked… well, she looked like she hadn’t just gone through everything he had, and for the briefest of moments he hated her for it.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, her voice as tiny as if she had seen his fleeting emotions. Her brown eyes were glittering, and Finnley realized that she, too, was on the verge of tears. She viciously blinked them back.

“What?” he asked blankly. “Where?” Was she going back to the forest? Even with Mr. Vaughn headed there?

“The spirit world,” she gently reminded him, and with a great grinding effort, Finnley’s mind switched gears.

“You have to leave.”

She nodded slowly, but not condescendingly.

“Please.” His mouth formed the words but only his breath shushed out. He coughed, tried again. “You can’t leave now.”

“I haven’t got a choice,” she said, and now the tears slipped out. The purple dye in her hair looked as if it was fading away, paling to some foreign grey color — something not of this world. It was too easy to believe that Monica was alive.

“Just stay with me until they’re back,” Finnley pleaded. “Just until I know they’re alright.” He searched her face for some sign of something. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but she averted her eyes before he could find it. He turned his head back downwards, studying his hands.

“They’ll make it.” He envied Monica her confidence, and let out a short, sarcastic huff of a laugh. She laid a hand against his cheek, and then it was gone. She was gone. His shoulders slumped, and he didn’t hear the footsteps that signalled Henry’s coming until the young man was right in front of him.

“I brought hot chocolate for two, but…” He trailed off, apparently not knowing what to think of Monica’s disappearance. Finnley didn’t care to explain, and Henry didn’t ask. There was a slight clunk as Henry set the hot chocolate down, and the couch groaned as he settled onto the other end. “It might help to…” He didn’t seem to know what the hot chocolate would help either.

Finnley snorted softly, but leaned forward and picked up the mug of hot chocolate. It was too powdery, but the warm weight of it in his hands reminded him of the winters of his childhood; it grounded him somehow. He looked sidelong at Henry, who had been watching him but pretended that he wasn’t. “Mr. Vaughn and ‘Freddy’?”

Henry looked relieved to get a question he knew the answer to. “Fred was an apprentice of Mr. Vaughn’s. It wasn’t really his thing, couldn’t stay away from his family heritage. Mr. Vaughn always said he would’ve made a great magician.” There was a pause, and then Henry seemed to sense Finnley’s second, unasked question. “If anyone can face your fiery horse, they can. They’ll be back safely, with Mia and your mother and all.”

Finnley nodded. It wouldn’t do to be skeptical now. He took another sip from the chipped green mug. The only thing he could do was hope.